How It Ended: New and Collected Stories - By Jay McInerney Page 0,60
the staff were strictly forbidden to enter the master wing between two and four, and her mother inevitably emerged from her “nap” all glowing and kittenish.
After Hunt collapsed on the fourteenth hole at Belle Meade in the middle of one of his famous tantrums, Sybil seemed to shrink and fade. Faye had come home for the funeral and stayed as long as she could bear it. Though she knew she should feel greater sympathy for her mother and greater grief for her father, at that time all she could think about was getting back to her life in New York. But in the intervening years something within her had changed. Maybe she was simply tired of running. Or maybe her mother's helplessness, along with her brother's eagerness to stick her in a nursing home, had finally awakened her sense of filial duty.
When her brother arrived with the U-Haul that evening, she saw the car and trailer from her room upstairs and went down to confront him. He was in the entry hall with Walter, his longtime yardman, and they were examining the grandfather clock in the entry hall. He looked up, surprised, not having heard her descend the carpeted stairway. “Sis, you scared the shit out of me. Whatever brings you here?”
“Mainly the fact that Momma had a stroke.”
“It's a damn shame is what it is,” he said. “But I can't say it's a surprise. I saw this coming a mile away. She's been failing for the past year. I talked to the doctor this morning and he says she needs full-time care.” Faye had forgotten how much she disliked his voice, the lazy pace and occasional crackerisms. Neither of their parents had ever spoken like that. But despite the trips to Europe and four years at a boarding school in Connecticut, Jimmy had somehow managed to become a good old boy, the kind of guy who attended cockfights and tossed the N word around. Perhaps that was his way of rebelling against his heritage and upbringing.
“Well, I'm here now. And she's got Martha.”
“Well, sure, but what happens when you skip back to New York? I'm talking about professional care. What she needs is a real facility.”
“I'm not skipping back to New York. And Momma doesn't want to go to a home. She's already got one.”
“You're going to take care of her? Come on, now, sis. When did you get so damn interested? I can't even remember the last time you visited.”
“It was last Christmas, actually.”
“Well, we're deeply honored to have you back.”
“What are you doing with the clock?”
“Just going to have it fixed. Damn thing hasn't worked right in years.”
She watched as they wrestled the clock out the front door, feeling paralyzed and impotent, as if stuck in one of those dreams where speech wouldn't come. After all these years, she was still intimidated by her brother. He was twelve years older and had always treated her like a child, with a mixture of sarcasm and condescension. He had once, when Faye was seven, stuffed her beloved cat Twinkie in the dryer and turned it on, forcing her to watch as the terrified cat tumbled through what seemed to her like a hundred revolutions, until her screams finally brought Martha to the rescue. She watched now as the car rolled away down the long gravel drive, furious with herself for letting him steal the clock.
Over the years in New York, Faye spoke with her mother weekly and even more often with Martha, the housekeeper who had lived with the family for more than forty years and who had originally served as Faye's nanny. Sybil, she'd said, was living increasingly in the past, even before this latest stroke. The physical effects were blessedly minimal; she retained most of her mobility and speech. The doctors were less certain about her mental processes, though reluctant to speculate.
“But there's no reason we can't take care of her at home, is there?” “She needs to be watched pretty closely,” Dr. Cheek said. “I'd recommend hiring a nurse, at least for the first few weeks. But at this time I see no need for institutional care.”
“I'd be happy to stop by and check up on her,” the younger, good-looking doctor said. He seemed to be flirting, but she had to remind herself that this wasn't New York, that the mean temperature of normal social interactions was much warmer here. Quite possibly, Dr. Harrington was simply demonstrating the dedication and concern appropriate to his profession. Faye