Anne Tyler - A Patchwork Planet

In the church basement the women were younger, and most of them had husbands in tow. I saw no sign of Natalie or her husband, though — not that I tried very hard. I settled in a folding chair and made a telescope out of my program. (Which did seem mimeographed.) My mother started chattering in this chirpy, chipmunk tone she puts on when she feels ill at ease, giving me a whole rundown of an avant-garde play she’d recently dragged my father to. Maybe the sight of the stage had brought it to her mind. “First the actors came out all bundled up in down jackets,” she told me, “and as the play went on they stripped off a layer of clothes, see, and then another layer, till by the last act they were down to nothing.”

“They were naked?”

“It was meant to be symbolic.”

“They just walked around the stage with no clothes on?”

“I promise you, it didn’t seem the least bit shocking. These were just ordinary, middle-aged men and women. Some were overweight, even. Your father said he wished the move had been in the opposite direction— adding clothes, not taking them off.”

I laughed. My mother said, “I don’t know why you menfolk always have to have culture just forced down your throats.”

Then here was Natalie, wearing a dark-brown dress that made you notice her brown eyes — so secretive and distinctly lidded. “Hello, Mother Gaitlin,” she said. “And Barnaby,” she added. “You’ve met Howard, I believe.”

Howard stood just behind her, a silver-haired, portly man holding an enormous paper cone of sweetheart roses. He gave a deep nod that was almost a bow, and my mother said, “Yes, certainly,” although I wasn’t all that sure they had met. He and I had, of course, when it couldn’t he avoided. When we accidentally crossed paths exchanging Opal or whatever. I said, “How you doing?” and then raised my chin and squinted at the stage while Mom and Natalie took care of so-thoughtful-of-you-to-invite-us and so-good-of-you-to-come.

When we were alone again, Mom said, “That went very well, in my considered opinion.”

I felt extremely tired, all at once. I saw that nothing could be said on this earth that wasn’t predictable. Even the bands of sunlight slanting through the basement windows were predictable, and the milky white swirls on the green linoleum floor, and the clunky-sounding “Teddy Bears’ Picnic” coming over the PA system.

And the recital: well, you can’t get much more predictable than a children’s ballet recital. The youngest ones were dazed and obedient, milling around in tufts of pink gauze with their eyes fixed trustingly on Madame Whosit in the wings. The middle group — Opal’s group — was a bristle of gawky arms and legs struggling to form a straight line. I hadn’t realized before that Opal was so big for her age. She stood a full head above the others, down at the end, where (I guessed) she was meant to be less conspicuous. When they all set their heels together and pointed their toes sideways, she was the only one with no space showing between her thighs. In each position she teetered a bit after the others had frozen, and I felt certain that the audience noticed.

But my mother said, “Wasn’t that precious?” applauding with just the tips of her fingers once the piece was over.

Between acts the curtain came down, but you could see it poking out first one place and then another as children jostled behind it. It made me think of a pregnancy — Natalie’s pregnant stomach, the baby’s knee or elbow knobbing the plaid material of her smock.

Not so long ago, amazingly enough.

It felt like a lifetime.

The oldest girls came last and showed us how it should be done, but I was too tired to watch. I let the dancers in front of me turn into a blur, and when the rest of the audience clapped, I just folded my arms and studied the acoustic tiles in the ceiling.

We met down in front near the stage at the end of the show — Mom and I, Natalie and Howard, Opal still in her tutu. She was hugging the cone of roses. I said, “I didn’t bring any flowers myself. I didn’t have a chance to buy some. I would have, but I didn’t have a chance.”

Before Opal could tell me it was all right, though, Mom rushed in with, “You were the best of the bunch, honey pie!” The level stare Opal gave her struck me as disconcertingly cynical, till I remembered she always looked that way. It was a hand-me-down from Natalie — Natalie’s calmness, magnified.

“I messed up on the curtsy,” she said, turning to me.

“Well, if you did, nobody noticed,” I told her.

“Madame Stepp’s going to yell at me.”

“Your dance teacher’s named Madame Stepp?”

Howard gave a dry cough. “Ah … we had thought we might take Opal to a congratulatory lunch,” he said. “You’re welcome to join us, Barnaby, Mrs. Gaitlin …”

“Oh, I guess not,” I hurried to tell him. “We should be heading back.”

No one argued — not even Mom, thank heaven. “Yes,” she said. “I’ve left poor Jeffrey holding down the fort alone!”

We stood around a moment longer, all of us no doubt picturing Dad in the throes of some kitchen emergency. (Although I knew for a fact that he spent Saturdays at the office.) Then I gave Opal’s shoulder a squeeze and said, “So long, Ope. You did great. I’m sorry I didn’t bring flowers.” And the two of us walked out.

In the car, my mother said, “Natalie’s gained some weight, don’t you think?” It was her way of acting chummy — showing me she was on my side. I didn’t bother answering.

“Of course, she always had that wide, smooth face,” Mom went on. “Almost a flat face, some might say. I like a bit of an edge to a person’s face, don’t you?”

“He had no business taking over lunch like that,” I said, all at once realizing.

“What, dear?”

“Lunch was my time. It’s part of my Saturday visit. Then he horns in on it and makes it seem like a favor to ask us along.”

“Well, I wouldn’t let it upset me,” Mom said, slowing for a stoplight.

“I should have said, ‘Thanks, but we’ve already made plans to eat with Opal on her own. Reservations,’ I should have said. ‘Reservations for three,’ so they couldn’t say they’d join us. Good grief! It’s not as if we’re all best buddies!”

“He didn’t mean any harm,” Mom told me. “He seemed like a very nice man. A bit old, though, don’t you agree? Is he a lot older than Natalie?”

“I wouldn’t have any idea,” I said.

“Of course, Natalie always did have something of a father fixation.”

The light changed, but Mom didn’t notice till someone behind her honked. Then she gave a start and drove on. She said, “Remember how she used to phone her father at work every day? She phoned him every morning the whole time you were married, even though you were living not twenty feet away from him.”

We lived above her parents’ garage — practically in their laps. Which didn’t help the marriage any, believe me. Every little thing I did — take a day off from classes, say, or come home a tad bit late or not at all — they would watch and judge and comment on to Natalie. But hey, it was rent-free; don’t knock it. In fact, I stayed on there after we split up, although it got kind of awkward once I started dating again. Finally her father came over and had a little talk with me; said maybe I should consider moving. I didn’t make it easy for him. I said, “Your daughter was the one who walked out, Mr. Bassett. I fail to see why I should be dislodged from my established residence.” But I did find another place, by and by. Just not the very instant he suggested it.

Now Mr. Bassett was dead of a stroke, and his widow lived in Clearwater, Florida. Everything seemed to have changed in a flash, when I got to looking back on it.