might arrive at this particular time bearing the title of that specific book.
This was all, a lost moment on the Friday of that lifelong week, three days after the planes.
She said to her mother, “It was not possible, up from the dead, there he was in the doorway. It’s so lucky Justin was here with you. Because it would have been awful for him to see his father like that. Like gray soot head to toe, I don’t know, like smoke, standing there, with blood on his face and clothes.”
“We did a puzzle, an animal puzzle, horses in a field.”
Her mother’s apartment was not far from Fifth Avenue, with art on the walls, painstakingly spaced, and small bronze pieces on tables and bookshelves. Today the living room was in a state of happy disarray. Justin’s toys and games were scattered across the floor, subverting the timeless quality of the room, and this was nice, Lianne thought, because it was otherwise hard not to whisper in such a setting.
“I didn’t know what to do. I mean with the phones out. Finally we walked to the hospital. Walked, step by step, like walking a child.”
“Why was he there in the first place, in your apartment?”
“I don’t know.”
“Why didn’t he go straight to a hospital? Down there, downtown. Why didn’t he go to a friend’s place?”
Friend meant girlfriend, an unavoidable thrust, she had to do it, couldn’t help it.
“I don’t know.”
“You haven’t discussed this. Where is he now?”
“He’s all right. Done with doctors for a while.”
“What have you discussed?”
“No major problems, physical.”
“What have you discussed?” she said.
Her mother, Nina Bartos, had taught at universities in California and New York, retiring two years earlier, the So-and-So Professor of Such-and-Such, as Keith said once. She was pale and thin, her mother, following knee- replacement surgery. She was finally and resolutely old. This is what she wanted, it seemed, to be old and tired, to embrace old age, take up old age, surround herself with it. There were the canes, there were the medications, there were the afternoon naps, the dietary restrictions, the doctors’ appointments.
“There’s nothing to discuss right now. He needs to stay away from things, including discussions.”
“Reticent.”
“You know Keith.”
“I’ve always admired that about him. He gives the impression there’s something deeper than hiking and skiing, or playing cards. But what?”
“Rock climbing. Don’t forget.”
“And you went with him. I did forget.”
Her mother stirred in the chair, feet propped on the matching stool, late morning, still in her robe, dying for a cigarette.
“I like his reticence, or whatever it is,” she said. “But be careful.”
“He’s reticent around you, or was, the few times there was actual communication.”
“Be careful. He was in grave danger, I know. He had friends in there. I know that too,” her mother said. “But if you let your sympathy and goodwill affect your judgment.”
There were the conversations with friends and former colleagues about knee replacements, hip replacements, about the atrocities of short-term memory and long-term health insurance. All of this was so alien to Lianne’s sense of her mother that she thought there might be an element of performance. Nina was trying to accommodate the true encroachments of age by making drama of them, giving herself a certain degree of ironic distance.
“And Justin. Having a father around the house again.”
“The kid is fine. Who knows how the kid is? He’s fine, he’s back in school,” she said. “They reopened.”
“But you worry. I know this. You like to nourish your fear.”
“What’s next? Don’t you ask yourself? Not only next month. Years to come.”
“Nothing is next. There is no next. This was next. Eight years ago they planted a bomb in one of the towers. Nobody said what’s next. This was next. The time to be afraid is when there’s no reason to be afraid. Too late now.”
Lianne stood by the window.
“But when the towers fell.”
“I know.”
“When this happened.”
“I know.”
“I thought he was dead.”
“So did I,” Nina said. “So many watching.”
“Thinking he’s dead, she’s dead.”
“I know.”
“Watching those buildings fall.”
“First one, then the other. I know,” her mother said.
She had several canes to choose from and sometimes, on the off-hours and the rainy days, she walked up the street to the Metropolitan Museum and looked at pictures. She looked at three or four pictures in an hour and a half of looking. She looked at what was unfailing. She liked the big rooms, the old masters, what was unfailing in its grip on the eye and mind, on memory and identity. Then she came home and read. She read and slept.
“Of course the child is a blessing but otherwise, you know better than I, marrying the man was a huge mistake, and you willed it, you went looking for it. You wanted to live a certain way, never mind the consequences. You wanted a certain thing and you thought Keith.”
“What did I want?”
“You thought Keith would get you there.”
“What did I want?”
“To feel dangerously alive. This was a quality you associated with your father. But that wasn’t the case. Your father was at heart a careful man. And your son is a beautiful and sensitive child,” she said. “But otherwise.”
In truth she loved this room, Lianne did, in its most composed form, without the games and scattered toys. Her mother had been living here for a few years only and Lianne tended to see it as a visitor might, a space that was serenely self-possessed, and so what if it’s a little intimidating. What she loved most were the two still lifes on the north wall, by Giorgio Morandi, a painter her mother had studied and written about. These were groupings of bottles, jugs, biscuit tins, that was all, but there was something in the brushstrokes that held a mystery she could not name, or in the irregular edges of vases and jars, some reconnoiter inward, human and obscure, away from the very light and color of the paintings. Natura morta. The Italian term for still life seemed stronger than it had to be, somewhat ominous, even, but these were matters she hadn’t talked about with her mother. Let the latent meanings turn and bend in the wind, free from authoritative comment.
“You liked asking questions as a child. Insistently digging. But you were curious about the wrong things.”
“They were my things, not yours.”
“Keith wanted a woman who’d regret what she did with him. This is his style, to get a woman to do something she’ll be sorry for. And the thing you did wasn’t just a night or a weekend. He was built for weekends. The thing you did.”
“This isn’t the time.”
“You actually married the man.”
“And then I threw him out. I had strong objections, building up over time. What you object to is very different. He’s not a scholar, not an artist. Doesn’t paint, doesn’t write poetry. If he did, you’d overlook everything else. He’d be the raging artist. He’d be allowed to behave unspeakably. Tell me something.”
“You have more to lose this time. Self-respect. Think about that.”
“Tell me this. What kind of painter is allowed to behave more unspeakably, figurative or abstract?”
She heard the buzzer and walked over to the intercom to listen to the doorman’s announcement. She knew what it was in advance. This would be Martin on the way up, her mother’s lover.
