Donna said, “Nice place.”
“No it’s not.”
“Yes it is.”
“It’s adequate.”
“I think it’s nice.”
“Are those the files Liam asked me to pick away at?”
“These?” She’d forgotten about them while she was doing her sweep. “Yes, they are. Nothing too complex, I hope. You must be kind of wooey from the drugs.” She put the files on the dining table.
“Would you like some?”
She was shocked. “What—your drugs?”
“I was just kidding.”
“Oh.” She fished around for something to say, but my condo was almost entirely devoid of conversation fodder. On the TV screen she saw Thumper frozen on PAUSE. “You’re watching Bambi, huh?”
I tried to be chatty. “You know, I’m thirty-six and I’ve never seen it before.”
“It’s so depressing. You know—Mrs. Bambi being shot and all.”
This surprised me. “I didn’t know that.”
“You didn’t know? Everybody knows that Bambi’s mother gets shot. It’s like Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer—part of the culture.”
I considered this. “You mean Rudolph the Useful Reindeer.”
“Huh?”
“Let’s be honest, if Rudolph hadn’t been able to help the other reindeer, they’d have left him to the wolves—and laughed while the fangs punctured his hide.”
“That’s a grim way of looking at it.”
I sighed and stared at the files Donna had brought me.
She changed the subject. She nodded at a Monet print of lilies at Giverny beside the kitchen. “Nice poster.”
“My sister gave it to me.”
“It suits you.”
“It was left over when she redecorated her office.”
Donna blew a fuse. “Liz, why do you have to be so negative? This is a great place. You ought to be happy with it. I live in a dump, and the rent’s half my salary.”
“Can I make you some coffee?”
“No, thanks. I have to head back to the office.”
“You sure?”
“I have to go.”
I saw her to the door and returned to the movie, and realized that knowing about Bambi’s mother didn’t spoil it. So I was happy.
At the end, I checked the year it was made: MCMXLII— 1942. Even Bambi was long dead by now. He’s soil, as are Thumper and Flower. Deer have up to an eighteen-year lifespan; rabbits, twelve; skunks, at most thirteen. And being soil doesn’t sound like such a bad idea really, moist and granular like raspberry oatmeal muffins. Soil is alive—it has to be in order for it to nourish new life. So, in a way, it’s not remotely deathlike. Burial is nice that way.
William, my older brother and possibly my best friend, waited until the evening to check up on me, right after On the Beach. In the truest sense of the word, I was sitting there speechless as the credits rolled and I contemplated an entire radioactive planet populated with decomposed bodies sitting in their offices, kitchens, in cars and on front lawns. When he came in, I don’t even think I said hello—I merely sniffled, but the verklempt mood fled the moment I saw my two essentially evil nephews, Hunter and Chase, run in after him.
“Lizzie, Jesus, your eyes look like two piss holes in the snow. I can’t stay long. I have to fly to London on a red-eye.”
“Hello, William.”
The twins groaned in harmony, “We’re hunnnnnnngry,” followed by Chase saying to his father, making no attempt to masquerade his feelings, “Aunt Lizzie’s place blows. You said we could go to the arcade.”
I said, “Hello, Hunter. Hello, Chase,” who, as usual, ignored me.
William addressed his sons. “Well, if I’d told you we were going to Lizzie’s, then I’d never have gotten you into the car.”
“You lied!”
“I did not, and if—and only if—you behave, I might still take you to your arcade, so shut the crap up and leave us alone.” William then glanced at me: “I’m turning into Father,” he said.
“Turning? You’re already there.”
The twins had invaded the kitchen and spotted the remains. “Any more Jell-O left?”
“No.”
“I hate coming here.”
“Thank you, Chase. Have some pudding.”
“We can’t eat dairy.”
I looked at William. “Since when?”
“It’s from Nancy’s side of the family,” he said.
“Have some crackers, boys. They’re in the second drawer from the top.”
They looked, saw it was only saltines and slammed the drawer shut. “Hunter, let’s watch TV.” Chase was always the leader.
Within moments, they’d colonized my couch and barnacled themselves onto a pro wrestling event. The noise was cheap and booming, but at least it shut them up.
“You didn’t have to come visit, William. I’m fine. It’s just wisdom teeth.”
“Mother said you looked pretty bad. And pretty depressed, too.”
“She did?”
“It smells like an ashtray in here.”
“I smoke sometimes. And Leslie came for a visit.”
“That would explain it. Let’s open those godawful curtains. Where’d you find them—a Greek bingo hall?”
The curtains came with the place. They were mustard yellow, with orange-and-gold brocade, and I suspect the contractor’s wife chose them.
“William, stop. I know how dreary it is, okay?” Was my place really that depressing? On the carpet I saw two small, faint ovals from where I over-cleaned bits of the carpet—a slice of pizza that landed the wrong way, and a Sharpie pen I dropped while wrapping Christmas presents.
“Nancy couldn’t make it. She sends her wishes,” my brother said.
“Send her mine as well.” This was a joke, as William’s wife, Nancy, and I don’t tolerate each other. I told her once at Thanksgiving that she wore too much perfume. Her riposte was that my hair looked like a toupée, and our relationship never recovered. This kind of rift only ever widens.
A squawk came from the couch. Chase had pushed a button on the remote that somehow obliterated the TV’s ability to receive a cable signal, and white noise blared at full volume, setting my remaining teeth on edge. The boys argued over whose fault it was, and then screamed about how to fix it, finally deigning to ask me. I pretended not to know, in hopes it might speed their departure. William manually turned off the TV, and swatted each of the boys on the back of the head. “We’re in someone else’s house, you little jerks.” The boys began to sniffle, but then William said, “Nice try, you little crybabies. Tears may work on your mother, but don’t try that on me, okay?” He turned to me. “Jesus, Lizzie,