a draw...
She gets this hazy idea from time to time, the three of them doing more together. But it seems that Fern and Harold already have their relationship in place. Very private, not based on social occasions, especially not on garden walks. She’s jealous, of course.
The walk is in Andersonville, which has some huge old Prairie mansions Nora wouldn’t mind snooping around. She can imagine herself gardening in some placid patch of her future. She watches Martha Stewart on TV—annihilating aphids, pruning rosebushes, training Boston ivy over pergolas—and can easily project herself into this cluster of patient pursuits even though, so far, in any given summer of her life, she has not found time to do more than stake a few tomato plants, or plug in a flat of impatiens alongside the garage. Even the basil was too much for her this year; she left it to Fern. Still, she’s up for taking a look at what rich people are doing in their backyards—why not?
Saturday arrives bearing a light, misty rain, and she assumes Harold will have changed his mind, but when she calls, he’s still up for it, and when she pulls up in front of his apartment, the rain has stopped and he’s standing on the sidewalk, ready for an expedition, an umbrella tucked under his arm.
He has always been beautiful, but moving through his thirties, the throttle is out. Sometimes Nora doesn’t see him for two or three weeks and in reappearing, he catches her off-guard. Much of his beauty, she thinks, is the incandescence of his goodness radiating from within. It’s interesting that he dresses as both man and woman. Sometimes he pushes in both directions at once. Like today. In pleated black linen shorts and a pale green camp shirt, with his hair wet-combed back off his face, his gender is unspecifiable. He is the perfect androgyne.
Here is another way in which he and Fern are connected. Nora knows about Dolores, but only secondhand, through Fern. She is bothered by Harold’s lack of trust in her, but at the same time knows she would do poorly if confronted face-to-face with Dolores. She could not, as she gathers Fern does, sit around having conversations, dishing the dirt or whatever it is you’re supposed to do with Dolores. She herself would be able to go only as far as having a conversation with her brother in costume, whereas Fern apparently welcomes Dolores as another person, or at least a legitimate alternate version of Harold. How can she? Nora wonders, while at the same time understanding that this very thought disqualifies her, clicks the velvet rope across the entrance to the complete Harold.
He thinks Fern is coming with them today.
“She blew me off,” Nora says, looking for sympathy. “She’s not, basically, interested in spending time with me.”
“I think she is an extremely private person,” he says. “Like Garbo. Except without the Swedish part, or the movie star part. But still, it’s like having Garbo around your house. I can see how that might be frustrating.”
Harold is a mediator. When issues arise between Nora and their parents, or between Nora and Fern, he moves into position with a calming tone and a sympathetic demeanor, a kind of tilt down and forward with one shoulder, the one you can feel free to cry on. Sometimes he is a comfort, but other times, she wants to put a bucket over his head and start banging on it.
“I think she finds you kind of overwhelming,” he offers.
“What? Is that what she tells you? I mean, how ridiculous is
that?.
I can’t even whelm her, much less overwhelm her. I can’t even get her to clean up the bathroom after herself. I don’t really think you can be overwhelming to someone if you also have to pull that person’s hair out of the drain catcher.”
“You’re right,” he says. “I’m sorry. I forget you’re perfect. How could she have any complaint against you?”
Nora doesn’t bother to reply.
Harold gives it one more try. “Look. Fern is twenty-one. Do you
She gets this hazy idea from time to time, the three of them doing more together. But it seems that Fern and Harold already have their relationship in place. Very private, not based on social occasions, especially not on garden walks. She’s jealous, of course.
The walk is in Andersonville, which has some huge old Prairie mansions Nora wouldn’t mind snooping around. She can imagine herself gardening in some placid patch of her future. She watches Martha Stewart on TV—annihilating aphids, pruning rosebushes, training Boston ivy over pergolas—and can easily project herself into this cluster of patient pursuits even though, so far, in any given summer of her life, she has not found time to do more than stake a few tomato plants, or plug in a flat of impatiens alongside the garage. Even the basil was too much for her this year; she left it to Fern. Still, she’s up for taking a look at what rich people are doing in their backyards—why not?
Saturday arrives bearing a light, misty rain, and she assumes Harold will have changed his mind, but when she calls, he’s still up for it, and when she pulls up in front of his apartment, the rain has stopped and he’s standing on the sidewalk, ready for an expedition, an umbrella tucked under his arm.
He has always been beautiful, but moving through his thirties, the throttle is out. Sometimes Nora doesn’t see him for two or three weeks and in reappearing, he catches her off-guard. Much of his beauty, she thinks, is the incandescence of his goodness radiating from within. It’s interesting that he dresses as both man and woman. Sometimes he pushes in both directions at once. Like today. In pleated black linen shorts and a pale green camp shirt, with his hair wet-combed back off his face, his gender is unspecifiable. He is the perfect androgyne.
Here is another way in which he and Fern are connected. Nora knows about Dolores, but only secondhand, through Fern. She is bothered by Harold’s lack of trust in her, but at the same time knows she would do poorly if confronted face-to-face with Dolores. She could not, as she gathers Fern does, sit around having conversations, dishing the dirt or whatever it is you’re supposed to do with Dolores. She herself would be able to go only as far as having a conversation with her brother in costume, whereas Fern apparently welcomes Dolores as another person, or at least a legitimate alternate version of Harold. How can she? Nora wonders, while at the same time understanding that this very thought disqualifies her, clicks the velvet rope across the entrance to the complete Harold.
He thinks Fern is coming with them today.
“She blew me off,” Nora says, looking for sympathy. “She’s not, basically, interested in spending time with me.”
“I think she is an extremely private person,” he says. “Like Garbo. Except without the Swedish part, or the movie star part. But still, it’s like having Garbo around your house. I can see how that might be frustrating.”
Harold is a mediator. When issues arise between Nora and their parents, or between Nora and Fern, he moves into position with a calming tone and a sympathetic demeanor, a kind of tilt down and forward with one shoulder, the one you can feel free to cry on. Sometimes he is a comfort, but other times, she wants to put a bucket over his head and start banging on it.
“I think she finds you kind of overwhelming,” he offers.
“What? Is that what she tells you? I mean, how ridiculous is
that?.
I can’t even whelm her, much less overwhelm her. I can’t even get her to clean up the bathroom after herself. I don’t really think you can be overwhelming to someone if you also have to pull that person’s hair out of the drain catcher.”
“You’re right,” he says. “I’m sorry. I forget you’re perfect. How could she have any complaint against you?”
Nora doesn’t bother to reply.
Harold gives it one more try. “Look. Fern is twenty-one. Do you
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