Jane Mendelsohn - Burning Down the House

You say you would do anything for me, will do anything, but there is nothing you can do to protect me. It’s too late. Everything is gone.

Please don’t say that, he said.

Why not?

It isn’t true.

Yes, it is.

You have your whole life ahead of you.

Is that a joke or just a cliché? She looked into the cold tea and then up at him.

It’s neither. I mean it.

You used to be funnier.

They sat in a nearly empty café. She hadn’t wanted to go to his apartment, or have him over.

Maybe I will be again someday. Funny, he said.

You act like things change.

Things do change. People can change. I’ve changed.

So have I, I guess. But I don’t think I can change back, she said.

You can change into something else.

She blew into her teacup, pointlessly. She felt another wave of pressure, a demand to ease his pain. But it was time to discard that kind of unnecessary responsibility. She experimented with telling the truth.

I can’t help you feel better about all of this, she said.

I know.

Her hair had grown longer. She wore a long loose sweater that covered her wrists, almost reached to her fingertips. Her bony fingers curled around the cup. She looked into the orange liquid.

I’m not sure that I can ever see you again.

I hope that isn’t true. But I understand.

The edges of her mouth wrinkled and drew a smile and frown simultaneously. It was a line of pure feeling, not happy or sad but living in the full emotion of the moment. It was form, not style, a form of strength.

She stood up. The scrape of her chair.

Where are you going?

I’m leaving now.

Please don’t, he said. Please don’t leave yet.

I’m leaving. I’m leaving you.

—

As she walked out the door her eyes squinted, darted, clenched. She caught sight of shadows on glass, the reflection of her coat, letters running backward, a sparkling wave of rhythmic chaos. The mumbled sounds of the restaurant rose in her consciousness and then quieted. Out on the street the reassuring traffic and random pedestrians calmed her nerves.

—

Ian watched her walk away as if she were a hidden piece of his heart that had taken shape outside of him and been hurled back with a violent force. Which of course she was.

—

She was gone and in her place was his love for her. The love of a parent. He let her go.

NEVA SAID GOODBYE to the family and traveled for a few months. Felix missed her terribly. He wrote to her, long, richly detailed letters. He insisted on writing by hand, not e-mails, and he spent forever choosing the stationery, addressing the envelopes, picking stamps. It was a healthy distraction from the collapse that was taking place around him. His world broke apart in chunks, a glacier cleaving. Zane Enterprises, with which he had never much concerned himself, became a headline, an accident from which to look away. Whatever pride he had taken in his father’s business had altered into not shame but bewilderment, confusion, and concern. On the hall table there were always stacks of large envelopes from law firms. His mother threw away whole tablefuls of documents in disgust or rage or irresponsibility, he could not tell. Maybe they were not important documents. It was impossible to determine which ones mattered and which did not. He was aware that his father had died leaving a trail, a highway of litigation. He was aware that the company had to let people go, had to move offices. He was aware that things had not ended well. As always, he took a philosophical approach. He knew that in the scheme of things even the collapse of a company, a dynasty, an empire, would be washed away by time. But that did not change the feeling in his chest of a door opening and closing, swinging, unhinged, banging as the wind picked up, and creaking in the night. A mournful movement that was the beating of his heart.

—

No one knew exactly when Neva was returning so it was a surprise when Poppy saw her in an art supply store on Second Avenue, downtown. Neva had the same angular aspect, the same hair like ink, the same green eyes. Poppy had started taking drawing classes. She was purchasing paper, charcoal. Neva was looking at a display of colored markers. She explained that she was buying some for a little girl she knew. Actually, they were for Angel’s daughter.

—

Neva and Poppy kept talking and they walked west together, for a long time.

What am I going to do? asked Poppy. What are we going to do?

What are we? said Neva.

—

They walked onto a pier. It stuck out into the river like a branch into the air. They stood on the end of the branch, dangling above the water.

Can’t you tell me anything? Anything that will help?

I don’t know that I can, said Neva.

Can’t you try? Can’t you tell me that you will always be here for me or that I will be okay or that you will never forget me?

Neva said nothing. Then she said: I can’t promise any of that. Anyway, you’re too old now for my promises. You make your own.

They both looked out over the water.

Why are you being so cruel now, of all times?

I’m not being cruel; I’m just being honest with you. I’ve always been honest with you.

Is that all?

It’s enough. And it’s what we have.

Poppy licked the tears on her lips.

What about hope?

What about it?

Can’t we have that too?

I didn’t say you couldn’t.

But you said all we have is honesty.

Hope is not dishonest. Hope is nothing but honest. It’s very strong. Yes, I think you should have hope.

Well, what can you say that will help me have it? Because I don’t anymore. I’ve lost it. I can’t find it.

You’ll find it when you no longer expect it to give you exactly what you want, or even close to what you want. You’ll have it when you see that hope is patience, waiting, time.

That doesn’t really sound like hope.

Are you sure you aren’t asking for false hope?

Maybe, she said, squinting, searching. I think maybe I’m just asking for love.

Neva turned to her.

That you have. You have all my love. You have it for as long as I exist, and you can remember it for as long as you do.

Poppy couldn’t tell the difference between the water in her eyes and the water behind Neva’s head.

So if I have love I have hope?

If you have love you have hope.

What about love conquering all. Poppy smiled. Is that true?

No, that’s not true.

So what conquers all?

Nature, said Neva. Her hair blew out behind her like the black feathers of a bird.

Nature conquers all? said Poppy.

Yes, said Neva. Nature conquers all.

—

They stood hugging on the pier. You could see them standing and they looked like one person, their hair blowing around together in the wind.

IN THE CITY’S PARKS the trees stood holding the late-summer light, glowing with it, giant natural lanterns. Scattered blankets spread out over the lawns, covered with people, the afternoon flowing out from them in a soft current. Children walked by bodies of water and stuck their hands in the wet rushing. A kite jerked in the wind, spermatozoically. In the air was the contentment of people inside a mystery that they did not need to understand. The kite rose frantically higher, then softly fell.

—

The House of Steve fell not softly but with theatrics, like the final scenes of a complicated saga. Investments were unwound, properties sold off, debt restructured. A certain slide in social standing was endured as part of the loss of financial power. Some friends disappeared. Some advisers shrugged and stopped returning phone calls. Others flew in to assess the rot, pick the bones, and save some meat. Not everything was lost. Through the secular miracle of world markets, bonds, banks, rehypothecation, mortgages wrapped in credit wrapped in words, funds were salvaged, some real estate retained. Damage was done and yet the individuals survived. Even the worst of them, Jonathan, never went to jail. This was, like one of the conundrums Felix puzzled over, unbelievable. And yet it was true.