flynn_gillian_gone_girl (1) (858987), страница 25
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The cuckoo is also having a tough time adjusting to its new space: The littlebird lurches out drunkenly at ten minutes after the hour; seventeen minutes before;forty-one past. It emits a dying wail—coo-crrrrww—that every time brings Bleeckertrotting in from some hideaway, eyes wild, all business, his tail a bottle-brush as he tiltshis head toward the feathers and mewls.“Wow, your parents must really hate me,” Nick says whenever we’re both in earshotof the noise, though he’s smart enough not to recommend ridding ourselves of the thingjust yet. I actually want to trash it too. I am the one (the jobless) at home all day, justwaiting for its squawk, a tense moviegoer steeling myself for the next outburst from thecrazy patron behind me—both relieved (there it is!) and angry (there it is!) each time itcomes.Much to-do was made over the clock at the housewarming (oh, look at that, an antiqueclock!), which Mama Maureen Dunne insisted on.
Actually, not insisted on; Mama Modoes not insist. She simply makes things a reality by assuming they are such: From therst morning after the move, when she appeared on our doorstep with a welcome-homeegg scramble and a family pack of toilet paper (which didn’t speak well for the eggscramble), she’d spoken of the housewarming as if it were a fact. So when do you want todo your housewarming? Have you thought about who I should invite to the housewarming? Doyou want a housewarming or something fun, like a stock-the-bar party? But a traditionalhousewarming is always nice.And then suddenly there was a date, and the date was today, and Dunne family andfriends were shaking othe October drizzle from umbrellas and carefully,conscientiously wiping their feet on the oor mat Maureen had brought for us thismorning.
The rug says: All Are Friends Who Enter Here. It is from Costco. I have learnedabout bulk shopping in my four weeks as a Mississippi River resident. Republicans go toSam’s Club, Democrats go to Costco. But everyone buys bulk because—unlikeManhattanites—they all have space to store twenty-four jars of sweet pickles. And—unlike Manhattanites—they all have uses for twenty-four jars of sweet pickles. (Nogathering is complete without a lazy Susan full of pickles and Spanish olives right fromthe jar. And a salt lick.)I set the scene: It is one of those big-smelling days, when people bring the outdoorsin with them, the scent of rain on their sleeves, in their hair.
The older women—Maureen’s friends—present varying food items in plastic, dishwasher-safe containersthey will later ask to be returned. And ask and ask. I know, now, that I am supposed towash out the containers and drop each of them back by their proper homes—a Ziploccarpool—but when I rst came here, I was unaware of the protocol. I dutifully recycledall the plastic containers, and so I had to go buy all new ones. Maureen’s best friend,Vicky, immediately noticed her container was brand-new, store-bought, an imposter,and when I explained my confusion, she widened her eyes in amazement: So that’s howthey do it in New York.But the housewarming: The older women are Maureen’s friends from long-ago PTAmeetings, from book clubs, from the Shoe-Be-Doo-Be at the mall, where she spent fortyhours a week slipping sensible block heels onto women of a certain age.
(She can size afoot on sight—women’s 8, narrow!—it’s her go-to party trick.) All Mo’s friends love Nick,and they all have stories about sweet things Nick has done for them over the years.The younger women, the women representing the pool of possible Amy-friends, allsport the same bleached-blond wedge haircut, the same slip-on mules. They are thedaughters of Maureen’s friends, and they all love Nick, and they all have stories aboutsweet things Nick has done for them over the years. Most of them are out of work fromthe mall closings, or their husbands are out of work from the mall closings, so they allo er me recipes for “cheap and easy eats” that usually involve a casserole made fromcanned soup, butter, and a snack chip.The men are nice and quiet and hunker in circles, talking about sports and smilingbenevolently toward me.Everyone is nice.
They are literally as nice as they can be. Maureen, the tristate’shardiest cancer patient, introduces me to all her friends the same way you’d show o aslightly dangerous new pet: “This is Nick’s wife, Amy, who was born and raised in NewYork City.” And her friends, plump and welcoming, immediately su er some strangeTourettesian episode: They repeat the words—New York City!—with clasped hands andsay something that de es response: That must have been neat. Or, in reedy voices, theysing “New York, New York,” rocking side to side with tiny jazz hands. Maureen’s friendfrom the shoe store, Barb, drawls “Nue York Ceety! Get a rope,” and when I squint at herin confusion, she says, “Oh, it’s from that old salsa commercial!” and when I still fail toconnect, she blushes, puts a hand on my arm, and says, “I wouldn’t really hang you.”Ultimately, everyone trails o into giggles and confesses they’ve never been to NewYork.
Or that they’ve been—once—and didn’t care for it much. Then I say somethinglike: You’d like it or It’s de nitely not for everyone or Mmm, because I’ve run out of thingsto say.“Be friendly, Amy,” Nick spits into my ear when we’re re lling drinks in the kitchen(midwesterners love two liters of soda, always two liters, and you pour them into bigred plastic Solo cups, always).“I am,” I whine.
It really hurts my feelings, because if you asked anyone in that roomwhether I’d been friendly, I know they’d say yes.Sometimes I feel like Nick has decided on a version of me that doesn’t exist. Sincewe’ve moved here, I’ve done girls’ nights out and charity walks, I’ve cooked casserolesfor his dad and helped sell tickets for ra es. I tapped the last of my money to give toNick and Go so they could buy the bar they’ve always wanted, and I even put the checkinside a card shaped like a mug of beer—Cheers to You!—and Nick just gave a atbegrudging thanks. I don’t know what to do.
I’m trying.We deliver the soda pops, me smiling and laughing even harder, a vision of graceand good cheer, asking everyone if I can get them anything else, complimenting womenon ambrosia salads and crab dips and pickle slices wrapped in cream cheese wrapped insalami.Nick’s dad arrives with Go. They stand silently on the doorstep, Midwest Gothic, BillDunne wiry and still handsome, a tiny Band-Aid on his forehead, Go grim-faced, her hairin barrettes, her eyes averted from her father.“Nick,” Bill Dunne says, shaking his hand, and he steps inside, frowning at me. Gofollows, grabs Nick, and pulls him back behind the door, whispering, “I have no ideawhere he is right now, headwise. Like if he’s having a bad day or if he’s just being ajackass.
No idea.”“Okay, okay. Don’t worry, I’ll keep an eye on him.”Go shrugs pissily.“I’m serious, Go. Grab a beer and take a break. You are relieved of Dad duty for thenext hour.”I think: If that had been me, he’d complain that I was being too sensitive.The older women keep swirling around me, telling me how Maureen has always saidwhat a wonderful couple Nick and I are and she is right, we are clearly made for eachother.I prefer these well-meant clichés to the talk we heard before we got married.Marriage is compromise and hard work, and then more hard work and communication andcompromise. And then work.
Abandon all hope, ye who enter.The engagement party back in New York was the worst for this, all the guests hotwith wine and resentment, as if every set of spouses had gotten into an argument on theway to the club. Or they remembered some argument. Like Binks. Binks Moriarty, mymom’s best friend’s eighty-eight-year-old mother, stopped me at the bar—bellowed,“Amy! I must talk to you!” in an emergency-room voice. She twisted her precious ringson overknuckled ngers—twist, turn, creak—and fondled my arm (that old-person grope—cold ngers coveting your nice, soft, warm, new skin), and then Binks told me howher late husband of sixty-three years had trouble “keeping it in his pants.” Binks said thiswith one of those I’m almost dead, I can say this kind of stu grins and cataract-cloudedeyes. “He just couldn’t keep it in his pants,” the old lady said urgently, her hand chillingmy arm in a death grip.
“But he loved me more than any of them. I know it, and youknow it.” The moral to the story being: Mr. Binks was a cheating dickweasel, but, youknow, marriage is compromise.I retreated quickly and began circulating through the crowd, smiling at a series ofwrinkled faces, that baggy, exhausted, disappointed look that people get in middle age,and all the faces were like that.
Most of them were also drunk, dancing steps from theiryouth—swaying to country-club funk—and that seemed even worse. I was making myway to the French windows for some air, and a hand squeezed my arm. Nick’s mom,Mama Maureen, with her big black laser eyes, her eager pug-dog face. Thrusting a wadof goat cheese and crackers into her mouth, Maureen managed to say: “It’s not easy,pairing yourself o with someone forever.
It’s an admirable thing, and I’m glad you’reboth doing it, but, boy-oh-girl-oh, there will be days you wish you’d never done it. Andthose will be the good times, when it’s only days of regret and not months.” I must havelooked shocked—I was de nitely shocked—because she said quickly: “But then you havegood times too. I know you will. You two.
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