But even more alarming is this: the woman who appears as her mother in these memories begins to morph into a woman resembling Sylvia – thinner and more likeably imperious, but Sylvia nonetheless. And she, Glad, is nowhere to be found. Yes, a corner of the red dress she was wearing the day of the explosion protrudes from behind the tree; possibly she can even see her transparent reflection in the rainy Bermuda car window. But she is not an active participant in these recalled scenarios with the unnerving mother / Sylvia composite, she is not a person at all. She is just a psychic recorder, an eye attached to a woundable spirit.
The lights between the oaks snap on, illuminating the drive like a smuggler’s runway, startling her. She is alone, isn’t she? Who turned on the lights? Then Glad remembers the timer she’d had the caretaker install after her brother – a drunk – drove into a tree after dinner and blamed the dark rather than the umpteen glasses of wine he’d consumed. When inebriated, her brother took to confessing amped-up, profanity- and sex-laced versions of his childhood to a painting of their mother. The painting featured their mother as a gimlet-eyed sixteen-year-old girl, one finger encased by a bulky signet ring, both hands resting over a prop book splayed in her lap.
This painting stares at Glad from the wall to her left. The prop book’s spine features a single rectangle of black; the title, though indicated by a line of white-painted switchbacks, remains maddeningly indiscernible. At just the right distance, she’d always believed, the letters would coalesce and she would be able to read the title. As a child she’d stood in front of the painting and stepped forward and backward, forward and backward, adjusting her position by fractions of inches, but no matter – the switchbacks failed to signify. What was this book her mother held for eternity? Why did it matter? Why did she need to know?
Her old frustration disentangles itself from the painting and redirects itself full-forcedly at the absent Sylvia – Sylvia whose shadow she thinks she’s spotted skittering between the oaks. She wishes Sylvia would come back, if only to tell her that her ‘need to know’ was as pointless as Glad’s need to know the title of the book in the painting. It would reveal nothing. And, what’s worse, Glad’s memories are not only opaque and meaningless, they are ultimately more boring than Trouble Astern, in which (Glad flips skimmingly ahead) people are still failing to die. Glad is half tempted to kill someone herself.
Why not? The sky has purpled behind the oak trees, the island indicated only by the faraway blinking of disembodied lights. The kids are still not home, and when they do return, Glad expects they will be drunk or high. It is the perfect time for a murder. She recalls the time when she’d been grounded for half the summer for dropping one of her mother’s diamond studs down a heater vent. She decided to run away with her best friend, and the two had canoed to a nearby island, pitched a tent, tried to build a campfire, and settled down to sleep before realizing that they were cut out for neither campfire-building nor tent-sleeping. At 3 am Glad’s friend deposited her on the beach across from her driveway. Glad expected to be met by her angry parents, but instead the beach was spookily quiet. She walked down the drive, growing increasingly panicked by the property’s creaking emptiness. She picked up a rock and cocked it overhead, planning to strike whatever bear / moose / murderer might try to attack her on the way to the house. Lamplight from the study spread like a white carpet over the lawn. Someone was awake. Her mother, no doubt.
Still terrified, she cocked the rock overhead as she opened the front door, blood thudding in her ears. She couldn’t pinpoint her nervousness; was she still in danger? Or was she the source of danger? She walked through a blue room, then a hall, then to the closed door of the study. She put her hand on the knob. Once she opened the door, there was no going back. She knew this.
She turned the knob. The door opened soundlessly. From above the high back of the armchair covered in green velvet, she could see the graying head of a woman. Glad tiptoed closer, the shadow of her arm extending across the face of her mother in the painting, then rounding the corner like a snake. The woman in the chair did not move. Glad thought she could hear the sound of snoring. How pitiful, she thought. What kind of sad old woman falls asleep at night in her reading chair? What kind of person would so willingly lose control of herself like that? Angrily, Glad raised the rock higher above her head; a sense that she is acting nobly energizes her arm, causing the muscles to tingle. She is saving this person from her own pitiful dreamy tendencies. This is not an act of murder. This is a mercy killing. Just before the rock strikes the woman’s temple, she looks into the window. The last thing Judge Gladys Parks-Schultz sees before she dies is the translucent reflection of her own sleeping face, her hands folded peacefully on top of a book whose title is inscrutable.
Puppy by George Saunders
Twice already Marie had pointed out the brilliance of the autumnal sun on the perfect field of corn, because the brilliance of the autumnal sun on the perfect field of corn put her in mind of a haunted house – not a haunted house she had ever actually seen but the mythical one that sometimes appeared in her mind (with adjacent graveyard and cat on a fence) whenever she saw the brilliance of the autumnal sun on the perfect etc., etc., and she wanted to make sure that, if the kids had a corresponding mythical haunted house that appeared in their minds whenever they saw the brilliance of the etc., etc., it would come up now, so that they could all experience it together, like friends, like college friends on a road trip, sans pot, ha ha ha!
But no. When she, a third time, said, ‘Wow, guys, check that out,’ Abbie said, ‘OK, Mom, we get it, it’s corn,’ and Josh said, ‘Not now, Mom, I’m Leavening my Loaves,’ which was fine with her; she had no problem with that, Noble Baker being preferable to Bra Stuffer, the game he’d asked for.
Well, who could say? Maybe they didn’t even have any mythical vignettes in their heads. Or maybe the mythical vignettes they had in their heads were totally different from the ones she had in her head. Which was the beauty of it, because, after all, they were their own little people! You were just a caretaker. They didn’t have to feel what you felt; they just had to be supported in feeling what they felt.
Still, wow, that cornfield was such a classic.
‘Whenever I see a field like that, guys?’ she said. ‘I somehow think of a haunted house!’
‘Slicing Knife! Slicing Knife!’ Josh shouted. ‘You nimrod machine! I chose that!’
Speaking of Halloween, she remembered last year, when their cornstalk column had tipped their shopping cart over. Gosh, how they’d laughed at that! Oh, family laughter was golden; she’d had none of that in her childhood, Dad being so dour and Mom so ashamed. If Mom and Dad’s cart had tipped, Dad would have given the cart a despairing kick and Mom would have stridden purposefully away to reapply her lipstick, distancing herself from Dad, while she, Marie, would have nervously taken that horrid plastic Army man she’d named Brady into her mouth.
Well, in this family laughter was encouraged! Last night, when Josh had goosed her with his Game Boy, she’d shot a spray of toothpaste across the mirror and they’d all cracked up, rolling around on the floor with Goochie, and Josh had said, such nostalgia in his voice, ‘Mom, remember when Goochie was a puppy?’ Which was when Abbie had burst into tears, because, being only five, she had no memory of Goochie as a puppy.
Hence this Family Mission. And as far as Robert? Oh, God bless Robert! There was a man. He would have no problem whatsoever with this Family Mission. She loved the way he had of saying ‘Ho HO!’ whenever she brought home something new and unexpected.