“Move on, Lizzie, time’s a-wastin’ and James is awaitin’ for me.”
“Okay, okay, but how come nobody except Jack ever likes it when I quote poetry to them?”
“Shouldn’t you be putting the verb in that sentence in the past tense? For your own sake? True, Jack let you quote poetry, many months ago now. False, Jack is still here. He is not here. He left you and didn’t come back,” she ended astringently. And partially made up for what she’d said by adding lovingly, “And I’m happy, and James is happy, and I bet George would be over the moon to have you read poems to us. But, Lizzie, that particular Jack McConaghey train left the station months ago. It’s done gone.”
Lizzie went on relaying George’s answers, now feeling a little chastened and somewhat depressed. She wished Marla hadn’t been so definite about Jack’s absence. Yes, both Goldrosens were interested in politics. They had both marched on Washington and volunteered at the local Gene McCarthy for President campaign in the 1960s when they were young. Yes, they listened to music. Allan preferred jazz and Elaine was still addicted to the music she’d listened to in her twenties and thirties, which included all those now iconic singers like Joan Baez and Joni Mitchell. No, Elaine didn’t particularly enjoy cooking, but loved baking and reading about food. No, they weren’t both sports fans. Only Allan was. No, they weren’t particularly collectors of anything. Yes, they liked the theater. They went to New York three or four times a year to see the latest plays, and saw whatever plays were offered in Tulsa. Yes, they had a lot of family photographs around the house.
“You can stop there,” Marla told Lizzie. “That gives me enough to go on. I’ll have a list for you by this afternoon.”
“Don’t hurry. In fact, don’t work too hard on it. I haven’t decided yet whether I’m going to go or not.”
“You’re going,” Marla said, either encouragingly or forebodingly or perhaps a mixture of both. Lizzie couldn’t tell for sure.
A few days later at breakfast before they left for class, Marla asked, “Have you decided yet?”
Lizzie swallowed the piece of toast she’d been chewing. “Nope.”
“Well, get cracking, girl. I assume George is waiting for you before he buys a ticket.”
“Do you think I should go?”
Marla sighed. “Of course. Why wouldn’t you? It’s not like you’re committing yourself to anything. You’re just going for a visit. What’s the worst that could happen? You might be a little uncomfortable or bored, but you’ll be more bored here. James and I will be gone and Mendel and Lydia are hopeless, as you never tire of telling anyone who’ll listen. Of course you should go, especially because I have some great ideas about what presents to give. But before you actually buy anything, don’t forget to check with George to make sure he thinks it’ll go over well and that they don’t already have it.”
“Yes, Mother, I won’t forget. And will you come shopping with me?”
Marla sighed dramatically. “Yes, dear daughter, I guess I will come shopping with you. I can get started on my own Hanukkah stuff. Maybe I’ll buy the same presents for my parents and James’s. Now go call George to tell him you’re going. I mean it. Do it.”
“Yes, Mother, I will.”
“Now. Go call him now.”
Lizzie stood up and then sat down again. “Do you think I need to get George a present?”
“I’m not sure what the etiquette books would say, but I’d say no, it’s not necessary. Your going with him is his present.”
“That would be really good, because I have no idea what I’d buy for him.”
So the die was cast, the decision taken, the tickets bought. Needless to say, George was thrilled. His mother, when he called sounded—was it possible?—even happier than George was to hear the news. George knew better than to tell Lizzie that.
She studied the list Marla gave her. She had a lot to choose from. There were many suggestions of books, and Marla had starred the ones she thought would be especially appropriate, which included Wild Swans: Three Daughters of China by Jung Chang (biography and history); David Simon’s Homicide: A Year on the Killing Streets (sociology and crime); Beryl Bainbridge’s The Birthday Boys (fictional biography of Scott’s journey to the South Pole); Savage Inequalities by Jonathan Kozol (sociology and education); James Stewart’s Den of Thieves (financial chicanery); books by the food writers M.F.K. Fisher and Elizabeth David. If none of the books met her approval, Marla had added a CD of the original soundtrack from the Broadway version of Evita (which encompassed, conveniently, politics plus music); unusual picture frames; and a subscription to Harry & David’s fruit-of-the-month club.
Lizzie went over the list with George, whose already high opinion of Marla increased tenfold. What a terrific job she’d done, he told Lizzie. He could swear, looking at the list, that she’d spent a lot of time with Elaine and Allan and knew them well. Lizzie relayed this to Marla, who was very pleased with herself. Lizzie ended up buying books: for Allan, Den of Thieves, and Elaine, The Art of Eating. George decided he’d get his dad Savage Inequalities and his mother Evita, since he knew they’d seen it and didn’t think they’d ever gotten the CD.
Lizzie’s Christmas shopping was done. Of course the Bultmanns never exchanged presents. Lydia was on principle violently against any religious holidays and Mendel simply wasn’t interested in celebrations. When Sheila was Lizzie’s babysitter, she’d always bring her a holiday gift or two. Lizzie recalled with much embarrassment the presents she’d foisted upon her beloved Sheila in return: one year there were guppies in a fishbowl; another year (a particularly painful memory) a set of oversize jacks that she’d coveted for herself. Stop thinking about the past, Lizzie!
*?What You Remember and What You Forget?*
Lizzie well knows that what you remember and what you forget is surpassingly strange. She can recall some things from the past with an almost eerie clarity. She can, for example, still remember the chalky taste of the powdered milk Mendel and Lydia favored and the socks Cornball Cornish wore the night they fucked in the Great Game (he never took them off; she remembers that too). And yet there’s so much she’s forgotten: the exact shade of Jack’s blue eyes; the name of the woman that Todd almost married; Andrea’s mother’s first name; the plot of Umberto Eco’s Name of the Rose, a novel she’d actually liked quite a lot; the name of the girl she’d won a double-Dutch jump-rope contest with in eighth grade; the sound of Jack’s voice when he said good-bye to her for what she didn’t realize was the last time—oh, the list of what she’s forgotten goes on and on and on.
But here’s what she does remember: