Joy Williams - The Visiting Privilege - New and Collected Stories

She said she was so discouraged that everything seemed vaguely yellow to her, that she saw everything through a veil of yellow.

“That was in an article I read,” Donna said excitedly. “The yellow part.”

“You know, Donna,” Cynthia said, “you’re part of my problem.”

When Cynthia got like this, Donna would excuse herself and go away for a while. Or she would go back to the room and talk with the old woman. She got a kick out of being extraordinarily friendly to her. Once she brought her gum, another time a jar of night cream. She ignored the obese teenagers, but one afternoon one of them deliberately bumped into her as she walked down the hall. The girl’s flesh was hard and she smelled of coconut. She thrust her face close to Donna’s. Her pores were large and clean and Donna could see the contacts resting on the corneas of her eyes.

“I’m passionate, intense and filled with private reverie, and so is my friend,” the girl said, “so don’t slime us like you do.” Then she punched Donna viciously on the arm. Donna felt like crying but she was only a visitor. She didn’t have to come here so frequently; she was really coming here too much, sometimes two and three times a day.

There were group meetings twice a week and Donna always tried to be present for these, although she was not permitted to attend them. Sometimes, however, if she stood just outside the door, the nurses and psychologists didn’t notice her right away. Cynthia and the fat teenagers and the old lady and a half dozen others would sit around a large table and say anything they wanted to.

—

“I dreamed that I threw up a fox,” one of the fat girls said. Really, Donna couldn’t tell them apart.

“I shit something that looked like an onion once,” a man said. “It just kept coming out of me. I pulled it out of myself with my own hands. I thought it was the Devil, but it was a worm. A gift from Central America.”

“That is so disgusting,” the other fat girl said, “That is the most—”

“Hey!” the man said. “Get yourself a life, woman.”

The worm thing caused the old lady to request to be excused. Donna walked back to the room with her, and they sat down on her bed.

“Feel my heart,” the old lady said. “It’s pounding. I wasn’t brought up that way.”

The old lady liked to play cards, and she and Donna often used an old soiled deck that had pictures of colorful fish on it. Donna pretended she was in the cabin of a boat on a short, safe trip to a lovely island. The old woman was a mysterious opponent, not at all what she seemed. Donna had, in fact, been told by the nurses that she was considerably more impaired than she appeared to be. Beyond the window of the cabin were high waves, pursuing and accompanying them. The waves were an essential part of the world the boat required, but they bore malice toward the boat, that much was obvious.

“What kind of fish are these,” Donna asked.

“These are reef residents,” the old lady said.

They played a variation of Spit in the Ocean. Donna had had no idea that there were so many variations of this humble game.

The two fat girls came in and lay down on their beds. The old lady was really opening up to Donna. She was telling her about her husband and her little house.

“After my husband died, I was afraid someone might come in and…” She passed her finger across her throat. “I bought one of those men. Safe-T-Man II, the New Generation. You know, the ones that look as though they’re six feet tall but can be folded up and put in a little tote bag? I put him in the car or I put him in my husband’s easy chair right in front of the window. He had all kinds of clothes. He had a leather coat. He had a baseball cap.”

“Where is he now,” Donna asked.

“He’s in his little tote bag. Actually, he frightened me a little, Safe-T-Man. I think I ordered him too dark or something. I never did get used to him.”

“That’s racist,” one of the fat girls said.

“Yeah, what a racist remark,” the other one said.

“I bet he wonders what happened to me,” the old lady said. “I bet my car does too. One minute you’re on the open road, one excitement after another, the next you’re in a dark garage. I’m not afraid of dying, but I don’t want to die old.”

She was quite old already, of course, but the fat girls did not challenge her on this. Cynthia came into the room, eating a piece of fruit, a nectarine or something.

“The first thing I’m going to do when I get out of here is go home and make Festive Chicken,” the old woman said. “I hope you’ll all be my guests for dinner.”

The fat girls and Cynthia stared at her.

“I’d love to,” Donna said. “What is Festive Chicken? Can I bring anything? Wine? A salad?”

“It requires toothpicks,” the old woman said. “You bake it with toothpicks but then you take the toothpicks out.”

“It sounds wonderful,” Donna said.

Cynthia rolled her eyes. “Would you give it a rest,” she said to Donna.

“I’m tired now,” the old woman said sweetly. “I’m tired of playing cards.” She put the cards back in the box but it didn’t have reef residents on it. It had a picture of a drab, many-spired European city, the very opposite of a reef resident.

“These don’t belong in this box!” she cried. “It’s the first time I’ve noticed this. Would you go to my house and bring back the other deck of cards?” she asked Donna.

“Sure,” Donna said.

“My house is a little strange,” the old woman said.

“What do you mean?”

“I bet it is,” one of the fat girls said.

“I love my little house,” the old woman said anxiously. “I want to get back to it as soon as I can.”

She gave Donna the address and a key from her pocketbook. That evening, when visiting hours were over, Donna drove to the house, which was boxy and tidy with a crushed-rock yard and a dead nestling in the driveway. The house didn’t seem that strange to Donna. One would be desperate to get out of it, certainly. There were lots of things that were meant to be plugged into wall outlets but none of them were. She found the cards almost immediately, in the kitchen. There were the colorful fish on the cover of the box and the deck inside had the image of the foreign city. Idly, she opened the refrigerator, which was full of ketchup, nothing but bottles of ketchup, each one partially used. Donna had an urge to top off some bottles from others, to reduce the unseemly number, but with not much effort she resisted this.

On the drive back to her apartment she stopped at a restaurant and had several drinks in the bar. The bartender’s name was Lucy. She had just returned from a vacation. She had spent forty-five minutes swimming with dolphins. The dolphin that had persisted in keeping Lucy company had had an immense boner.

“He kept gliding past me, gliding past,” Lucy said, moving her hand through the air. “I kept worrying about the little kids. They’re always bringing in these little kids who have only weeks to live due to one thing or another. I would think it would be pretty undesirable for them to experience a dolphin with a boner.”

“But the dolphins know better than that, don’t they?” Donna said.

“It’s not all that relaxing to swim with them, actually,” the bartender said. “They like some people better than others, and the ones that get ignored feel like shit. You know, out of the Gaia loop.”

People in the restaurant kept requesting exotic drinks that Lucy had to look up in her Bartender’s Bible. After a while, Donna went home.

The next afternoon she swept into Pond House in her long black coat bearing a bunch of daffodils as a gift in general.

Cynthia was in the lounge in a big chintz slipcovered chair reading Anna Karenina .