The Global Idea of ‘The Commons’. Отсутствует
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solutions. Above all, we must have faith in God. I believe with all my heart that God loves this nation and will not abandon it. Faith is the only thing that will get us through this.”
A scattering of the usual commercials were aired between repetitions of his speech. Local, not yet deleted: Buy three tires and get one free. End of summer swimsuit sale. Weight reduction guaranteed or your money back.
* * * *
Hedy and Robert lay on their bed in silence. They held each other for a while, but soon became slippery with perspiration. Enveloped in a crushing exhaustion, they lay separately. Alone––minds blank––almost indifferent.
They were wakened by the sound of the children talking. As Robert groped for the flashlight, he felt an icy draft snake its way across the floor.
He looked at his watch. Nine-twenty in the morning, and the world was black as pitch. He swung the beam up toward the door. Two shivering children, wrapped in blankets, stared back at him.
“Maybe the sun fell into the ocean,” Robbie said, unblinking.
METAMORPHOSIS, by Bev Rees
A large-boned woman, with a rather handsome face, stood admiring the display strewn across the drain board. Golden carrots with lacy tops intact. Dark green kale. Three waxy red tomatoes and a flawless purple eggplant. Encouraged by the silence, a wall clock ticked the seconds forcefully. A portly orange tomcat, exhausted by a night of love, padded into the kitchen. He rubbed against the woman’s legs. She glanced down at him and smiled. “Does Valentino want his breakfy?”
An avid gardener and sometime painter, Kitty Smallwood had always liked the idea of vegetables. Fruits and vegetables artfully arranged. She painted mostly for her friends, gifts for their lovely Connecticut kitchens; country kitchens designed by interior decorators. Exquisite little paintings that sold well at county fairs and church bazaars. It never went any further than that, though everyone agreed she had a talent for it. The truth was, Kitty had absolutely no ambition, and consequently did not apply herself.
As soon as the crocuses poked through, and the air took on that soily-mulchy fragrance, Kitty abandoned her brushes. It was mucking about in the garden she loved most. She’d make tiny depressions in the rich dark loam, and gently set in the baby lettuces she had started under glass. She’d pull the soil up carefully around their tiny necks, much like tucking them in bed, she often mused.
* * * *
Kitty’s life was secure and comfortable. A large Cape Cod, circa 1880, several cats that liked to sit on laps, and a cheerful golden retriever named Geraldine. And, well-screened from cranky neighbors and their silly zoning laws, five gorgeous Hampshire hens. Though a vegetarian, she justified the eating of those lovely pale brown eggs. It somehow seemed so natural. Besides, she reasoned, if nobody ate eggs, those charming feathery creatures would cease to be, and that to her mind, would be unacceptable.
In her youth she had been, I guess you’d have to say it, a hippie. It came so easily to her. The peasanty costumes, the free flowing locks, the trekking around Nepal with a backpack. And all that lovely pot, yes, she remembers that, and numerous sexual encounters deeply buried in her psyche. Secrets she thought prudent to keep well hidden, even from herself.
But that was then, and now was now, and it was permissible to wear her graying hair in one long braid in the garden. And as freewheeling as she was by nature, she was not altogether dismissive of current expectations. Consequently, every day at four or so, her muddy overalls got relegated to the potting shed, and after a leisurely scented soak she donned the compulsory low-slung jumper and a pair of Swedish clogs. She then disciplined her hair into a kind of upward backward twist, resembling a fresh baked challah. Most of her acquaintances––it would be false to call them friends––wore their hair in pricey cuts. And though they were somewhat amused at Kitty’s old-fashioned notions, they were largely tolerant. And soon she’d hear Ben come up the driveway, the wheels crunching yellow gravel. Everything so safe, so predictable, as through the door he’d come with: “Where’s my Kitty Cat?”
The most objectionable thing about Ben was his carnivorous nature. Oh, she had known, she had known. Foot long hot dogs smothered in mustard, raw oysters by the dozen throbbing still with life, and oozing prime rib, barely warmed. She excused all this because he was, by God, a dentist. No longer young, that’s true, but still attractive.
And Kitty? She had been a recovering hippie at that time, dabbling around in interior decoration. And, as luck would have it, Ben walked into the fabric shop one day and became absolutely besotted with her freckled easy-going ways; perhaps because she was the direct opposite of him in almost every way. Feeling that her prospects were anything but stellar, she decided she had better go for it.
The first three years they lived in a rather swell apartment on the upper West Side of Manhattan, and it damn near suffocated her. Hadn’t she warned him she was not a city girl? When she became downright despondent, he said, “All right, Kitty, go out to the suburbs and find something nice. But please, not Jersey. That’s too close to my brother Jerry.”
She found a lovely old Cape Cod, long neglected, and Ben spent a pile pulling it together––and here she was giving him his daily peck on the cheek. Soon the barbecue would be fired up for his half pound of flesh, and she would arrange the steamers for her veggies, and life was so peaceful, wasn’t it––and dry martinis in the pleasant garden. Not to mention her gleaming perfect teeth.
Kitty spent her days deadheading roses, and in winter she and Geraldine took long snowy walks, and basically, that’s all she needed. The talk of children never intruded on their conversations, perhaps because Ben thought it was too late in the day to start a family. And possibly because he was so awfully busy.
That was just fine with Kitty. She had never pictured herself burping squalling babies and wiping tender bums. Her mother seemed to have detested children. Come to think of it, her mother seemed to have detested her. So Kitty figured, at times a little wistfully, that no maternal genes had passed her way. Any stirrings in that direction had been promptly buried next to her youthful indiscretions.
And Ben? What he needed was a wife, a replacement for a former one. Someone there when he came home. Someone who appreciated his substantial paycheck and didn’t complain about his evenings locked away with his rare coin and stamp collection. Someone by his side at office parties, cooperative in bed, but not too demanding. And by all accounts they suited each other perfectly.
* * * *
Then one fateful night, when the frogs were croaking like an ancient chorus, the telephone shattered life as they knew it.
“Jerry’s dead,” Ben announced, his face as white as flour.
“What?”
“My brother Jerry. He’s dead.”
“Oh dear God! I can’t believe it. Who called?”
“Silverman. Along the Palisades Parkway. Apparently he was speeding, lost control, crashed into a guardrail and flipped. But Christ, he had to have that damn high-powered Ferrari, didn’t he?”
“Oh Ben, how awful. How very awful. But where’s Paul?”
“Paul’s with Esther, Kitty. He’s with Esther.”
* * * *
Ben kept putting off a discussion about Paul. Finally, on the way to the funeral, at the eleventh hour so to speak, he was forced to muster up some courage.
“Kitty Cat, you understand, I will have to see to Paul.”
“What do you mean––see to?”
“Well, the truth is he has nowhere to go now, does he? You know the situation.”
Kitty’s heart sank. “I thought you said he was with Esther.”
“Sweet Baby, you and I both know he can’t stay with Esther. Didn’t I tell you just last week? She’s been searching for a retirement home for some time now. Oh Kitty Cat, why don’t you ever pay attention? You know full