Joy Williams - The Visiting Privilege - New and Collected Stories

When Lenore died, Helen would go down to Florida and live with her father. “I’ve never had the slightest desire to visit Florida,” Lenore said. “You can have it.”

At the beginning death was giving them the opportunity to be interesting. This was something special. There was only one crack at this. But then they lost sight of it somehow. It became a lesser thing, more terrible. Its meaning crumbled. They began waiting for it. Terrible, terrible. Lenore had friends but they called now, they didn’t come over so much. “Don’t come over,” Lenore would tell them, “it wears me out.” Little things started to go wrong with the house, leaks and lights. The bulb in the kitchen would flutter when the water was turned on. Helen grew fat for some reason. The dog, their dog, began to change. He grew shy. “Do you think he’s acting funny,” Lenore asked Helen.

She did not tell Helen that the dog had begun growling at her. It was a secret growl; he never did it in front of anyone else. He had taken to carrying one of her slippers around with him. He was almost never without it. He cherished her slipper.

“Do you remember when I put Grecian Formula on his muzzle because he turned gray so young?” Lenore said. “He was only about a year old and began to turn gray? The things I used to do. The way I spent my time.”

But now she did not know what to do with time at all. It seemed more expectant than ever. One couldn’t satisfy it, one could never do enough for it.

She was so uneasy.

Lenore had a dream in which she wasn’t dying at all. Someone else had died. People had told her this over and over again. And now they were getting tired of reminding her, impatient.

She had a dream of eating bread and dying. Two large loaves. Pounds of it, still warm from the oven. She ate it all, she was so hungry, starving! But then she died. It was the bread. It was too hot, was the explanation. There were people in her room but she was not among them.

When she woke, she could feel the hot, gummy, almost liquid bread in her throat, scalding it. She lay in bed on her side, her dark eyes open. It was four o’clock in the morning. She swung her legs to the floor. The dog growled at her. He slept in her room with her slipper but he growled as she went past him. Sometimes self-pity would rise within her and she would stare at the dog, tears in her eyes, listening to him growl. The more she stared, the more sustained was his soft growl.

She had a dream about a tattoo. This was a pleasant dream. She was walking away and she had the most beautiful tattoo covering her shoulders and back, even the backs of her legs. It was unspeakably fine.

Helen had a dream that her mother wanted a tattoo. She wanted to be tattooed all over, a full custom bodysuit, but no one would do it. Helen woke up protesting this, grunting and cold. She had kicked off her blankets. She pulled them up and curled tightly beneath them. There was a boy at school who had gotten a tattoo and now they wouldn’t let him play basketball.

In the morning Lenore said, “Would you get a tattoo with me? We could do this together. I don’t think it’s creepy,” she added. “I think you’ll be glad later. A pretty one, just small somewhere. What do you think?” The more she considered it, the more it seemed the perfect thing to do. What else could be done? She’d already given Helen her wedding ring.

“I’ll get him to come over here, to the house. I’ll arrange it,” Lenore said. Helen couldn’t defend herself against this notion. She still felt sleepy, she was always sleepy. There was something wrong with her mother’s idea but not much.

Then Lenore could not arrange it. When Helen returned from school, her mother said, “It can’t be done. I’m so upset and I’ve lost interest so I’ll give you the short version. I called…I must have made twenty calls. At last I got someone to speak to me. His name was Smokin’ Joe and he was a hundred miles away but sounded as though he’d do it. And I asked him if there was any place he didn’t tattoo, and he said faces, dicks and hands.”

“Mom!” Helen said. Her face reddened.

“And I asked him if there was any one he wouldn’t tattoo, and he said drunks and the dying. So that was that.”

“But you didn’t have to tell him. You won’t have to tell him,” Helen said.

“That’s true,” Lenore said dispiritedly. Then she looked angrily at Helen. “Are you crazy? Sometimes I think you’re crazy!”

“Mom!” Helen said, crying. “I want you to do what you want.”

“This was my idea, mine!” Lenore said. The dog gave a high, nervous bark. “Oh dear,” Lenore said, “I’m speaking too loudly.” She smiled at him as if to say how clever both of them were to realize this.

That night Lenore could not sleep. There were no dreams, nothing. High clouds swept slowly past the window. She got up and went into the living room, to the desk there. She looked with distaste at all the objects in this room. There wasn’t one thing here she’d want to take with her to the grave, not one. The dog had shuffled out of the bedroom with her and now lay at her feet, the slipper in his mouth, a red one with a little bow. She wanted to make note of a few things, clarify some things. She took out a piece of paper. The furnace turned on and she heard something moving behind the walls. “Enjoy it while you can,” she said. She sat at the desk, her back very straight, waiting for something. After a while she looked at the dog. “Give me that,” she said. “Give me that slipper.” He growled but did not leave her side. She took a pen and wrote on the paper, When I go, the dog goes. Promise me this . She left it out for Helen.

Then she thought, That dog is the dumbest one I’ve ever had. I don’t want him with me. She was amazed she could still think like this. She tore up the piece of paper. “Lenore!” she cried, and wrung her hands. She wanted herself. Her mind ran stumbling, panting, through dark twisted woods.

When Helen got up she would ask her to make some toast. Toast would taste good. Helen would press the Good Morning letters on the bread. It was a gadget, like a cookie cutter. When the bread was toasted, the words were pressed down into it and you dribbled honey into them.

In the morning Helen did this carefully, as she always had. They sat together at the kitchen table and ate the toast. Sleet struck the windows. Helen looked at her toast dreamily, the letters golden against the almost black. They both liked their toast almost black.

Lenore felt peaceful. But it was a cruelty to feel peaceful, a cruelty to Helen.

“Turn on the radio,” Lenore said, “and find out if they’re going to cancel school.” If Helen stayed home today she would talk to her. Important things would be said. Things that would still matter years and years from now.

Callers on a talk show were speaking about wolves. “There should be wolf control,” someone said, “not wolf worship.”

“Oh, I hate these people,” Helen said.

“Are you a wolf worshiper,” her mother asked. “Watch out.”

“I believe they have the right to live too,” Helen said fervently. Then she was sorry. Everything she said was wrong. She moved the dial on the radio. School would not be canceled. They never canceled it.

“There’s a stain on that blouse,” her mother said. “Why do your clothes always look so dingy? You should buy some new clothes.”

“I don’t want any new clothes,” Helen said.

“You can’t wear mine, that’s not the way to think. I’ve got to get rid of them. Maybe that’s what I’ll do today. I’ll go through them with Jean. It’s Jean who comes today, isn’t it?”

“I don’t want your clothes!”

“Why not? Not even the sweaters?”