Thomas Disch - 334

And she was there! Amparo’s arms made a V and then an X, a V, and an X. Mrs. Hanson signaled back. A deadly joy slithered across her skin and shivered through her bones. He had written! He would come!

She was out the door and at the head of the stairs before she recollected her purse. Two days ago, in anticipation, she’d taken out the credit card from where she kept it hidden in The New American Catholic Bible. She hadn’t used it since she’d bought her father’s wreath, when, two years ago? Nearer three.

Two hundred and twenty-five dollars, and even so it was the smallest he got. What the twins must have paid for theirs! It had taken over a year to pay it back, and all the while the computer kept making the most awful threats. What if the card weren’t valid now!

She had her purse and the list and the card were inside. A raincoat. Was there anything else? And the door, should she lock it? Lottie was inside asleep but Lottie could have slept through a gang bang. To be on the safe side she locked the door.

I mustn’t run, she told herself at the third landing down, that was how old Mr.—I mustn’t run, but it wasn’t running that made her heart beat so—it was love! She was alive and miraculously she was in love again. Even more miraculously, somebody loved her. Loved her. Madness.

She had to stop on the ninth-floor landing to catch her breath. A temp was sleeping in the corridor in a licensed MODICUM bag. Usually she would only have been annoyed, but this morning the sight affected her with a delicious sense of compassion and community. Give me your tired, she thought with elation, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, the wretched refuse of your teeming shore. How it all came pouring back! Details from a lifetime ago, memories of old faces and old feelings. And now, poetry!

By the time she was on one the backs of her legs were trembling so she could barely stand up straight. There was the mailbox, and there, slantwise inside it, was Len’s letter. It had to be his. If it were anything else she would die.

The mailbox key was where Amparo always left it behind the scarecrow camera. His letter said:

“Dear Mrs. Hanson—You can set an extra plate for dinner Thursday. I’m happy to say I can accept your kind invitation. Will bring my suitcase. Love, Len.”

Love! There was no mistaking it, then: Love! She had sensed it from the first, but who would have believed—at her age, at fifty-seven! (True, with a bit of care her fifty-seven could look younger than someone like Leda Holt’s forty-six. But even so.) Love!

Impossible.

Of course, and yet always when that thought had come to her there were those words beneath the title on the cover of the book, words that, as if by accident, his finger had pointed to as he read: “The Tale of an Impossible Love.” Where there was love nothing was impossible.

She read the letter over and over. In its plainness it was more elegant than a poem: “I’m happy to say I can accept your kind invitation.” Who would have suspected, reading that, the meaning which for them was so obvious?

And then, throwing caution to the winds: “Love, Len”!

Eleven o’clock, and everything still to be done—the groceries, wine, a new dress, and, if she dared—Did she? Was there anything she didn’t dare now?

I’ll go there first, she decided. When the girl showed her the chart with the various swatches she was no less decisive. She pointed to the brightest, carroty orange and said, “That.”

Lottie opened the door, which hadn’t been locked after all, and said, “Mom!”

She had figured out, coming up the stairs, just what tone to take and now she took it. “Do you like it?” She dropped the keys into her purse. Casualness itself.

“Your hair.”

“Yes, I had it dyed. Do you like it?” She picked up her bags and came in. Her back and shoulders were one massive ache from hauling the bags up the stairs. Her scalp was still all pins and needles. Her feet hurt. Her eyes felt like the tops of lightbulbs covered with dust. But she looked good.

Lottie took the bags and she looked, but only looked, at the mercy of a chair. Sit down now and she’d never get up.

“It’s so startling. I don’t know. Turn around.”

“You’re supposed to say yes, stupid. Just ‘Yes, Mom, it looks fine.’” But she turned round obediently.

“I do like it,” Lottie said, taking the recommended tone. “Yes, I do. the dress too is—Oh Mom, don’t go in there yet.”

She paused with her hand on the knob of the living room door, waiting to be told of whatever catastrophe she was about to confront.

“Shrimp’s in your bedroom. She’s feeling very, very bad. I gave her a bit of first aid. She’s probably sleeping now.”

“What’s wrong with her?”

“They’ve busted up. Shrimp went and got herself another subsidy—”

“Oh Jesus.”

“That’s what I thought.”

“A third time? I didn’t think that was legal.”

“Well, her scores, you know. And I suppose the first two must have their own scores by now. Anyhow. When she told January, there was a row. January tried to stab her—it’s nothing bad, just a scratch on her shoulder.”

“With a knife?”

Lottie snickered. “With a fork, actually. January has some kind of political idea that you shouldn’t have babies for the government. Or maybe not at all, Shrimp wasn’t too clear.”

“But she hasn’t come here to stay. Has she?”

“For a while.”

“She can’t. Oh, I know Shrimp. She’ll go back. It’s like all their other arguments. But you shouldn’t have given her pills.”

“She’ll have to stay here. Mom. January’s gone to Seattle, and she gave the room up to some friends. They wouldn’t even let Shrimp in to pack. Her suitcase, her records, everything was sitting in the hall. I think that’s what she was upset about more than anything else.”

“And she’s brought that all here?” A glance into the living room answered the question. Shrimp had emptied herself out everywhere in layers of shoes and underwear, keepsakes and dirty sheets.

“She was looking for a present she’d got me.” Lottie explained. “That’s why it’s all out. Look, a Pepsi bottle, isn’t it pretty?”

“Oh my God.”

“She bought us all presents. She has money now, you know. A regular income.”

“Then she doesn’t have to stay here.”

“Mom. be reasonable.”

“She can’t. I’ve rented the room. I told you I might. The man is coming tonight. That’s what those groceries are for. I’m cooking a nice simple meal to start things off on the right foot.”

“If it’s a question of money. Shrimp can probably—”

“It’s not a question of money. I’ve told him that the room is his, and he’s coming tonight. My God, look at this mess! This morning it was as neat as a, as a— ”

“Shrimp could sleep here on the couch,” Lottie suggested, lifting off one of the cartons.

“And where will I sleep?”

“Well, where will she sleep?”

“Let her be a temp!”

“Mother!”

“Let her. I’m sure it wouldn’t be anything new. All the nights she didn’t come home, you don’t suppose she was in somebody’s bed, do you? Hallways and gutters, that’s where she belongs. She’s spent half her life there already, let her go there now.”

“If Shrimp hears you say that—”

“I hope she does.” Mrs. Hanson walked right up to the door of the bedroom and shouted, “Hallways and gutters! Hallways and gutters!”

“Mom, there’s no need to—I’ll tell you what. Mickey can sleep in my bed tonight, he’s always asking to, and Shrimp can have his bunk. Maybe in a day or two she’ll be able to find a room at a hotel or somewhere. But don’t make a scene now. She is very upset.”