Eligible. Curtis Sittenfeld

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       Chapter 6

      Half an hour after complaining to Mrs. Bennet of heartburn that he attributed to the veal cacciatore she’d made for dinner, Mr. Bennet had climbed the staircase from the entry hall on the first floor of the Tudor to the second floor and collapsed, gasping for breath. Lydia had heard him fall, Mary had called 911, and he’d been transported by ambulance to Christ Hospital.

      Upon receiving Kitty’s phone call at Jane’s apartment, Liz had immediately begun trying to find flights while Jane put away the food; as it turned out, the evening’s final flights to Cincinnati out of both LaGuardia and JFK had already departed. With reservations for the early morning, Liz returned to her apartment, tossed clothes into a suitcase, slept fitfully for a couple hours, and met Jane again beyond LaGuardia’s Terminal D security checkpoint at six A.M. By then, their father was out of a six-hour surgery, intubated, and unconscious in the intensive care unit.

      Though he was awake and his breathing tube had been removed when Liz and Jane arrived at the hospital straight from the airport, he was alarmingly subdued and appeared much smaller in his hospital gown than in his usual uniform of khakis, dress shirt, and navy blazer. At the sight of him, Liz bit back tears, while Jane wept openly. “My dear Jane—” Mr. Bennet said, but he spoke no more; he offered no drollery to reassure them. The many wires monitoring his vital signs beeped indifferently.

      He remained in the hospital for a week. But on his second day after surgery, he’d moved from intensive care to the step-down unit, and his health had improved consistently. In increments that were less steadily apparent than manifest in sudden moments, his coloring brightened, his energy increased, his mordant humor returned, and it seemed then that he really would be all right.

      In the meantime, the eldest Bennet sisters fell quickly into certain patterns. They slept in twin beds in the third-floor room that, when they were growing up, had belonged to Liz. She’d set the alarm on her cellphone for seven o’clock, and they’d rise and run together before the day grew too hot: around the curve of Grandin Road, past the bulge of the Cincinnati Country Club, right on Madison Road and again on Observatory, then up the long incline of Edwards Road’s first hill, which was gently graded but endless, and its second hill, which was short and steep. Back at home, they’d eat cereal, take turns showering, then determine what needed to be accomplished that day.

      Originally overshadowed by their father’s ill health, but asserting itself with increasing insistence as Mr. Bennet improved, was the sisters’ realization that the Tudor, built in 1903, was in a state of profound disrepair. For the last twenty years, Liz and Jane had made three-day visits home, usually around the holidays, and Liz realized in retrospect that her mother had likely spent weeks preparing for their arrival. This time, when Mrs. Bennet hadn’t prepared at all, mail lay in stacks on the marble table in the entry hall; mold grew in the basin of the third-floor toilet; spiderwebs clung to light fixtures and the corners of ceilings; and Jane and Liz were sharing a room because the bed and most of the floor in the adjacent room that had once belonged to Jane were blocked by an assortment of boxes, some empty save for bubble wrap but some as yet unopened, addressed by various high-end retailers to Mrs. Frederick M. Bennet. The day before her father had been discharged from the hospital, Liz had used the blade of a scissors to open three packages, which contained, respectively, a plush cream-colored throw pillow overlaid by an embroidered pineapple; a set of royal blue bath towels featuring Mrs. Bennet’s monogram; and twelve dessert plates with Yorkshire terriers on them (the Bennets had never owned a Yorkshire terrier—or, for that matter, any other breed of dog).

      That her mother devoted extensive attention to housewares was not news; the usual impetus for Mrs. Bennet to call Liz in New York was to ask whether she was in need of, say, a porcelain teapot with an ivy motif that normally cost $260 but was on sale for $230. Invariably, without broaching the topic of who might pay for the teapot in question, Liz ruefully declined; it sounded charming, but she had such limited space, and also, she’d remind her mother, she wasn’t a huge tea drinker. Once, years before, Liz had been talked into accepting as a gift a large gold-rimmed platter—“For your dinner parties!” Mrs. Bennet had said brightly—but upon learning eighteen months later that Liz had during that time held no dinner parties, Mrs. Bennet had insisted that Liz give the platter back. Shipping it had cost $55. So no, it wasn’t a secret that her mother fetishized all manner of domestic décor, but the sheer quantity in Jane’s former bedroom, plus the fact of so many boxes being unopened, raised for Liz the question of whether some type of pathology might be involved.

      Meanwhile, on an almost daily basis, the Tudor revealed its failures: dripping faucets, splintering floorboards, obscurely sized sconce lightbulbs that had burned out. In many instances, it was unclear to Liz whether a particular predicament, such as the eight-foot-square water-stained patch on the eastern side of the living room wall, was new or whether her parents and sisters had simply been turning a blind eye to it for months or years.

      The three acres of land surrounding the Tudor presented its own set of complications, including an extensive growth of poison ivy behind the house and a fungus on the large sycamore tree under which Liz had once held picnics for her dolls. As far as she could tell, her father had for quite some time done no more outside than mow the grass and, since getting sick, had not even done that. It occurred to Liz one day, as she waited on hold for an estimate from a yard service, that her parents’ home was like an extremely obese person who could no longer see, touch, or maintain jurisdiction over all of his body; there was simply too much of it, and he—they—had grown weary and inflexible.

      During the hours she’d allotted each day for work, Liz would open her laptop on the pink Formica desk her parents had purchased for her in 1987 and respond to queries from Mascara editors about a recent article she’d turned in, schedule or conduct interviews, fend off or follow up with publicists. In addition to features on varying topics, Liz wrote three mini-profiles each month for Mascara’s long-running “Women Who Dare” column—for example, a corporal in Iraq, a blind aerobics instructor, or a principal in Wichita who’d saved her students СКАЧАТЬ