The Book Borrower (36 page)

—It stopped, she said, though wet customers shook umbrellas for another hour.

When Ruben left the store in the dark, at last, at six o'clock—no rain at all; it was clear and cold and starry—Mary Grace was leaning against her car while Granny sniffed yellow leaves at the edge of the parking lot behind the store.

—You walked all this way?

—We're a good team.

—What if I'd left early?

—We'd have walked back.

—Granny's old.

—She did fine.

Driving home, Ruben was sorry she hadn't been more enthusiastic. She had been looking forward to seeing Mary Grace, but not just yet. She said, You're not a vegetarian, are you?

—Sometimes I am.

—Are you tonight?

—I'm not too hungry. I ate the leftovers from last night.

—Look, is chicken all right?

—Chicken is fine. Don't worry about me. I can always have cereal.

—Everybody I know lives on cereal.

—Peter and me?

—Berry, too.

—Oh, said Mary Grace, I miss that old Cooper! Let's take Dad to see her tonight. He called. He wants to do it. I forgot to say.

—I'm bringing a lawyer to see you, Ruben said on the phone to Berry, while Mary Grace set the table.

—You are suing me?

—No. I think you need a will.

—I am interested in prosecuting your son, Berry said hoarsely.

—You can tell the lawyer about it.

After dinner Mary Grace put the dishes on the floor for Granny to lick.

—We'll step on them and break them, Ruben said.

—No, we won't! Mom always does this. Did this. Don't you?

—I scrape the stuff into her bowl.

—No, this way you don't have to scrape them. You can put them right into the dishwasher.

Harry said, This one looks perfectly clean. Maybe we should just put it into the cupboard. The wrinkles around his eyes were more widely separated. He watched Mary Grace expectantly, as if she were a performer. He had an evening meeting to go to, but he lingered, then hurried. Now Ruben would have liked being alone longer with Mary Grace, cleaning the kitchen properly, then talking long about Deborah, about Peter, until maybe they'd figure out where Peter might be. They'd simply get into the car and go look for him. But you have to go in a direction. Mary Grace moved around her kitchen, undeniably there. It was a start.

The doorbell rang. On the step, bulky with sorrow, stood Jeremiah, with a briefcase. You coming, too? he said to his daughter.

—Berry Cooper's a friend of mine.

—You knew her, too? I search for twenty-five years and when everybody finds her nobody bothers to tell me?

—I didn't know you cared about her, Pop, said Mary Grace. And Toby forgot.

—I'm sorry, Jeremiah, Toby Ruben said. He drove and she directed him. She said, It was a long time ago, when we used to talk about her.

At Berry's house, Jeremiah said twice, It's like anybody's house. He squeezed into a small parking space, jumped out, and then dropped back, letting Ruben lead the way. Mary Grace, though, hurried ahead of them both and rang the door-bell. When Jeremiah caught up to her he made a whoosh, like a heavy man, though he wasn't, really. As usual, Berry didn't answer the bell and they went inside, where Jeremiah studied the dusty sculptures like someone in a museum.

—I'll look for her, Ruben said, but then came a tread on the stairs. They waited awkwardly, silently, standing in the hallway and looking up as her feet and then the rest of Berry slowly appeared. Her feet and legs were bare. She was not otherwise bare; she wore the pink housedress, though the day was cold, and the three of them looking up at her were in coats. Berry had more of a humpback than Ruben had noticed before. Her face, with its bulging eyes, was stubborn and passionate. The face was deeply lined, covered with creases and tiny wrinkles. The hair stuck out, as always. More white hairs grew from the moles on Berry's face. The housedress had a food stain on the front.

—I'm busy, said Berry. She stood on the bottommost step with her hand on the newel post.

—Remember me, Berry? said Mary Grace. I'm Peter's girl-friend.

—Did you bring back my car?

—No, the car's not working so well.

—Who is this man, a veterinarian? said Berry.

Ruben introduced Jeremiah. He said, It's an honor to meet you, Mrs. Cooper. I've been wanting to meet you for many years.

—My dog died, Berry said.

—I'm sorry to hear that, said Jeremiah.

It was stuffy in the hallway. Ruben looked around for a window. Her feet hurt. Can we come in? she said. I want you to talk to Jeremiah. He's a lawyer, not a vet.

—Oh, yes, so you said. Well, if this young woman will bring back the car, I don't need to sue anybody.

—You need a will, said Jeremiah.

—A will? I'm an anarchist. Anarchists don't have wills.

—I would imagine, Jeremiah said, leaning back on his heels, which put the back of his head, Ruben saw, against the dusty wall, I would imagine that anarchists have more wills than other people. If you don't have a will, your possessions could end up going to the state. Do you want to support our nefarious government? Help Toby's husband put tennis courts in the park for vandals to destroy? Jeremiah was having a good time. Berry said, I suppose you want me to leave you my money, Toby Ruben.

—Of course not!

—That would be a conflict of interest. I would be unable to represent you in that situation, Jeremiah said. Do you know to whom you want to leave your money? And could I ask you another question, maybe more important? Do you have a living will?

—A paper that gives you the right to put me to death if I'm troublesome. The big square grin.

—Not at all. A paper that protects you from idiot doctors who want to torture you with futile medicine to drive up your hospital bill, said Jeremiah promptly.

—Oh, I do see what you mean. Berry loved that. She said, Let's talk about my death, shall we? Can you get me a good death? Do you know there was talk of putting me to death in the electric chair at one time?

Jeremiah stepped sideways and bumped into Ruben. I do know that. I do know. I've read the book. The book your sister wrote.

—She has a copy.

—Who does?

—Jeremiah, I do, Ruben said. I have your copy.

—Didn't we figure out years ago that you didn't? Jeremiah said.

—But I do. Berry, could we please sit down someplace?

Berry ignored her. She seemed to like receiving them from the first step, one hand on the newel post. I may have a copy myself, she said. My sister sent me a signed copy when it was published.

—Berry, said Ruben, did you ever call her?

—It was her place to call me.

—But Berry, said Ruben. Berry.

—She called me Jessie. My name was Gussie. She got many things wrong.

—But she was remembering, forty years later. Books like that are always wrong.

—Then why pay attention to them? said Berry.

They couldn't get out of the corridor. They didn't run out of topics, though it took Jeremiah a long time to bring out a legal pad and start leaning on the wall and taking notes for Berry's living will, her last will and testament, and her power of attorney. Mary Grace, in the end, received Berry's power of attorney. Berry insisted.

Jeremiah got tired of leaning on the wall. Now he lifted one foot to the step where Berry stood and leaned on his knee to write. He looked like a fat suitor paying court to her.

—I leave my money and my furniture and my house and my works of art, Berry suddenly dictated, slowly and loudly, to Peter.

—To Peter? Are you sure? said Jeremiah. You mean Peter Ruben? Toby's son?

—To Peter. But not my car. He owes me for the car.

Jeremiah wrote it all down. I'll call an associate in on this, he said. He asked many questions. Ruben was impressed. Berry said Peter appreciated her work. He had cleaned it, arranged it, and talked to her about it. He would come back. Berry said, Peter is my final boyfriend. You think he is your boyfriend, she said to Mary Grace, but he's mine. I'm too used to being selfish, at my age, to be nice to you about it. She laughed her horrible braying, raucous laugh at them all.

Ruben could smell something terrible. Berry obviously didn't bathe. She remembered the dog, but it couldn't be the dog. It was a scorched smell. Then came a bad, sudden noise. They were released. They ran up the stairs past Berry, who was making her way hand over hand. She had been boiling an egg and it had finally exploded. It was smeared on the wall. The saucepan was scorched. Now, released from the corridor at last, they bumped into one another, opening windows, carrying the pot outdoors. Berry was still coming upstairs, protesting and being important. She said, You owe me a pot and an egg.

—Definitely, said Jeremiah.

By now it was late. The single lightbulb in the kitchen made it seem later than it had seemed in that corridor. Ruben didn't want to look at her watch. She said, Was that your supper? Was that egg going to be your whole supper?

—Looks that way, doesn't it? Berry said.

At last they got her into a sweater and shoes, then out of the house, and they all drove to the International House of Pan-cakes, where they bought her an omelet and everybody had something. They sat in the warmth like four happy friends. Berry said, Toby, will you help me wash my hair?

—I will, said Toby gladly, and it seemed like the end of a story, but wasn't, for Jeremiah, who was drinking cup after cup of coffee from the Never Empty pot, said in a voice that irked Ruben, Deborah and I used to come here with the kids all the time. It was a lot cheaper then. And they ate so little! They ate so little!

—Well, we were babies, said Mary Grace.

—That's right.

—I remember wanting my own dinner and always having to share with Rose, she said.

—Oh, no, said Jeremiah. You hardly ate anything. We'd give you one pancake and you'd sit there delicately eating around the edges.

—But later. Later I wanted my own. Maybe even earlier I wanted my own, to feel big. You could have bought me my own!

And Jeremiah gave way instantly. Oh, I should have, I should have. Everything would be different now.

—It's okay, Pop. Now Mary Grace sounded embarrassed.

—No, I should have. If I'd known what would happen.

—If you'd known Mama would die, you'd have bought me my own dinner? That doesn't make sense.

Berry seemed to be ignoring them, vigorously eating a big cheese omelet with potatoes and toast, while Mary Grace, who hadn't eaten much dinner, had pancakes with strawberries and fake whipped cream, and Ruben drank tea.

Jeremiah poured himself more coffee, and Ruben wanted to stop him, as if he were drunk. He went to the men's room, and shuffled back. Why do we make so many mistakes? he said in a quavering voice and Ruben found that she hated him, though she and Jeremiah had certainly both made plenty of mistakes.

But she argued herself into politeness. She said, Oh, I know. I wake up thinking of Deborah. Every day I revise time I spent with her. Every day.

—Boy, I don't do that, Mary Grace said. I try to remember everything exactly the way it was.

—I'm always changing things, said Ruben.

—Changing the past, Berry said with her mouth full. Now that's a human failing!

Feeling criticized, Ruben got angry. Do you want something else to eat, Berry? she said—to make Berry feel like a child being taken by parents for a treat.

—I'm buying all of you dinner tonight, Berry said. I have a credit card. You can pay for this, and I'll pay next time.

As if they'd be together, this bad group of four, forever. As if this were breakfast, instead of a late-night snack, or Berry's dinner. Was it after midnight? Ruben wouldn't look.

—Now, your sort of work, Jeremiah said to Berry. It must have kept you up late very often. Am I right? Don't artists work in the night? Poking holes in pieces of stone in the middle of the night? Eh?

—When a sculpture of mine fell through the floor, said Berry, it killed a man and his lover making love in his bed. It wasn't that late, not later than twelve or one. They hadn't stayed up all night, you see. Neither had I. I was on top of the sculpture. I suppose it was my weight plus its weight that broke through the floor. Beautiful Italian marble. Didn't often get that. I'd won something, to get it. We were able to salvage it. It was cracked, but I worked that in. I sprained my ankle.

—They died? They really died? said Jeremiah, though Ruben was certain she'd made it up.

—Death is a fact of life, Berry said.

—Tell me about it, Jeremiah said bitterly, pouring himself more coffee from the new pot the waitress had brought. He spilled it over his hand. Then he sat back in his chair, wiping his hand on a napkin and shaking his head back and forth.