Helen Yglesias - The Girls

She took two aspirin, then dressed in a carefully chosen cream silk outfit, adding dark kid shoes, a multicolored scarf, and the Coach bag. Obliterate that madwoman cleaning up the street. The mirror returned an image of a well-dressed, self-contained, modestly made-up elderly woman with a good haircut.

Her daughter called from Vermont, loving and anxious. Jenny had become sufficiently herself to chat reassuringly, though her daughter was not convinced.

“You don’t sound right, Mom. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, darling, I’m fine. It’s hard. Four sisters make for a slippery slope, but I’m fine. How are you and Dan and the children?”

“Everybody’s great. Kids are great. Dan’s busy busy busy, and so am I. I’m worried about you, Mom. Don’t overdo, remember you can’t save the world. You couldn’t do it when you were young, hard as you tried. No chance now when everything is worse. Promise me you’ll go home if it becomes unbearable.”

“I can’t leave your aunt Naomi. I can’t leave her alone.”

“I know. I wish I could help, but I’m so busy on that new project I told you about. Today is a day from hell. I love it, though, I couldn’t possibly pull out right now. And your sons aren’t even around. They’re both in Australia, but not together. Isn’t that wild?”

“Why is it wild?” There were times when Jenny hardly understood the tack her children’s conversation took. “Is something going on I don’t know about?”

“No, no, it’s just an expression. I meant the coincidence, you know, that they should both be in Australia of all places at the same time in connection with their work.” And without a pause, “Shit, there’s another call, and I’m late for a meeting. I better go now. I’ll call again tomorrow and check on things. Are my cousins down there helping? Eva’s kids? I’m sure Aunt Flora’s a handful all by herself. Any of her kids around, or aren’t they speaking this week? Were all those male cousins of mine clever enough to stay away? Mom, please take care of yourself, don’t let them — hell, I know you’re the youngest, and I know you’re in great shape, but don’t forget you’re eighty. I’m sorry, but I better take that other call. Bye, Mom, speak to you soon. Feel good.”

Jenny hung up. She could see her daughter as clearly as if the phone contained a screen: dear animated face, supple body in black pants, little white shirt or sweater, black jacket, black tights boots gloves, long slim coat, big bag, big hair, big earrings, big gold chain, big blue eyes, quick bright speech, on the run on the run on the run, to work, to work, back home to children and husband, to the kitchen, to the bedroom, to the office, on the phone on the phone on the phone, for business, for friends, for her brothers and for her mother, running running running her heart out, walking walking walking in her fashionable high-heeled black boots, coat flying behind, pushing pushing pushing, on the march to find herself, to be herself, in all the manifestations she was called on to be. A soldier in a great army in a great long battle.

It was Mama who called up the image of woman as soldier, before she died. Jenny had been putting frantic questions, hurrying to understand before it was too late. How did you do it, Mama, seven pregnancies, breast feeding, no money, no help, cleaning, cooking, working in the store, taking over when Papa napped, sewing, knitting, crocheting fine cotton tablecloths, cooking, cleaning, birthing, rearing, breathing love love love day after hard day, night after hard night?

“What could I do? That’s what women did. They went on. Like a soldier in battle, fighting to stay alive for your children, hoping for the best, hoping for better to come, doing what has to be done. You think I didn’t want to lie down and sleep forever? Plenty of times I wanted to lie down and sleep forever. I said to myself in those days and nights, you’re a soldier in a war. If you drop you’re dead. You have to keep going. For yourself and for your husband and for the children you brought into the world, because that’s your job here in this life. That’s your job. To keep going. And that’s what I did, I kept going.”

They were talking on the porch of the nice little house Mama’s rich successful son Max had bought for her and Papa in Miami Beach. Jenny was a young woman. Mama was dying: any moment her heart would stop. She had closed her eyes as if even to speak of those hard times was exhausting. When she opened them, they were refreshed, amazingly young, laughing.

“There were good times. We had our good times, me and Papa. We paid for them, but we had them. I was a fool, an ignoramus. I had no education, nothing, not like you young women of today. Who knows what I could have done in the world? I accomplished nothing. A whole life of gornisht mit gornisht. But I stayed alive. I didn’t let the battle kill me.”

“You had us,” Jenny said. “You should have been covered with medals like those stupid generals. You did a lot in the world.”

Mama laughed, which turned into uncontrollable coughing, then choking so severe that an ambulance had to be called and there was no more chance to talk before she died a week later, in the hospital, tied to an oxygen tank that could not save her.

The phone rang, waking Jenny from a dream of Naomi that turned nightmare in that instant, though it had seemed oddly natural as a dream. Naomi lying in a hospital bed. Jenny apparently visiting. Naomi covered up to her shoulders in a white sheet, her face composed, and yes, smiling, her greeny hazel eyes peaceful and glowing, her dark hair combed back off her forehead from its innocent part. But when Jenny tried to smooth the sheet over the body, there was no body. Only Naomi’s head — beautiful, simple, composed, smiling — cut off like a classic marble bust.

Her heart skittering in her chest, Jenny picked up the phone. It was Flora, in a conspiratorial voice.

“Jenny, I can’t get him out. I’m scared. He has a gun. Can you come over?”

She heard herself asking stupidly, “What time is it?” And then, “Why don’t you call the police?”

“No, no.” Louder now, more natural. “I can’t do that. You don’t understand.”

She saw on her bedside clock that it was only ten. “Okay,” she said. “I have to dress first, then I’ll be right there.”

“I’m sorry I woke you.” Flora was back to her hushed drama voice. “Please hurry, please. I’ll leave the door open.”

Jenny dressed and descended into the balmy night and the liveliness of the terrace, swimmers in the pool, diners in the cafe, people sitting around talking and laughing, kids running and yelling. Unreal. She seemed unable to plan how to get to Flora’s condominium. Luckily a cab delivered a group of foreign tourists. The driver insisted he was on call farther north, but Jenny pleaded emergency and that her destination was very near. She fingered a five-dollar bill, hinting at a big tip, though when it came to paying she gave him only seventy-five cents. He had driven wildly, mumbling angrily throughout the short drive. The hell with him. She was sick of surly cab drivers.

The Indian security guard at Flora’s condominium wanted to ring the apartment, but Jenny persuaded him to let her go up unannounced. He recognized her as Flora’s sister. The door was open, as Flora had promised. She pushed into the apartment with her heart banging. It was quiet and very hot. There was light coming from the bedroom, but no sound. In the dimness the softened purples were a stage effect. The sound of the sea was another.

Jenny didn’t know what to do. She was a character in some dumb movie, without a script, without a clue. If she charged in, would this Lincoln Road pickup of Flora’s shoot her dead? Or shoot Flora dead? Should she lock the door behind her? Call out? Tiptoe into the bedroom? Should she have brought the cops?