There were two husbands disappointed by eggs.
I don’t like them that way either, I said. Make your own eggs. They sighed in unison. One man was livid; one was pallid.
There isn’t a drink around here, is there? asked Livid.
Never find one here, said Pallid. Don’t look; driest damn house. Pallid pushed the eggs away, pain and disgust his escutcheon.
Livid said, Now really, isn’t there a drink? Beer? he hoped.
Nothing, said Pallid, who’d been through the pantries, closets, and refrigerators looking for a white shirt.
You’re damn right, I said. I buttoned the high button of my powder-blue duster. I reached under the kitchen table for a brown paper bag full of an embroidery which asked God to Bless Our Home.
I was completing this motto for the protection of my sons, who were also Livids. It is true that some months earlier, from a far place—the British plains in Africa—he had written hospitably to Pallid: I do think they’re fine boys, you understand. I love them too, but Faith is their mother and now Faith is your wife. I’m so much away. If you want to think of them as yours, old man, go ahead.
Why, thank you, Pallid had replied, airmail, overwhelmed. Then he implored the boys, when not in use, to play in their own room. He made all efforts to be kind.
Now as we talked of time past and upon us, I pierced the ranch house that nestles in the shade of a cloud and a Norway maple, just under the golden script.
Ha-ha, said Livid, dripping coffee on his pajama pants, you’ll never guess whom I met up with, Faith.
Who? I asked.
Saw your old boyfriend Clifford at the Green Coq. He looks well. One thing must be said—he addressed Pallid—she takes good care of her men.
True, said Pallid.
How is he? I asked coolly. What’s he doing? I haven’t seen him in two years.
Oh, you’ll never guess. He’s marrying. A darling girl. She was with him. Little tootsies, little round bottom, little tummy— she must be twenty-two, but she looks seventeen. One long yellow braid down her back. A darling girl. Stubby nose, fat little underlip. Her eyes put on in pencil. Shoulders down like a dancer . . . slender neck. Oh, darling, darling.
You certainly observed her, said Pallid.
I have a functioning retina, said Livid. Then he went on. Better watch out, Faith. You’d be surprised, the dear little chicks are hatching out all over the place. All the sunny schoolgirls rolling their big black eyes. I hope you’re really settled this time. To me, whatever is under the dam is in another county; however, in my life you remain an important person historically, he said. And that’s why I feel justified in warning you. I must warn you. Watch out, sweetheart! he said, leaning forward to whisper harshly and give me a terrible bellyache.
What’s all this about? asked Pallid innocently. In the first place, she’s settled . . . and then she’s still an attractive woman. Look at her.
Oh yes, said Livid, looking. An attractive woman. Magnificent, sometimes.
We were silent for several seconds in honor of that generous remark. Then Livid said, Yes, magnificent, but I just wanted to warn you, Faith.
He pushed his eggs aside finally and remembered Clifford. A mystery wrapped in an enigma ... I wonder why he wants to marry.
I don’t know, it just ties a man down, I said.
And yet, said Pallid seriously, what would I be without marriage? In luminous recollection—a gay dog, he replied.
At this moment, the boys entered: Richard the horse thief and Tonto the crack shot.
Daddy! they shouted. They touched Livid, tickled him, unbuttoned his pajama top, whistled at the several gray hairs coloring his chest. They tweaked his ear and rubbed his beard the wrong way.
Well, well, he cautioned. How are you boys, have you been well? You look fine. Sturdy. How are your grades? he inquired. He dreamed that they were just up from Eton for the holidays.
I don’t go to school, said Tonto. I go to the park.
I’d like to hear the child read, said Livid.
Me. I can read, Daddy, said Richard. I have a book with a hundred pages.
Well, well, said Livid. Get it.
I kindled a fresh pot of coffee. I scrubbed cups and harassed Pallid into opening a sticky jar of damson-plum jam. Very shortly, what could be read had been, and Livid, knotting the tie strings of his pants vigorously, approached me at the stove. Faith, he admonished, that boy can’t read a tinker’s damn. Seven years old.
Eight years old, I said.
Yes, said Pallid, who had just remembered the soap cabinet and was rummaging in it for a pint. If they were my sons in actuality as they are in everyday life, I would send them to one of the good parochial schools in the neighborhood where reading is taught. Reading. St. Bartholomew’s, St. Bernard’s, St. Joseph’s.
Livid became deep purple and gasped. Over my dead body. Merde, he said in deference to the children. I’ve said, yes, you may think of the boys as your own, but if I ever hear they’ve come within an inch of that church, I’ll run you through, you bastard. I was fourteen years old when in my own good sense I walked out of that grotto of deception, head up. You sonofabitch, I don’t give a damn how au courant it is these days, how gracious to be seen under a dome on Sunday . . . Shit! Hypocrisy. Corruption. Cave dwellers. Idiots. Morons.
Recalling childhood and home, poor Livid writhed in his seat. Pallid listened, head to one side, his brows gathering the onsets of grief.
You know, he said slowly, we iconoclasts ... we freethinkers . . . we latter-day Masons . . . we idealists . . . we dreamers . . . we are never far from our nervous old mother, the Church. She is never far from us.
Wherever we are, we can hear, no matter how faint, her hourly bells, tolling the countryside, reverberating in the cities, bringing to our civilized minds the passionate deed of Mary. Every hour on the hour we are startled with remembrance of what was done for us. for us.
Livid muttered in great pain, Those bastards, oh oh oh, those contemptible, goddamnable bastards. Do we have to do the nineteenth century all over again? All right, he bellowed, facing us all, I’m ready. That Newman! He turned to me for approval.
You know, I said, this subject has never especially interested me. It’s your little dish of lava.
Pallid spoke softly, staring past the arched purple windows of his soul. I myself, although I lost God a long time ago, have never lost faith.
What the hell are you talking about, you moron? roared Livid.
I have never lost my love for the wisdom of the Church of the World. When I go to sleep at night, I inadvertently pray. I also do so when I rise. It is not to God, it is to that unifying memory out of childhood. The first words I ever wrote were: What are the sacraments? Faith, can you ever forget your old grandfather intoning Kaddish? It will sound in your ears forever.
Are you kidding? I was furious to be drawn into their conflict. Kaddish? What do I know about Kaddish. Who’s dead? You know my opinions perfectly well. I believe in the Diaspora, not only as a fact but a tenet. I’m against Israel on technical grounds. I’m very disappointed that they decided to become a nation in my lifetime. I believe in the Diaspora. After all, they are the chosen people. Don’t laugh. They really are. But once they’re huddled in one little corner of a desert, they’re like anyone else: Frenchies, Italians, temporal nationalities. Jews have one hope only—to remain a remnant in the basement of world affairs—no, I mean something else—a splinter in the toe of civilizations, a victim to aggravate the conscience.
Livid and Pallid were astonished at my outburst, since I rarely express my opinion on any serious matter but only live out my destiny, which is to be, until my expiration date, laughingly the servant of man.
I continued. I hear they don’t even look like Jews anymore. A bunch of dirt farmers with no time to read.
They’re your own people, Pallid accused, dilating in the nostril, clenching his jaw. And they’re under the severest attack. This is not the time to revile them.
I had resumed my embroidery. I sighed. My needle was now deep in the clouds, which were pearl gray and late afternoon. I am only trying to say that they aren’t meant for geographies but for history. They are not supposed to take up space but to continue in time.
They looked at me with such grief that I decided to consider all sides of the matter. I said, Christ probably had all that trouble—now that you mention it—because he knew he was going to gain the whole world but he forgot Jerusalem.
When you married us, said Pallid, and accused me, didn’t you forget Jerusalem?
I never forget a thing, I said. Anyway, guess what. I just read somewhere that England is bankrupt. The country is wadded with installment paper.
Livid’s hand trembled as he offered Pallid a light. Nonsense, he said. That’s not true. Nonsense. The great British Island is the tight little fist of the punching arm of the Commonwealth.
What’s true is true, I said, smiling.
Well, I said, since no one stirred, do you think you’ll ever get to work today? Either of you?
Oh my dear, I haven’t even seen you and the boys in over a year. It’s quite pleasant and cozy here this morning, said Livid.
Yes, isn’t it? said Pallid, the surprised host. Besides, it’s Saturday.
How do you find the boys? I asked Livid, the progenitor.
American, American, rowdy, uncontrolled. But you look well, Faith. Plumper, but womanly and well.
Very well, said Pallid, pleased.
But the boys, Faith. Shouldn’t they be started on something? Just lining up little plastic cowboys. It’s silly, really.
They’re so young, apologized Pallid, the used-boy raiser.
You’d both better go to work, I suggested, knotting the pearl-gray late-afternoon thread. Please put the dishes in the sink first. Please. I’m sorry about the eggs.
Livid yawned, stretched, peeked at the clock, sighed. Saturday or no, alas, my time is not my own. I’ve got an appointment downtown in about forty-five minutes, he said.
I do too, said Pallid. I’ll join you on the subway.
I’m taking a cab, said Livid.
I’ll split it with you, said Pallid.
They left for the bathroom, where they shared things nicely—shaving equipment, washstand, shower, and so forth.
I made the beds and put the aluminum cot away. Livid would find a hotel room by nightfall. I did the dishes and organized the greedy day: dinosaurs in the morning, park in the afternoon, peanut butter in between, and at the end of it all, to reward us for a week of beans endured, a noble rib roast with little onions, dumplings, and pink applesauce.
Faith, I’m going now, Livid called from the hall. I put my shopping list aside and went to collect the boys, who were wandering among the rooms looking for Robin Hood. Go say goodbye to your father, I whispered.
Which one? they asked.
The real father, I said. Richard ran to Livid. They shook hands manfully. Pallid embraced Tonto and was kissed eleven times for his affection.
Goodbye now, Faith, said Livid. Call me if you want anything at all. Anything at all, my dear. Warmly with sweet propriety he kissed my cheek. Ascendant, Pallid kissed me with considerable business behind the ear.
Goodbye, I said to them.
I must admit that they were at last clean and neat, rather attractive, shiny men in their thirties, with the grand affairs of the day ahead of them. Dark night, the search for pleasure and oblivion were well ahead. Goodbye, I said, have a nice day. Goodbye, they said once more, and set off in pride on paths which are not my concern.
Reprinted from The Collected Stories Grace Paley.
*Grace Paley will be leading a workshop Mar 9-11, 2007.
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