Lydia Davis - Break It Down

A week later an old woman came with three or four shabby trunks and began to line the mantelpiece with her cheap knickknacks. Then I saw that without a word of explanation, without regard for my feelings, without even a present of money, Mr. Martin had packed up and gone for good.

This is only a rented house. My mother and I are included in the rent. People come and go, and every few years there is a new tenant. I should have expected that one day Mr. Martin too would leave. But I didn’t expect it. I was ill for a long time after that day and my mother, who became more and more loathsome to me, wore herself out bringing me the broth and cold cucumbers that I craved. After my illness I looked like a corpse. My breath stank. My mother would turn away from me in disgust. The tenants shuddered when I came into the room in my clumsy way, tripping over the doorsill even though my glasses again sat like a butterfly on the narrow bridge of my nose.

I was never a good housemaid, but now, though I try hard, I am so careless that some tenants believe I do not clean the rooms at all and others think I am purposely trying to embarrass them in front of their guests. But when they scold me I don’t answer. I just look at them indifferently and go on with my work. They have never known such disappointment as I have.

She is seventy-nine or so, and on the one hand it’s hard to talk to her (she has come for dinner, it’s just the two of us; she eats much more than I thought an old lady would and even after several helpings of the main meal and dessert keeps digging into the raisin box with her knotted fingers and spreading raisins on her clean plate and nervously lining them up and tossing them into her mouth as she talks, and when they fall out on her lower lip tipping them back in), it’s hard to talk to her because she has only four or five things she wants to talk about and she forgets the name of every person and the name of every thing she wants to talk about and when groping to describe the thing whose name she has forgotten forgets the name of what she needs to describe to identify to me the first thing she has forgotten (she closes her eyes, leans her head back, and taps her twisted fingers on the tablecloth) and in the midst of this description, because she has gone on trying so long, forgets why she began it and stops dead or takes a different direction altogether (she talks with her eyes closed, her wiry white hair is tied back under a thin piece of yarn, and then she opens her eyes and cries out at her lolling dog to lie down and when the dog lies down stamps on his head in further irritation, and he rolls back his eyes in fear); on the other hand, even with only four or five subjects she doesn’t exhaust what she has to say because she entirely forgets that she has made a remark or asked a question and had an answer to it already, and so she asks again and I answer again, and she remarks again, and this happens at intervals all through dinner and beyond (I can’t convey the truth to her; there is my truth and her memory of it; I do not know a friend of hers but all evening she asks if I know him), but sometimes she tells me something about the Depression and the apartments she owned in the city, and then how her husband wrote his own column for the local paper and she never knew another writer as fine as he was, and then that is part of one long story and she remembers everything that happened and remembers, though she will have forgotten when I see her again, that she has told it to me now, though just barely.

Lillian in her cap of white hair and her ankle socks and tied brown shoes is a small old woman who works over her sink before sunrise (I hear it through the wall of this cottage standing in the trees above the reedy lake with its black banks of mud and its dock of splintered wood), who washes her white linen by hand and hangs it on lines by the cottage and takes it down in the late morning. Now she sits reading at the picnic table a picture book about Polish Jews, with her white-framed glasses directed at the pictures, and when I walk by and ask, she says she is not really reading but thinking about sour apples and her daughters, she has been waiting all day for her two large daughters and waiting also to cook them the foods of their childhood; but though all day she is clean and ready, her daughters don’t come and don’t call. I look out from time to time and she is still sitting there alone, and she will not call them for fear of being a nuisance, and because she is disappointed she begins to think as she has thought before that she is too far away, she will not come back to this cottage again though she has come here for so many years, first with her husband, then without her husband, who died between one summer and the next, and she is thinking too how she makes trouble for everyone; well, no one minds! I have told her, but she will never believe that any more than she will uncover her old body to swim in company with the other old people here, and goes down to the lake alone at dawn; and now she puts away her book and her glasses and her shoes untied by the bed, and goes to bed, for it is evening, and she likes to lie and watch the darkness come down into the woods, though tonight, as sometimes before, she does not really watch, or though her eyes rest on the darkening woods, she is not so much watching as waiting, and often, now, feels she is waiting.

She was in love with her son’s pediatrician. Alone out in the country — could anyone blame her.

There was an element of grand passion in this love. It was also a safe thing. The man was on the other side of a barrier. Between him and her: the child on the examining table, the office itself, the staff, his wife, her husband, his stethoscope, his beard, her breasts, his glasses, her glasses, etc.

X is with Y, but living on money from Z. Y himself supports W, who lives with her child by V. V wants to move to Chicago but his child lives with W in New York. W cannot move because she is having a relationship with U, whose child also lives in New York, though with its mother, T. T takes money from U, W takes money from Y for herself and from V for their child, and X takes money from Z. X and Y have no children together. V sees his child rarely but provides for it. U lives with W’s child but does not provide for it.

She looked forward to being an old woman and wearing strange clothes. She would wear a shapeless dark brown or black dress of thin material, perhaps with little flowers on it, certainly frayed at the neck and hem and under the arms, and hanging lopsided from her bony shoulders down past her bony hips and knees. She would wear a straw hat with her brown dress in the summer, and then in the cold weather a turban or a helmet and a warm coat of something black and curly like lambswool. Less interesting would be her black shoes with their square heels and her thick stockings gathered around her ankles.

But before she was that old, she would still be a good deal older than she was now, and she also looked forward to being that age, what would be called past the prime of her life and slowing down.

If she had a husband, she would sit out on the lawn with her husband. She hoped she would have a husband by then. Or still have one. She had once had a husband, and she wasn’t surprised that she had once had one, didn’t have one now, and hoped to have one later in her life. Everything seemed to happen in the right order, generally. She had also had a child; the child was growing, and in a few more years the child would be grown and she would want to slow down and have someone to talk to.