Tapestry of Fortunes A Novel - By Elizabeth Berg Page 0,111

folding towels while I make dinner. I like seeing the strip of light coming from under her door when I go to bed at night; it makes me, however irrationally, feel safe. We occasionally watch old black-and-white movies together late at night, sighing with equal implausibility over young Robert Mitchum, over Clark Gable. We have begun to talk like girlfriends, to reveal the small and intimate things that one collects like cards for a good hand on the way to forging a real friendship. I know that Lydia likes pea soup with the ham bone in, gin rummy, the jolting thrill of cold sheets at night, a certain brand of outrageously expensive cold cream that comes in a frosted glass jar with a pink top. She will wear only silk slips. In some ways, in such a short length of time, Lydia has become a better friend to me than Rita. But now she is going to leave. I try smiling, but I feel terrible. Abandoned again. Perhaps this will be a condition, like anemia: Chronic Abandonment.

“It won’t be for a while, Sam. I want to give you at least a month’s notice. And as I said, I’m really not completely sure, yet.”

“Well, why wouldn’t you do it?” I ask. The phone rings, and I ignore it.

“Why wouldn’t I? Oh, I don’t know. I kind of like my independence. And to tell you the truth, I’ve really enjoyed living here with you. I feel as though I’ve gotten younger, in a way. And I adore Travis—we’ve become real pals.”

“I know,” I say. Travis has been teaching Lydia to play his latest computer game. Last night, jealous, I stood in the hallway with the laundry basket on my hip, peeking into Travis’s bedroom. I saw Lydia sitting beside Travis, listening to him tell her things he had never told me. The only thing he has told me recently is that Lydia’s bird recognizes him, calls him by name whenever he speaks to it, whereas every time I say anything to it, the bird falls silent. I can’t imagine a parakeet saying, “Travis,” but never mind.

I go over to the sink, rinse out my cup. “I do wonder,” Lydia says, “if getting married at my age isn’t awfully foolish.”

“I don’t think so,” I say. “And I hope if you have a wedding, I’ll be invited.”

“Oh, of course. You and Travis. And that King fellow, I’d like him to come, too. Very pleasant man. And a wonderful cook.”

True. On a few occasions now, King has made dinner for all of us. He never measured anything, always succeeded in making something we all, even Travis, liked. Last time, King presented us with chicken roasted with some exotic herbal combination, tiny new potatoes, green beans, and a chocolate mousse pie we had all marveled at.

“You could make this,” King told me that night, watching me eat a huge second piece. “I’ll teach you.” He tells me that all the time, that I can do things. Sometimes I want to say, “It’s all right. You don’t have to say that. I’m not so sad today.” But I never do. Instead, I save his confidence in me as though his words were silver dollars, knotted in a silk scarfand kept hidden in a dresser drawer.

Travis comes into the kitchen, still sleepy-looking at ten-thirty, and heads for the cereal cabinet. “Can Mike Oberlin come over today?” He squats down to reach for Cheerios, his back to me. He needs a haircut; his pajamas are wrinkled; between the bottoms and top I can see his winter-white skin. He reminds me at this moment of a bird newly hatched from the shell. Were he younger, I would pull him onto my lap and hug him, bury my nose in his neck to breathe in the rich scent of child-sleep. Instead, I set out the milk for him, get him a bowl and a spoon, tell him of course Mike can come over. I relish these small returns to normality. I’ll be wonderful to Mike. “Wow, your mom’s cool,” Mike will say, lying on Travis’s bed with his shoes on, about which I will say nothing, not one word. “Yeah, I guess,” Travis will answer, full of pride.

Travis fixes his cereal, then heads for the family room and the television. He’ll turn on MTV, I know, and I feel the usual stab of regret that he’s not watching Sky King or Fury instead of women’s breasts shoved into leather brassieres, ravaged-looking