Early Warning

“No, I mean, you have to go for a checkup, too.” She said, a little self-righteously, “He hasn’t had a checkup in a decade.”

Then, seeing his downcast face, she was flooded with regret.

The doctor was in the city; they took the ferry the next morning. Hugh was to keep the kids, and Debbie was to wrangle Lillian, as if she were a rogue calf heading for the back pasture. But Lillian gave her no trouble. As long as Arthur was along. And of course the whole experience was torture, starting from the moment they squeezed her left breast and then her right one into that machine, the way the nurse kept pushing her in more tightly until the platform was digging at her ribs, the way she had to hold her breath and stand absolutely still, and the nurse barked at her every time she had a stray thought — stray thoughts apparently caused her to twitch. Her breasts ached — not equally, but equally enough so that Lillian convinced herself for about five minutes that nothing was wrong with the one that wasn’t wrong with the other. The nurse wouldn’t allow Arthur into the mammography room, and then the doctor came out and invited him into the consulting room, looking him in the eye, but not Lillian. That was the clue right there. Young doctor — Neil Feigenbaum. Maybe forty, maybe not. Debbie remained in the waiting room, as if guarding the door. Yes, there was a large mass; yes, they needed to do a biopsy. Today was Monday. Would she mind coming back the next day? He was associated with NYU; they could have the biopsy done there. Arthur, that old betrayer, kept nodding, and saying they would be there at eight in the morning. Finally, Lillian said, “That means a six a.m. ferry.”

Arthur gave her a long, strict, and affectionate look. He said, “We’ll think of something.”

When they returned to the waiting room, after signing some papers, Debbie was just hanging up the phone the nurse’s station had let her use, but Lillian didn’t think to ask whom she had been calling — no doubt Hugh. It was not Hugh, though — it was Andy. As soon as they emerged into the heat of First Avenue, here came Andy, and Lillian realized that Dr. Feigenbaum must be Andy’s gynecologist. Andy gave her one of her limp hugs and said, “Oh, let’s have lunch.” She walked them along, chatting the whole time about Emily and Janet and Michael and Loretta (“My goodness, she keeps him in line”) and Richie and “that nice Jewish girl.” (“So ambitious. I’m sure our bloodlines could stand an invigorating infusion of Jewish blood. But I say nothing. I just bite my tongue.”) The restaurant was dark and old-fashioned, with elderly waiters who did everything with a napkin folded over one arm; Lillian half expected their attentive eighty-year-old to wipe her chin. So it was true, she thought, and now she would have to go through the five stages of grief all over again, or maybe only four of them, because she didn’t foresee any opportunity for denial, now that Debbie knew, and Andy, and soon Henry and Frank and Claire and Janet and Hugh and Jared. Arthur did not let go of her; even sitting at their table, he was practically on top of her without perhaps realizing it. Andy and Debbie kept talking — Andy about Emily, and Debbie about Carlie and Kevvie. They sang a sort of chorus. Everything Andy said about Emily reminded Debbie of something about Carlie or Kevvie, and so they traded solos. Lillian ordered the crab cakes with aioli, and Arthur (she watched him closely) ordered the scampi, and it was good, so he ate almost all of it. Debbie ordered something and wolfed it down. Andy ate a single artichoke, very delicately grasping each leaf between her fingernails, plucking it off, and dipping it in pure olive oil with just a little sea salt added. For dessert, she did a kind thing, Lillian thought — she ordered two helpings of the crème brûlée and four spoons. Crème brûlée seemed designed to promote denial.

They put Debbie in a cab to Penn Station — she wouldn’t get back to Fire Island now until after four. Then Andy said, “Oh, heavens, you should stay at the Waldorf,” and Arthur said, “Why not?” and gave her a big smile, and Lillian was already into the grief part by the time they were walking through the lobby.

—

RICHIE ROLLED OVER and nearly fell out of bed, because Ivy had disappeared. He stopped himself, though — his reflexes were pretty good even when he was mostly asleep. He thought about three things before he thought about the election: He thought that he had to get up right now and take a piss, which he did. He thought that it was already seven-thirty and he was supposed to be at work by nine. He wondered whether Ivy had made coffee. Then it occurred to him to wonder who had won, so he wandered into the living room. Ivy was standing in front of the TV, her robe hanging open, weeping. He said, “Reagan really won, huh?”

Ivy could only nod. After a moment, she said, “I knew I shouldn’t have voted for Barry Commoner.”