Chapter 62
The end of the world as I knew it
4/16/94
Dear Frida,
I wish I wrote to you two days ago like I’d planned to do before I got sucked into The Girls of Slender Means . That would have been a cheerful letter about your mom and how life has a nice way of falling into place. But Frida, it’s not true. Muriel Spark was interrupted by a long call from Sven, and then it was time to make lunch for Stella. I thought I’d take a break from tomato pie and have some fun. I made the tater tot casserole that likes to make an appearance at family potlucks. Cream of mushroom soup and tons of gooey cheese. I thought Stella would get a kick out of that. I unfolded my little IKEA table, and a new batch of hyacinths are in bloom, so I put a purple one between our plates. I added a green salad with dried cranberries and a bottle of Gato Negro, and I could have been Laurie Colwin’s protégé if I wasn’t feeling so low.
I told Stella how Sven called because he was upset. His boss reprimanded him for overstepping bounds with some of the program’s authors by asking them to read Into the Liminal Gloaming and recommend it to their agents. He even asked Norman Mailer. Then there are the stories he keeps writing for The New Yorker . So far Chip hasn’t wanted any of them. He calls them too lugubrious. But that’s not the kick in the gut. Stella said, “What about the Thanksgiving story? That was a good one.” I didn’t know what she was talking about, and the second she realized this, I could tell something was wrong.
It makes me sick thinking about it. I just walked away and made myself a cup of chamomile tea, but it’s not helping. Sven wrote a story about our Thanksgiving weekend, and he sent it to Stella even though they’re barely friends and he knows she and I are good friends. She assumed I knew. She gave it to me at work yesterday. He made that day seem so insignificant dingy insignificant and dingy. My head is going to explode! I’d Xerox it for you but I was so furious I ran upstairs to our accounting office and shoved it in the shredder. It doesn’t matter. I can still see the words. Sludge of Jell-O! Cramped idea of family! The groan of arthritic fingers on the organ’s reluctant keys! How dare he!!! Those keys vibrated with joy when Great-Uncle Paul’s nimble fingers played “Beautiful Dreamer.” Sven was genuinely laughing WITH us when we told our family stories. I’m positive he was. So why would he Frida, you should have heard him on the phone trying to defend himself. He said he borrowed a few details to flesh out a modern-day allegory. Allegory about what?? You can guess where that question went. When he careened onto the quiet desperation highway, I slammed the phone down so hard I cracked the receiver.
I couldn’t feel my The next thing I knew I was ripping books off my shelves. My hands flew, building a nest in the middle of the floor. I curled up inside it and waited for the sobs to come, but the strangest thing happened. My ladies started rising up. Penelope, Anita, Iris, Margaret, Muriel, the Bront? sisters, Edith, MFK, Virginia, Louisa May, Madeleine, Laurie. They circled in closer and cradled me. I opened An Accidental Man and Iris said, “It is just that I am not in my right place in the universe. And if I married you, I would be increasingly not in my right place, and this would be true to eternity no matter how happy we were together.” All those nights Sven and I read to each other. Those were truly happy times, Frida. But he wasn’t my right place, was he?
Huddled inside my shelter of books, everything became clear. Sven wrote that story to prove his point. Being disappointed by the one you love is inevitable. Disappointing the one you love is inevitable. He sabotaged his own happiness to beat disappointment to the punch. Maybe not even consciously, but that might make it worse. He actually belittled Jell-O to make his life more meaningful. What kind of person has hostility toward Jell-O? He’s so damn desperate for it to mean Something that he was here on this earth. God forbid playing the organ for your sick brother-in-law might be as significant as writing a Great American Novel That Articulates The Meaning Of Life! But what if it is, Frida? Those songs transported Bumpa out of his illness, like the food you make for the Ramonas transports them out of their sorrow.
I’m a zombie. I don’t know what to do.
…And then I did it. I called Sven and told him I’m not going to New York. I deleted him from my speed-dial and erased every single one of his messages on my answering machine. There’s so much more I want to write, but I’m too sad.
Love,
Kate