Don't Cry Read online

  She put her foot up on the table and drank her coffee out of a striped mug the size of a little bowl. She had to be at her job at the medical clinic in half an hour; she wasn't even late, and still, her body was racing inside. Even though she'd been at the clinic for five years, every morning her body worked like the crew of a sinking ship, when all she had to do was get out the door in the morning. This was even truer since her father had died. The death had turned her inside herself. Even when she was in public, talking to people, or driving through traffic, or carrying forms and charts and samples in the halls of the clinic, she dimly sensed the greater part of herself turned inside, like a bug tunneling in the earth with its tiny sensate legs. All through the earth was the dull roar of unknown life-forms. She could not see it or hear it as she might see and hear with her human eyes and ears, but she could feel it with her fragile insect legs.

  She finished her coffee and got out the door. Houston in the summer was terribly hot and humid, and the heat made her feel grossly physical. She gave a tiny grunt to express the feeling; it was the kind of grunt her cat made when she lay down and settled in deep. She opened her car; there were cassettes and mixed trash on the floor and the passenger seat, and she thought there was a sour smell coming from somewhere. She let the air conditioner run with the door open, sitting straight up in the seat with her legs parted wide under her tented uniform skirt.

  Across the street, there was a twenty-four-hour flower market in an open shack; she could dimly see the proprietor inside, wiping his brow with a rag. He looked like he was settled deep into something, too.

  Last night, she had dreamed of two men in a vicious fight. At first, they had been playing basketball. One of them seemed the apparent winner; he was tall, handsome, and well developed, while his opponent was short and flabby. Watching the game, Laura felt sorry for the little one. Then the game became a fight. The men rolled on the ground, beating each other. The little flabby one proved unexpectedly powerful, and soon he had the tall, handsome man pinned on the ground. As Laura watched, he pulled out a serrated knife and began to cut the top of the handsome man's skull off. The handsome man screamed and struggled. Laura ran to them and took the knife away from the small man. He pulled out another knife and tried to stab her. She cut him open from his neck to his crotch. He remained standing, but blobs of brown stuff fell from his opened body.

  Laura lit a cigarette and closed the door. Her father had been a small man. When he was younger, he would strike boxing poses in front of the mirror, jabbing at his reflection. “I could've been a bantamweight,” he'd said. “I still have some speed.”

  Laura lived in a slow, run-down neighborhood, but today there was heavy traffic. She talked to herself as she negotiated the lanes, speeding and slowing in a lulling rhythm. When she talked to herself, she often argued with an imaginary person. This time, she argued about the news story concerning the president's supposed affair with a twenty-one-year-old intern. “Personally, I don't care,” she said. “If it were rape, or if the girl were twelve, I would want him in jail. But if it's consenting adults …” Stopped at the red light, she glanced at the people waiting for a bus. They looked tenacious and stoic as a band of ragged cats, staring alertly down the street or pulled tidily into themselves, cross-legged and holding their handbags as if they were about to lick their paws. “When things are private like that, it's hard to tell what really went on between the two people anyway,” she continued. “Sometimes things that look really ugly on the outside look different when you get up close.” Or feel different.

  She had gone to see her father in the hospital in Tucson. Of the daughters, she was the last to arrive, and by the time she'd gotten there, her sisters were fighting with the doctors about their father's treatment. He was too weak to eat, so they'd stuffed tubes down his nose to feed him something called Vita Plus. “His body doesn't want it.” Her sister Donna was talking to the nurse. “It's making him worse.” It was true. As soon as Laura looked at her father, she knew he was going to die. His body was shrunken and dried, already half-abandoned; his spirit stared from his eyes as if stunned, and straining to see more of what had stunned it. “I know,” said the nurse. “I agree with you. But we have to give it to him. It's policy.”

  “Hi, Daddy,” said Laura.

  When he answered her, his voice was like a thin sack holding something live. He was about to lose the live thing, but right now he held it, amazed by it, as if he had never known it before. He said, “Good to see you. Didn't know if you'd come.”

  His words struck her heart. She knelt by the bed. “Of course I came,” she said; “I love you.”

  She paused at a crosswalk; there was a squirrel crossing the street in short, halting runs. She stopped traffic for a minute, waiting for it. A woman sitting on a public bench smiled at her approvingly In her pointy shoes, her feet were like little hooves. It made sense she was on the squirrel's side.

  They brought their father home to be cared for by hospice workers. By that time, he was emaciated and filled with mucus that he could not discharge through his throat or nose. It ran out of his nostrils sometimes, but mostly they heard it, rattling in his lungs. He couldn't eat anything and he didn't talk much. Because he was too fragile to share a bed with their mother, they put him in the guest bedroom, in a big soft bed with a dust ruffle. The sun shining in the window made his skin so transparent that the veins on his face seemed part of his skin. He blinked at the sun like a turtle. They took turns sitting with him. Laura stroked his arm with her fingertips, barely grazing his fragile skin. When she did that, he said, “Thank you, honey.” He had not called her that since she was a little girl.

  When the hospice workers had to turn him, he got angry; his skin had become so thin that his bones felt sharp, and it hurt him to be moved. “No, leave me alone. I don't care, I don't care.” He would frown and even slap at the workers, and, in the fierce knit of his brow and his blank, furious eyes, Laura remembered him as he had been, twenty-five years ago. He'd been standing in the dining room and she was walking by him and he'd said, “What're you doing walking around showing your ass? People'll think you're selling it.” She had been wearing flowered pants that were tight in the seat and crotch.

  She arrived at the clinic early and got a good place in the parking garage. On the way up to the seventeenth floor, she shared the elevator with Dr. Edwina Ramirez, whom she liked. They had once had a conversation in the break lounge, during which they both revealed that they didn't want to have children. “People act like there's something wrong with you,” said Dr. Ramirez. “Don't they know about overpopulation? I mean yeah, there's biology. But there're other ways to be a loving person.” She had quickly bent to take her candy bar out of the machine. “You know what I mean?”

  Ever since then, Laura had felt good around Dr. Ramirez. Every time she saw her, she thought “ways to be a loving person.” She thought it as they rode up in the elevator together, even though the doctor stood silently frowning and smoothing her skirt. When they got to their floor, Dr. Ramirez said, “See you,” and gave Laura a half smile as they strode in opposite directions.

  Laura went to the lounge to get a coffee. Some other technicians and a few nurses were sitting at the table eating doughnuts from a box. Newspapers with broad grainy pictures of the White House intern lay spread out on the table. In one of the pictures, the girl posed with members of her high school class at the prom. She stood very erect in a low-cut dress, staring with focused dreaminess at a spot just past the camera.

  “She's a porker,” said a tech named Tara. “Just look at her.”

  Laura lingered at the little refrigerator, trying to find the carton of whole milk. Everybody else used 2 percent.

  “It makes me sympathize with him,” said a nurse. “He could have anybody he wanted, and he picks these kinds of girls. Definitely not models or stars.”

  “That makes you sympathize? I think that makes it more disgusting.”

  “But it might not be. It might me
an he wants somebody to be normal with. Like somebody who's totally on his side who he can, like, talk about baseball with.”

  “What? Are you nuts? She was a homely girl sucking his dick!”

  Laura had to settle for edible oil creamers. She took a handful, along with a pocketful of sugars and a striped stir stick. She walked down the empty hall whispering, “Ugly cunt, ugly cunt.”

  The day they brought their father home, the plumbing in the bathroom backed up. Sewage came out of the bathtub drain; water seeped into the chenille tapestry their mother had put up around the window. It was like snot was everywhere.

  Laura lay with Anna Lee on the foldout couch in the living room. She and Anna Lee had slept close together in the same bed until Laura was fifteen and Anna Lee thirteen. Even when they got separate beds, they sometimes crept in together and cuddled. Now they lay separate even in grief.

  Anna Lee was talking about her six-year-old, Fred, an anxious, overweight child with a genius IQ. The kid couldn't make friends; he fought all the time and usually lost. He'd set his room on fire twice. She was talking about a psychiatrist she had taken him to see. In the light from the window, Laura could see her sister's eyelashes raising and lowering with each hard, busy blink. She could smell the lotion Anna Lee used on her face and neck. The psychiatrist had put Fred on a waiting list to go to a special school in Montana, a farm school with llamas the children could care for and ride on.

  “I hope it helps,” said Laura.

  There was a long silence. Laura could feel Anna Lee's body become fractionally softer and more open, relaxing and concentrating at the same time. Maybe she was thinking of Fred, how he might get better, how he might grow happy and strong. Laura had met the child only once. He'D frowned at her and looked down at the broken toy in his hand, but there was curiosity in his mien, and he was quick to look up again. He was already fat and already bright; he seemed too sorrowful and too angry for such a young child.

  “I had a strange thought about Daddy,” she said.

  Anna Lee didn't answer, but Laura could feel her become alert. Even in the dark, her eyes looked alert. Laura knew she should stop, but she didn't. “It was more a picture in my head,” she continued. “It was a picture of a woman's naked body that somebody was slashing with a knife. Daddy wasn't in the picture, but—”

  “Oh for crying out loud!” Anna Lee put her hands over her face and turned away. “Just stop. Why don't you just stop.”

  “But I didn't mean it to be—”

  “He's not your enemy now,” said Anna Lee. “He's dying.”

  Her voice was raw and hard; she thrust it at Laura like a stick. Laura pictured her sister at twelve, yelling at some mean boys who'd cornered a cat. She felt loyalty and love. “I'm sorry,” she said.

  Anna Lee reached back and patted Laura's stomach with her fingers and half her palm. Then she withdrew into her private curl.

  Laura lay awake through the night. Anna Lee moved and scratched herself and spoke in urgent, slurred monosyllables. Laura thought of their mother, alone upstairs in the heavy sleep brought on by barbiturates. Tomorrow, she would be at the stove, boiling Jell-O in case her husband would eat it. She didn't really believe he was dying. She knew it, but she didn't believe it anyway.

  Carefully, Laura got out of bed. She walked through the dark house until she came to her father's room. She heard him breathing before her eyes adjusted to the light. His breath was like a worn-out moth feebly beating against a surface. She sat in the armchair beside his bed. The electric clock said it was 4:30. A passing car on the street filled the room with a yawning sweep of light. The wallpaper was covered with yellow flowers. Great-Aunt's old dead clock sat on the dresser. Great-Aunt was her father's aunt, who had raised him with yet another aunt. Two widowed aunts and a little boy with no father. Laura could see the boy standing in the parlor, all his brand-new life coursing through his small, stout legs and trunk. The dutiful aunts, busy with housekeeping and food, didn't notice it. In his head was a new solar system, crackling with light as he created the planets, the novas, the sun and the moon and the stars. “Look!” he cried. “Look!” The aunts didn't see. He was all alone.

  Another car went by. Her father muttered and made noises with his mouth.

  No wonder he hated them, thought Laura. No wonder.

  Behind the reception desk, there were two radios playing different stations for each secretary. One played frenetic electronic songs, the other formula love songs, and both ran together in a gross hash of sorrow and desire. This happened every day by around 1:00 p.m. Faith, who worked behind the desk, said it was easy to separate them, to just concentrate on the one you wanted. Laura, though, always heard both of them jabbering every time she walked by the desk.

  “Alice Dillon?” She spoke the words to the waiting room. A shabby middle-aged man eyed her querulously A red-haired middle-aged woman put down her magazine and approached Laura with a mild, obedient air. Alice was in for a physical, so Laura had to give her a preliminary before the doctor examined her. First, they stopped at the scale outside the office door; Alice took off her loafers, her socks, and her sweater to shave off some extra ounces. A lot of women did that, and it always seemed stupid to Laura. “Five four, one hundred and twenty-six pounds,” she said loudly.

  “Shit,” muttered Alice.

  “Look at the bright side,” said Laura. “You didn't gain since last time.”

  Alice didn't reply, but Laura sensed an annoyed little buzz from her. She was still buzzing slightly as she sat in the office; even though she was small and placid, it struck Laura that she gave off a little buzz all the time. She was forty-three years old, but her face was unlined and her eyes were wide and receptive, like a much younger person's. Her hair was obviously dyed, like a teenager would do it. You could still tell she was middle-aged, though.

  She didn't smoke, she exercised three times a week, and she drank twice weekly, wine with dinner. She was single. Her aunt had diabetes and her mother had ovarian cancer. She had never had an operation, or been hospitalized. Her periods were regular. She had never had any sexual partners. Laura blinked.

  “Never?”

  “No,” said Alice. “Never.” She looked at Laura as if she was watching for a reaction, and maybe holding back a smile.

  Her blood pressure was excellent. Her pulse rate was average.

  Laura handled her wrist and arm with unusual care. A forty-three-year-old virgin. It was like looking at an ancient sacred artifact, a primitive icon with its face rubbed off. It had no function or beauty but it still felt powerful when you touched it. Laura pictured Alice walking around with a tiny red flame in the pit of her body protecting it with her fat and muscle, carefully dyeing her hair, exercising three times a week, and not smoking.

  When the doctor examined Alice, Laura felt tense as she watched, especially when he did the gynecological exam. She noticed that Alice gripped her paper gown in the fingers of one hand when the doctor sat between her legs. He had to tell her to open her legs wider three times. She said, “Wait, I need to breathe,” and he waited a second or two. Alice breathed with her head sharply turned, so that she stared at a corner of the ceiling. There was a light sweat on her forehead.

  When she changed back into her clothes, though, she moved like she was in a women's locker room. She got up from the table and took off the paper gown before the doctor was even out of the room.

  “She's probably really religious, or maybe she's crazy.” That's what Sharon, the secretary, thought. “In this day and age? She was probably molested when she was little.”

  “I don't know,” said Laura. “I respected it.”

  Sharon shrugged. “It takes all kinds.”

  She imagined her father looking at the middle-aged virgin and then looking away with an embarrassed smile on his face. He might think about protecting her, about waving at her from across the street, saying, “Hi, how are you?” sending protection with his words. He could protect her and still keep walking, smiling
to himself with embarrassed tenderness. He would have a feeling of honor and frailty but there would be something sad in it, too,

  because she wasn't young. Laura remembered a minor incident in a novel she had read by a French writer, in which a teenage boy knocked an old nun off a bridge. Her habit was heavy and so she drowned, and the writer wondered, with a stupid sort of meanness, Laura thought, if the nun had felt shocked to have her genitals touched by the cold water. She remembered a recent news story about a nut job who had kidnapped a little girl so that he could tie her to a tree and set a fire around the tree. Then he went to his house to watch through binoculars as she burned. Fortunately, a neighbor called the police and they got there in time.

  Instead of going back to the waiting room, she went to the public bathroom and leaned against the small windowsill with her head in her hands. She was forty; she tried to imagine what it would be like to be a virgin. She imagined walking through the supermarket, encased in an invisible membrane that was fluid but also impenetrable, her eyes wide and staring like a doll's. Then she imagined her virginity like a strong muscle between her legs, making all her other muscles strong, making everything in her extra alive, all the way up through her brain and into her bones.

  She lifted her head and looked out the small window. She saw green grass and the tops of trees, cylindrical apartment buildings and traffic. She had not wanted her virginity She'd had to lose it with three separate people; her hymen had been stubborn and hard to break.

  She brushed the dust and particles from the windowsill off her elbows. “I was a rebellious girl,” she said, “and I went in a stupid direction.”

  She thought of the Narcotics Anonymous meetings she had attended some years ago. People talked about the things that had happened to them, the things they had done on drugs. Nothing was too degrading or too pathetic or too dull. Laura had talked about trying to lose her virginity. Her friend Danielle had told a story about how she'd let a disgusting fat guy whom she hated try to shove a can of root beer up her vagina because, he'd suggested, they might be able to fill cans with heroin and smuggle them.