Jane Smiley - Early Warning

“I can’t im—”

“So bizarre. I felt a lump right here.” She touched the underside of her left breast. “And, of course, I went straight to the doctor, and he felt it, too. So I was terrified! I went home and told Jason.” Yes, Irene’s husband was Jason. Maybe he worked in the State Department? A rumpled, handsome fellow. “And he was terrified, too. He was so nice to me, all that evening. Very attentive.”

Lillian smiled in a sympathetic way.

“I mean, he put me to bed and brought me tea and you name it. The next morning, he took me for the biopsy, and he sat with me in the waiting room until I went in for the procedure, which they said would take an hour and a half.”

“It’s time-consuming. They have to be very precise,” said Lillian.

“Well, of course,” said Irene. “Anyway, I came out, and Jason was nowhere to be seen. I was a little — oh, I don’t know. So I walked out on the step and was sitting there, sort of dazedly staring around, and here comes this little Toyota, kind of beat up, and it stops at the curb, and out gets Jason, and he goes around to the driver’s side and kisses the girl who was driving goodbye!”

“Good heavens!” said Lillian.

“Yes! He had been seeing her for months! I am telling you, it was the turning point of my life!”

Lillian’s glance strayed, in spite of herself, to Irene’s chest.

Irene said, “Oh well! The biopsy was negative. Everything fine, in spite of all my worries, but I have been thinking of you and your trouble ever since Miriam told me about it all.”

Wouldn’t want that to happen to anyone, thought Lillian.

“But you’re feeling better now. You look lovely. I just wanted to tell you that.”

In the course of the eleven months since her operation (radical mastectomy, fourteen lymph nodes, chest muscle, plus radiation, the new miracle drug tamoxifen, everything, it seemed), she had heard more about the breast-cancer adventures of women she barely knew than she had ever thought possible. The mother who had died at thirty-seven. The grandmother who lived to be ninety-eight, and at her age they didn’t do operations, because cells divided so slowly anyway. The woman who had something called DCIS in one breast, then lobular ten years later. The lumpectomy during pregnancy (this was the worst one, of course). It was someone new every week or so.

Arthur, who had been talking with a colleague maybe ten feet away from her (he didn’t get much farther if he could help it), now went to the buffet and put a few things on a plate. When he sat down next to her, she saw a tiny bacon quiche, a tiny egg roll made of lettuce, and a mushroom stuffed with crabmeat. She ate them one at a time. He said, “Irene must have been telling you about Jason. She gets quite animated when she talks about it.”

“What happened with them?”

“He married a twenty-five-year-old. They now have twins, and she’s pregnant with a third. If you are ever at the Washington Monument and you see a man with a giant paunch and a perfectly circular bald patch, holding hands with Tweedledee and Tweedledum, that’s them.”

“Boys.”

“Very grumpy girls.”

“Not happy-go-lucky like Richie and Michael, huh.”

“Well, so far, they haven’t been allowed to act out their antipathy toward one another, which would be a joyous experience.” He said, “Are you tired?”

All she had to do was sigh, and he helped her up. He put his arm around her. “It’s at least a mile to the front door, but on the way, be sure to look at the little painting by the same artist as these. Very elegantly done window box full of violets, plus hand grenade, the pin right beside it.” But when they walked past it, Arthur turned her head toward himself, and held her more tightly. On the front stoop, nice weathered brick, he sat her in the glider and went to get the car.

Lillian thought that she should not be tired and she should not be stupid. She had finished the radiation and chemo in the winter. She had hair now, and it wasn’t bad hair. She had several fairly comfortable prosthetic bras, and she looked about the same in her clothes. Who saw her naked except Arthur? Certainly not Lillian herself, who brushed her teeth in the kitchen and did not look at the mirror when she passed through the bathroom. She hadn’t been in a dressing room at a department store in a year. And, of course, she did not remember the surgery. She remembered lying on the table, and she remembered being lifted into her hospital bed, and she remembered extremely vivid narcotic dreams that gave her second thoughts about the inner lives of heroin addicts. She remembered sleeping a lot for a week, and she remembered Arthur allowing her to lie against him in a half-stupor for hours. It was not, in its way, a frightening experience, not warranting denial, grief, or bargaining. It was stuff. Although she never said this to the women who told her their tales, what she thought was: Just a breast. Still, every day she did two or three crossword puzzles, hoping to wake up some of those slumbering brain cells.

—

WHEN FRANK GOT TO the Russian Tea Room, where he was to meet Andy, Richie, Michael, and the girls for supper, all he could think about was Jesse. Two years ago now, Frank had offered to bring him to New York, to have a look at the Statue of Liberty, Central Park, the World Trade Center, and the Empire State Building. But there had never been a good time — so much work to do, maybe he could bring his mom and dad along, they might like it. The idea dropped away; Frank avoided mentioning it in his letters, though he was tempted every time. Frank had made this reservation himself, knowing that if Andy had any trouble — for example, a busy signal — she would give up and try somewhere else, because she really wasn’t picky. She appeared on the surface to be picky, but she was not. This was one of her more irritating characteristics. But he was not going to be irritable this evening.

Jesse kept up their correspondence. Frank had gotten a letter that very week: maybe he should go to vet school after all. Frank thought Jesse had given up that idea after Frank told him senior year that if he became a farm vet, his main job would be to put the animals down. Frank wondered if Jesse consulted Joe about these things. Sometimes Jesse wrote about religion. Frank said he should do what he felt to be right. He always waited a few days before answering Jesse’s letters. Yes, it was like being a girl and having a boyfriend and not wanting to seem too forward.

Richie and Ivy showed up first. Richie needed a haircut, and Ivy’s mop was pulled carelessly back in a clip. She was wearing a dark jacket and carrying her usual hefty briefcase. She threw off her coat, sat down, and ordered a martini, just like a guy getting off work. Frank said, “Hard day at the office, Ivy?”

She said, “Not much of a day at the office. We had to go to a memorial service, so I spent most of the day on the train.”

Frank asked, “Who died?”

“The guy who started Pocket Books. I never knew him, but my boss wanted me to meet people. It was interesting. He sold two and a half million copies of Lost Horizon. Did you ever read that one?”

“Couldn’t get through it,” said Frank.

“It sold more copies than The Murder of Roger Ackroyd but not as many as Dr. Spock.”

“How many has that sold?” said Richie.

“Twenty-eight million,” said Ivy. Frank smiled to himself. She was a girl with a vocation, nice figure, good legs.

Loretta was upon them before Frank realized it, and when she said, “Hey, Frank,” it made him jump. Michael was right behind her. He needed a haircut, too. These girls, he thought, were falling down on the job. Loretta’s excuse was that she was five months pregnant, due in early March. She was flourishing in every way — her hair was thick and shining, her ass was huge, her belly stuck out, and her ankles were swelling. He glanced at Ivy, who looked askance at the belly. Frank thought Richie would be lucky to get one offspring out of Ivy. Michael pulled out Loretta’s chair, and she grunted as she lowered herself into it. She said, “Michael bought a motorcycle.”