Aimee Bender - The Particular Sadness of Lemon Cake

Within a minute, after hanging up, the phone rang again.

I picked up. Sorry, I said.

Hello? the voice said. Rose?

The wish, that George had called back, apologetic, called the number he knew so well to invite me out to spend the weekend in the dorm. Maybe he could show me the town, or be my date to Eliza’s party. Instead, it was my mother’s voice that rushed into my ear, running ahead fast, sharper than usual. The connection wasn’t good-it sounded like she was talking from a pay phone outdoors, and great swoops of wind rushed in every few seconds. She didn’t ask why I was home, but through the gaps she said something about how it was so good to hear my voice and how she was calling from the little town outside the workshop in Nova Scotia. The place had scarce technological amenities-just woodworking tools and gulls-so it was hard to catch her full sentences, but over the rushes of wind, it sounded something like she’d called Joseph seven times and he wasn’t answering his phone and now the answering machine was disconnected so she needed me to write him a check.

A check?

On him, she said. Please? The line crackled. Bedford Gardens, she said. She spelled it for me. With a B , she yelled into the phone.

I know where he lives, I said. Can’t I just call? Can’t Dad call?

Joe won’t pick up, she said. His phone’s out. Please.

For a second, the wind lapsed, and quieted. I’m worried, she said, with perfect clarity.

I’m sure he’s fine, I said.

Your father doesn’t take this kind of thing seriously, but I have a bad feeling, she said. We had an agreement, Rose, she said.

I pulled a pile of mail into my lap. I felt the sullenness building.

So is Larry there too? I asked.

Who?

Larry, your lover?

Excuse me? I can’t hear you from the wind.

Lar-ry? Your lo-ver?

Silence, on the other end. Just the wind, talking back. Gulls, squawking.

Yes, he’s here, she said, finally. Half the studio is here.

You guys having fun? I said, making an airplane out of a men’s store sale card.

I didn’t know you knew, she said faintly.

Oh, for years, I said.

How-

It’s really hard to explain, I said. I flew the plane across the kitchen floor, where it crashed against a cabinet. So Joseph-

Does your father know?

Dad? I said. My highly observant dad? Are you kidding?

Or Joseph? she said, her voice starting to waver. Is that why he’s gone?

I coughed into the receiver. No, I said. He doesn’t know either. Nobody knows but me. Aren’t you wondering why I’m home? I skipped school.

Her words came through in ribbons and waves. That’s not why I’m away, she said. Nearly the whole co-op is here. It’s a work trip, she said. We’re working. I’m so sorry, Rose.

I picked at the address label on one of the bills. Electric bill. Probably big.

So when did you last talk to him? I said.

Larry?

Joseph.

Right before I left, she said. Please, honey. He always answers when I call. We’ll talk about this all when I get back, I promise. Please. Did you say you skipped school?

The address label wouldn’t come off so I put the ripped electric bill back in its stack by the phone. On top of all the other bills, all the papers that ran the house invisibly.

No, I said. I was kidding. It’s a holiday.

Today? she said.

It’s Barbelucci Day, I said.

Listen, she said. If something is wrong, I’ll be there as fast as I can. I’ve called the hospitals just in case but he’s not in them.

You called hospitals already?

Remember last time? If he’s not home, will you check Kaiser, just in case? The one on Vermont and Sunset? You see, Rose, there’s no one else. It has to be you. It’s only you.

Someone called her name, from a far distance. I could hear the trees, whipped up. Another land. I’m sorry, I have to go, she said. Thank you, love. Thank you so much. We’ll talk when I get back.

After she hung up, I went into the living room and sat in the striped armchair for a while. Out the window, the breezeless stillness of a desert spring.

The building where Joseph lived was stucco and ugly, with boxy cypress hedges in stiff rows and that cursive name written on the front, that name so vague I could never remember it.

When I drove up, the whole complex looked emptier than it had before. Only one broken-down brown Chevy in the downstairs garage. It was late afternoon when I pulled in, the sky streaky with clouds, and on the streets, cars were arriving home, parking, work people unpacking trunks and heading into their units.

I dragged my feet up the stairs and down the balcony corridor. At the top of the stairway, in front of Joseph’s apartment, someone had pushed a twin bed against the railing. With a pillow and a comforter, all set to go for sleep. By the door, I groped around in the black metal cupola that framed the solitary outdoor bulb until I found the magenta spare key-a cursive J on the key label in my mother’s handwriting. With it, the door opened a notch, and then the chain blocked me.

Joseph? I called, into the wedge of darkness.

Nothing.

I was in a newly sour mood, after the phone calls with my mother and George. Embarrassed, about calling George. Upset, that I’d told my mother what I knew. Now that I’d told her, we’d have to have a talk. Plus, it just made me irritable to have to check on my older brother. Joseph’s front door wouldn’t push open, and so I snuck a grumbling hand through the open wedge and tried to unlatch the chain. I couldn’t actually reach the latch, but the screws felt loose on the door-frame side, so instead of unlatching the chain I changed arms, curled my fingers, did a twist or two, and was able to dismantle the entire apparatus itself. After a minute, the whole thing fell apart and the door gaped open.

The living room was dark. Empty.

I hadn’t been inside his actual apartment much. When I saw Joseph, it was because he came to us, because my mother drove out, picked him up, and brought him home. On occasion, he and George came over for dinner together, but the contrast of George’s lively updates on Caltech set against Joseph’s reluctant mutters was too much for even my mother, and she did not extend the invitation often.

Inside, it smelled faintly of noodles. Nothing much in the way of furniture except that card table with some science books piled on it, and a chair with a ripped seat and our grandmother’s last name written on the back in cursive. Morehead , liltingly. All the curtains were closed except in the kitchen, where a small window sent a few late-afternoon rays onto the tiled floor, a yellow pattern of sun stripes over crisscrossing tile stripes. I left the front door open.

I’m in, I said.

No answer.

I stepped into the hallway. No pictures. The bathroom unlit. The bedroom at the end.

I’m coming in, I said, down the hallway. Joseph? Hellooooo. It’s me, Mom’s good old checker, I said.

Quiet. Empty. I clicked on the overhead hall light, but it only cast a burnt yellow tinge over the dimness.

No sounds coming from his room. Pure silence. I’d been through it all before. Outside, a few cars ambled up the street. Only the faint hum and rattle of distant plumbing, somewhere deep inside the building.

Joseph did not invite people over, or have parties, so as far as I knew, other than Mom, I was the first person other than himself to set foot in his apartment in weeks. This was significant because at the end of the hall was the door to his bedroom, and on it he’d hung the old sign from his childhood, Keep Out , written years and years ago in thick black pen, now faded to gray. I’d long ago memorized the blocky shape of the O , the slightly too large T . It was such a familiar sight that it took a minute, here, to question. Why was it here? He must’ve lifted it off his old door during some visit home, and put it up again even though he lived alone. But so who was the sign for now? That badly drawn skull and crossbones.