Authors: Amanda Filipacchi
I stop next to her and say, “Could you please pass me the Ajax on that low shelf. My back hurts.”
She stares at me, surprised. She recognizes me. Not saying a word, she bends down and gets me the Ajax.
“I spend my life going back and forth between the supermarket and my home,” I tell her. “There are such strange people in the supermarket. People with problems and faults. But I would never pester someone in the supermarket by making subtle references to their fault, even if I got paid to do it. Would you?”
“You’re doing it now.”
“You started it.”
“It was a favor.”
“She called you her employee, her agent. Are you offended?”
“No. She paid me for this favor.”
“Well, I wouldn’t do it as a favor either.”
A
t home, I go to Henrietta’s room to give her the marzipan. I stop a few feet away from the door, stunned. I am hearing Sara’s voice coming from inside the room. Sara talking to Henrietta. “Repeat what you just told me,” I hear Henrietta say. “Why?” says Sara.
“Say it in my tape recorder.”
“I’m tired of getting all my bad news recorded in your machine.”
“Please.”
“I got an F in art.”
There’s a click. I enter the room. Henrietta is sitting on her bed, with her tape recorder on her lap and the box of her daughter’s braids next to her. Her hand is in the box, petting the braids and the white ribbons attached to them. Tears are streaming down her face. About fifty crumpled Kleenexes are scattered around her. I sit on the other bed, the box of marzipan on my lap. A brief glance is her only acknowledgment of my presence. She lets the tape recorder run.
“What did you say you wanted to be when you grow up?” asks Henrietta, from the tape recorder.
“A housewife,” says Sara.
Again there’s a click, signaling the end of one conversation and the beginning of another.
“Can you repeat that,” says Henrietta. “Our connection was bad. I didn’t hear you quite well.”
“Bullshit,” says Sara. “You just want to record me. Okay. Dear darling mother, I broke my leg at camp. It hurts terribly much. This is the tenth of August at three forty-three in the afternoon.”
Click.
“How many cavities did you have?”
“Three.”
Click.
“Is it recording yet?” asks Sara.
“Yes,” says Henrietta.
“Melissa said her mother said my mother is perverted, because your house is full of naked men showing off their bodies and trying to be pretty like women.”
Click.
“What did you say you wanted to be when you grow up?”
“A hairdresser.”
Click.
“So tell me what’s wrong,” says Henrietta. The sound is muffled.
“You’re not gonna record me, are you?”
“No. Tell me.”
“I don’t know, I’m just sad.”
“There must be a reason.”
“I wish I had a father who wore clothes.”
“What in the world do you mean?”
“I want someone who’s dressed most of the time. All the men who come here are nice, but they’re not like normal fathers. All my friends have fathers who are always dressed. My friends have never seen their fathers without their underwear, except one girl, and that was by accident, because none of the bathrooms in her house have locks.”
Click.
“No, don’t record me.”
“Yes, I gotta have this on tape. This is terrible. Repeat what you just said.”
“What do you mean, terrible? You always said I should be free in that way.”
“I know. I don’t mean terrible. I mean incredible. Surprising. Disconcerting. Unsettling. Nerve-racking. Repeat what you said.”
“Do I
have
to?”
“Absolutely.”
“I’m attracted to Jeremy.”
My ears buzz in surprise, but I am careful not to move a muscle, not to show my interest in this new topic of conversation. “You are?”
“Yes.”
“How do you mean, attracted?”
“I want to do it with him.”
“Do what?”
“Sleep.”
“Do you know what that means?”
“Sex.”
“And do you know what
that
means?”
“Yes.”
“Are you sure? You didn’t learn it from me. You must have learned it from TV or your friends, right?”
“Yes. And books.”
“Are you sure you have the right definition?”
“I guarantee you, yes.”
“And you’re interested in Jeremy.”
“Yes.”
“Are you planning to do anything about it?”
“Yes. I would like to go to Disney World with him.”
“Really.”
“Will you let me go?”
“I don’t think so.”
“You should. Our doorman, on afternoons when you’re out hunting for O.I.M.s, would willingly see me in the back room, but he’s aggressive and too rough. Otherwise there’s my gym teacher in school, a pedophde. He adores me, and we have plenty of free time after class, but I think he might be dangerously insane.”
“Don’t underestimate my intelligence.”
“You know I’m kidding. But it
is
supposed to make you think.”
Click.
“What did you say you wanted to be when you grow up?”
“A fact checker.”
Click.
“I think I regret it,” says Sara. Her voice is muffled. I realize this means the tape recorder is hidden.
“Why?”
“Because he probably won’t want to be friends with me now.”
“You knew that might happen.”
“I know, but I didn’t think it would bother me. Now I wish I could keep him as a friend.”
“Maybe you’ll be able to.”
“It’s not sure at all.”
“I know. You’re not in love with him, are you?” asks Henrietta.
“Not that much. Though I wish we could stay lovers. But I’m sure he’d never want to.”
“I think you’re right.”
“He’s too influenced by what people think.”
Click.
“That took long. Is there any hope?” says Henrietta.
“No.” It’s my voice.
“You see, I knew it.”
“Yes, I know.”
She cries. “Well, come home. It’s getting late.”
Silence.
“Okay?” she says. “Can you please bring Sara home now?”
“No,” says my voice.
“Why not?”
“You should turn on your tape recorder.”
“It’s already on.”
“You should come to the hospital. There was an accident. It’s Sara.”
“Is she all right?”
“No.” Pause. “She was hit by a car, and died instantly.” Her scream is long and deep.
The real Henrietta’s eyes are closed, but she is not asleep. Her hand is stdl inside the box, petting the braids. I bury my face in my hands.
A
n hour later, I am able to persuade her to go out for a walk. We are sdent, and we walk slowly. I am also able to persuade her to eat half of a small marzipan mushroom. We don’t go far, but an hour elapses before we are back at the house.
We go to our room and find the parrot covered in long golden threads.
“I am a dying person,” says the parrot.
I notice a white ribbon on the floor in the corner of the room and realize the parrot has found Sara’s braids, destroyed them, and tangled himself in her hair. Henrietta bends over him, touches the threads, and says, “What is this?”
I don’t answer, keep looking at the white ribbon.
“Jeremy? What do you think he’s covered with?”
I pick up the white ribbon, and I find the box, and I carefully start pulling the hairs off the parrot and putting them in the box.
Henrietta covers her eyes with one hand when she understands, then she comes down on the bird, hitting him hard. She slaps his body and the side of his wing. I’m afraid she will hurt him seriously, so I pull her away.
“He’s an asshole!” she shouts at me.
The parrot lies on the floor, motionless. He is trembling, his beak is open, and his black tongue moves in and out slightly, as though he’s panting. Some of Sara’s hair got in his mouth. His feathers are erect. I touch him lightly. He shivers. He doesn’t seem hurt, just shocked.
“You shouldn’t vent your anger on him as though he’s responsible for her death,” I tell Henrietta. “When he saw Sara’s braids, he probably thought he had found her.”
L
ater that day, Henrietta tells me, “Someone
is
responsible for her death. I can’t live with the idea that the woman who killed my daughter is living out there in the same world I’m living in and that I’m just going to keep on living in the same world as hers without
knowing
her or what kind of person she is. I will feel more complete and satisfied if I know her. I want to meet her.”
“Don’t get into this,” I tell her. “One thing might lead to another.”
“I know what you’re thinking, but you’re wrong, I think.”
“You might start hating her and wanting to harm her.”
“I knew that’s what you were thinking. And you mean harm her as in even kill her.”
“It could happen.”
“I don’t feel it will.”
“She might not want to meet with you.”
“If the parents of the girl you ran over say they want to meet you in a public place, could you refuse?”
I think for a moment. “Most people would refuse, because it wouldn’t be surprising if the parents’ only remaining desire in life is to kill the person who ran over their daughter.”
Henrietta decides to call Julie Carson anyway, the woman of the yellow car. She sets up her recording equipment. She tells me I can listen on the other phone. A woman answers on the fourth ring. I am startled to recognize her voice so clearly.
“Is this Julie Carson?” says Henrietta.
“Yes.”
“I’m the mother of the girl you killed.”
(Be direct, why don’t you.)
“Oh,” says the woman.
“I’ve been thinking a lot about you, and it would be very helpful to my mourning if I could meet with you. Just to chat and to know you a little bit.”
(Helpful to my
mourning?)
Long silence. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Please say yes. It would help my grieving.” (It would help my grieving.)
“I don’t think I can meet with you,” says the woman. “I wish I could help you in every way possible, but I cannot meet with you in person. I’m sure you understand.”
“Why? You mean for safety reasons?”
“Yes.”
“You think I’d kill you?”
(Be blunt, why not.)
“I don’t know.”
“Your address is in the phone book. If I want to, I can just wait for you outside your budding. So what difference does it make?”
(That’s it, bring out all the charm.)
“Is that what you’d do?”
Henrietta waits a moment before answering. “No. I’m just showing you that it makes no sense for you not to meet me in person.”
(Such vulnerability is sure to work.)
“I really would rather not. Also, I’ve been sick since the accident. I can’t go out. Please try to understand.”
“Perhaps I could come and visit you at home, so you don’t have to go out?”
(She couldn’t refuse
that.)
“No.”
“You don’t care very much about remedying the wrong you’ve done.”
“It was an accident.”
“I know that very well. But you don’t seem the slightest bit interested in making me feel better. Logically, you should be afraid of making me angry, because
then
you could be in danger.”
“Is that the case?”
“I
am
feeling sad and angry, but you’re not in danger.”
“Please understand.”
“I don’t want to,” says Henrietta.
“But you do, don’t you?”
“No. I don’t want to.”
The woman remains silent.
“Did you end up taking your pet to the vet to kill it?” asks Henrietta. I had told her about that.
“To put him to sleep, yes.”
“I’m surprised. I would have thought you might have changed your mind.”
“He was suffering.”