Peter Carey - His Illegal Self

If not for me, then for the Movement, Susan Selkirk had said.

Every time it got her, every goddamn time.

There was nothing in the Belvedere’s lobby she recognized from her long-ago visit-neither the loud checkerboard of marble tiles, nor the huge faux-Grecian vase. It had been May 1966, six years ago, a time when her speech was still thick with Boston. Today she remembered only what disappointing uses the Selkirk money had been put to-frumpy sofas and matching rosewood end tables. True, there had been a de Kooning on the living room wall, but she had been way too nervous to stare at it. The apartment generally suggested that there had not been a new idea in furniture design this century.

She walked from the doorman to the elevator operator, arguing, with her big backpack and her stride, her perfect right to be there.

The elevator man regarded her tits with what she thought of as her father’s dark DP eyes.

Efharisto, she said.

You’re welcome, the displaced person said, transferring his attention to the lights.

As the elevator opened into the apartment she both met and remembered the incongruous smell of burned toast. The very small, very ordinary kitchen was partially visible in the hallway to the left. The Park Avenue sky was straight ahead, and the sun, at that time of morning, was so bright that it took her a moment to see the little creature, a glowing nimbus surrounding him, like a startled fox in a morning meadow.

Hello, she said. Is that you?

To her immense surprise he propelled himself toward her, and she, unprepared for six years of solid growth, was winded by the heft of him, the breadth of his chest, the weight of his bones, his dense needy secret life.

You can’t possibly remember me, she cried, delighted, slipping free of her backpack.

The boy did not reply, just hugged her like a terrific little animal, grinding his chin against her leg.

Phoebe Selkirk had perhaps been there all the while, but it took a moment for Dial to become aware of her.

The visitor made an unsuccessful attempt to separate from her admirer.

Well-the older woman extended a hand-it appears we once again have the right person for the job.

She had become old, and Dial, imagining she could feel the skeleton in her grip, released the hand abruptly and smiled too eagerly.

Phoebe Selkirk seemed less confident, but she was of course still beautiful, with high cheekbones and strong steely gray hair which easily held the superficially simple cut-high on the nape, the long strong hair sweeping toward her perhaps overly determined jaw.

Now! she said, and at this single command, the boy released his hold and, without looking back at Dial, ran down the hallway.

Dial found herself saying how very pleased she was to come, realizing, with some astonishment, that she was perfectly sincere.

The boy appeared again around the back of the bookshelf. The blue one? He smiled at her.

With the zip, his grandmother said. That one.

As he disappeared again the old lady extracted a brown paper bag from the bookshelf and pushed it hard at Dial.

Take, take, Mrs. Selkirk ordered, quickly.

Inside the bag Dial saw books, a card game, chocolate bars.

Quick, take it.

When Dial hesitated Mrs. Selkirk kneeled before the visitor’s backpack and unbuckled it.

She’ll be late, she said, thrusting everything inside. She was never on time. He’ll need entertaining.

Dial raised an eyebrow at her.

Yes, the old lady acknowledged the reprimand. I’m a bully.

Is this OK? the boy called.

The sweater, a Cambridge blue, managed to produce an echoing blue among the interstices of his velvety gray eyes.

You have lovely hair, Dial said, then felt foolish for saying something so fond.

But he raised his chin at her as if inviting her to touch.

The grandmother did not exactly smile, but there was that slight wavering of the lips and she combed her brown hands roughly through her own hair. Dial thought, It’s your hair he has. Good genes. The blue sweater was similarly privileged, the dense slightly greasy textures of New Zealand, the memory of many acres contained within its knit.

Well, shall we go? said Mrs. Selkirk brightly, holding out her hand toward the boy and, at the same time, touching Dial lightly upon the elbow. In this and other small ways, Phoebe Selkirk showed herself to be well disposed toward Dial but it was impossible not to see, in the elevator, in the lobby, that she was suffering in some way. There was a sadness as she touched the boy on the shoulder, on his head, turned back the sleeve of his sweater from his wrists.

This “play date,” she said, rolling her eyes at the term, is meant to be from twelve to one.

Yes, I know.

She’ll be late, so don’t get agitated.

They said twelve.

Trust me, she’ll be late. Just be back by two. Two-thirty even, that’s fine. I wish she would just come here, you know. She could have. Nothing would have happened. You tell her that. Hurry, these WALK signs only last a second.

Dial was surprised to find herself wanting to display sympathy but she felt too indelicate to offer it, too coarse, like a rough mud doll beside something fine.

She could have come to the apartment, Mrs. Selkirk continued, a little winded by her sprint across Park. The staff would die before they gave her up. They’ve known her all her life.

This seemed a rather reckless notion, but Dial did not comment directly. She’s your daughter, she said, pleased that this could mean almost anything.

Alas, she is, said Mrs. Selkirk. Her father’s daughter too.

At Lex, the old lady had called the boy Jay for the first time. Dial had no issue with this. In fact she was all for it. She had always thought Che a ridiculous name, an indication of everything that was wrong with the so-called Movement. If you go carrying pictures of Chairman Mao, you ain’t going to make it with anyone anyhow. But she was uncertain she had heard correctly. The next time she heard Che and when she asked the question about his name, in Bloomingdale’s, she did it quite innocently. Such were the barbs she triggered. It was as if she’d accidentally brushed a poison jellyfish.

Dial was no longer a dirt poor scholarship girl. She did not have to take this shit. She was a Vassar professor, not that this old cow would know, or think to ask. Anna Xenos had her own temper issues and she would have enjoyed walking away, had it not been for this lovely little boy who presumably did not need more torture in his life. Dial looked at him with pity, observed his anxious hand stroking his grandma’s arm while the idiot bought Chanel. Dial would have been hard-pressed to imagine a purchase more perverse or willful-Chanel for a woman who named her child Che and her parents Class Enemies.

With the wrapped gift clasped in her hands she looked directly into Dial’s eyes. For a moment she faltered, looking down at her gift, maybe seeing just what she had done. Then she shoved it violently at the messenger.

You want me to call him Che in Bloomingdale’s.

Dial thought, This woman has been driven mad by grief.

At the door, she suddenly felt her arm snatched.

Just go, Phoebe Selkirk hissed, go now. If anything happens to him, I’ll kill you.

And with that Dial took the boy’s hand and ran, laughing hysterically. Jesus, she thought, as the backpack slammed against her spine. Jesus Christ, what would it be like to have Susan Selkirk as your daughter, a child who would burn down everything you owned, not least this perfect little boy with his perfect little boy legs, falling socks, banged-up shin and expensive sweater made from merino sheep, the face, the father’s face, dear Jesus.

He looked at her adoringly, little glances, smiles. She thought how glorious it was to be loved, she, Dial, who was not loved by anyone. She felt herself just absorb this little boy, his small damp hand dissolving in her own.