Freedom

  Patty didn’t answer. After a while, it became apparent that Eliza had forgotten about her.

  There didn’t seem to be much point in screaming abusive things at her right now, so Patty ransacked the apartment instead. The drug stuff came to light immediately, right on the floor at the head of the sofa—Eliza had simply dropped a throw pillow over it. At the bottom of a nest of poetry journals and music magazines on Eliza’s desk was the blue three-ring binder. As far as Patty could tell, nothing had been added to it since the summer. She sifted through Eliza’s papers and bills, looking for something medical, but didn’t find anything. The jazz record was playing on repeat. Patty turned it off and sat down on the coffee table with the scrapbook and the drug stuff on the floor in front of her. “Wake up,” she said.

  Eliza squeezed her eyes shut tighter.

  Patty shoved her leg. “Wake up.”

  “I need a cigarette. The chemo really knocked me out.”

  Patty pulled her upright by the shoulder.

  “Hey,” Eliza said, with a murky smile. “Nice to see you.”

  “I don’t want to be your friend anymore,” Patty said. “I don’t want to see you anymore.”

  “Why not?”

  “I just don’t.”

  Eliza closed her eyes and shook her head. “I need you to help me,” she said. “I’ve been taking drugs because of the pain. Because of the cancer. I wanted to tell you. But I was too embarrassed.” She tilted sideways and lay back down.

  “You don’t have cancer,” Patty said. “That’s just a lie you made up because you have some crazy idea about me.”

  “No, I have leukemia. I definitely have leukemia.”

  “I came over to tell you in person, as a courtesy. But now I’m going to leave.”

  “No. You have to stay. I have a drug problem you have to help me with.”

  “I can’t help you. You’ll have to go to your parents.”

  There was a long silence. “Get me a cigarette,” Eliza said.

  “I hate your cigarettes.”

  “I thought you understood about parents,” Eliza said. “About not being the person they wanted.”

  “I don’t understand anything about you.”

  There was another silence. Then Eliza said, “You know what’s going to happen if you leave, don’t you? I’m going to kill myself.”

  “Oh, that’s a great reason to stay and be friends,” Patty said. “That sounds like a lot of fun for both of us.”

  “I’m just saying that’s probably what I’ll do. You’re the only thing I have that’s beautiful and real.”

  “I’m not a thing,” Patty said righteously.

  “Have you ever seen somebody shoot up? I’ve gotten pretty good at it.”

  Patty took the syringe and the drugs and put them in the pocket of her parka. “What’s your parents’ telephone number?”

  “Don’t call them.”

  “I’m going to call them. It’s non-optional.”

  “Will you stay with me? Will you come visit me?”

  “Yes,” Patty lied. “Just tell me their number.”

  “They ask about you all the time. They think you’re a good influence on my life. Will you stay with me?”

  “Yes,” Patty lied again. “What’s their number?”

  When the parents arrived, after midnight, they wore the grim looks of people interrupted in their enjoyment of a long respite from dealing with exactly this sort of thing. Patty was fascinated to finally meet them, but this feeling was evidently not reciprocated. The father had a full beard and deep-set dark eyes, the mother was petite and wearing high-heeled leather boots, and together they gave off a strong sexual vibe that reminded Patty of French movies and of Eliza’s comments about their being the love of each other’s life. Patty wouldn’t have minded receiving a few words of apology for unleashing their disturbed daughter on unsuspecting third parties such as herself, or a few words of gratitude for taking their daughter off their hands these past two years, or a few words of acknowledgment of whose money had subsidized the latest crisis. But as soon as the little nuclear family was together in the living room, there unfolded a weird diagnostic drama in which there seemed to be no role at all for Patty.

  “So which drugs,” the father said.

  “Um, smack,” Eliza said.

  “Smack, cigarettes, booze. What else? Anything else?”

  “A little coke sometimes. Not so much now.”

  “Anything else?”

  “No, that’s all.”

  “And what about your friend? Is she using, too?”

  “No, she’s a huge basketball star,” Eliza said. “I told you. She’s totally straight and great. She’s amazing.”

  “Did she know you were using?”

  “No, I told her I had cancer. She didn’t know anything.”

  “How long did that go on?”

  “Since Christmas.”

  “So she believed you. You created an elaborate lie that she believed.”

  Eliza giggled.

  “Yes, I believed her,” Patty said.

  The father didn’t even glance her way. “And what’s this,” he said, holding up the blue binder.

  “That’s my Patty Book,” Eliza said.

  “Appears to be some sort of obsessional scrapbook,” the father said to the mother.

  “So she said she was going to leave you,” the mother said, “and then you said you were going to kill yourself.”

  “Something like that,” Eliza admitted.

  “This is quite obsessional,” the father commented, flipping pages.

  “Are you actually suicidal?” the mother said. “Or was that just a threat to keep your friend from leaving?”

  “Mostly a threat,” Eliza said.

  “Mostly?”

  “OK, I’m not actually suicidal.”

  “And yet you’re aware that we have to take it seriously now,” the mother said. “We have no choice.”

  “You know, I think I’m going to go now,” Patty said. “I’ve got class in the morning, so.”

  “What kind of cancer did you pretend to have?” the father said. “Where in the body was it situated?”

  “I said it was leukemia.”

  “In the blood, then. A fictitious cancer in your blood.”

  Patty put the drug stuff on the cushion of an armchair. “I’ll just leave this right here,” she said. “I really do have to be going.”

  The parents looked at her, looked at each other, and nodded.

  Eliza stood up from the sofa. “When will I see you? Will I see you tomorrow?”

  “No,” Patty said. “I don’t think so.”

  “Wait!” Eliza ran over and seized Patty by the hand. “I fucked everything up, but I’ll get better, and then we can see each other again. OK?”

  “Yes, OK,” Patty lied as the parents moved in to pry their daughter off her.

  Outside, the sky had cleared and the temperature had fallen to near zero. Patty drove breath after breath of cleanness down deep into her lungs. She was free! She was free! And, oh, how she wished she could go back now and play the game against UCLA again. Even at one in the morning, even with nothing in her stomach, she felt ready to excel. She sprinted down Eliza’s street in sheer exhilaration at her freedom, hearing Coach’s words in her ears for the first time, three hours after they’d been spoken, hearing her say how it was just one game, how everybody had bad games, how she’d be herself again tomorrow. She felt ready to dedicate herself more intensely than ever to staying fit and improving her skills, ready to see more theater with Walter, ready to say to her mother, “That’s really great news about The Member of the Wedding!” Ready to be an all-around better person. In her exhilaration, she ran so blindly that she didn’t see the black ice on the sidewalk until her left leg had slipped gruesomely out sideways behind her right leg and she’d ripped the shit out of her knee and was lying on the ground.

  There’s not a lot to say about the six weeks that followed
. She had two surgeries, the second one following an infection from the first, and became an ace crutch-user. Her mother flew out for the first operation and treated the hospital staff as if they were midwestern yokels of questionable intelligence, causing Patty to apologize for her and be especially agreeable whenever she was out of the room. When it turned out that Joyce might have been right not to trust the doctors, Patty felt so chagrined that she didn’t even tell her about the second operation until the day before it happened. She assured Joyce that there was no need to fly out again—she had tons of friends to look after her.

  Walter Berglund had learned from his own mother how to be attentive to women with ailments, and he took advantage of Patty’s extended incapacitation to reinsert himself into her life. On the day after her first surgery, he appeared with a four-foot-tall Norfolk pine and suggested that she might prefer a living plant to cut flowers that wouldn’t last. After that, he managed to see Patty almost every day except on weekends, when he was up in Hibbing helping his parents, and he quickly endeared himself to her jock friends with his niceness. Her homelier friends appreciated how much more intently he listened to them than all the guys who couldn’t see past their looks, and Cathy Schmidt, her brightest friend, declared Walter smart enough to be on the Supreme Court. It was a novelty in Female Jockworld to have a guy in their midst who everybody felt so natural and relaxed around, a guy who could hang out in the lounge during study breaks and be one of the girls. And everybody could see that he was crazy about Patty, and everybody but Cathy Schmidt agreed that this was a most excellent thing.

  Cathy, as noted, was sharper than the rest. “You’re not really into him, are you,” she said.

  “I sort of am,” Patty said. “But also sort of not.”

  “So . . . the two of you are not . . .”

  “No! Nothing. I probably never should have told him I was raped. He got all squirrelly when I told him that. All . . . tender and . . . nursey and . . . upset. And now it’s like he’s waiting for written permission, or for me to make the move. Which, the crutches probably aren’t helping there, either. But it’s like I’m being followed around by a really nice, well-trained dog.”

  “That’s not so great,” Cathy said.

  “No. It’s not. But I can’t get rid of him, either, because he’s incredibly nice to me, and I really do love talking to him.”

  “You’re sort of into him.”

  “Exactly. Maybe even somewhat more than sort of. But—”

  “But not wildly more.”

  “Exactly.”

  Walter was interested in everything. He read every word of the newspaper and Time magazine, and in April, once Patty was semi-ambulatory again, he began inviting her to lectures and art films and documentaries that she otherwise would not have dreamed of going to. Whether it was because of his love or because of the void in her schedule created by her injury, this was the first time that a person had ever looked through her jock exterior and seen lights on inside. Although she felt inferior to Walter in pretty much every category of human knowledge except sports, she was grateful to him for illuminating that she actually had opinions and that her opinions could differ from his. (This was a refreshing contrast to Eliza, who, if you’d asked her who the current U.S. president was, would have laughed and claimed to have no idea and put another record on her stereo.) Walter burned with all sorts of earnest and peculiar views—he hated the pope and the Catholic Church but approved of the Islamic revolution in Iran, which he hoped would lead to better energy conservation in the United States; he liked China’s new population-control policies and thought the U.S. should adopt something similar; he cared less about the Three Mile Island nuclear mishap than about the low price of gasoline and the need for high-speed rail systems that would render the passenger car obsolete; etc., etc.—and Patty found a role in obstinately approving of things he disapproved of. She especially enjoyed disagreeing with him about the Subjugation of Women. One afternoon near the end of the semester, over coffee at the Student Union, the two of them had a memorable talk about Patty’s Primitive Art professor, whose lectures she approvingly described to Walter by way of giving him a subtle hint about what she found lacking in his personality.

  “Yuck,” Walter said. “This sounds like one of those middle-aged profs who can’t stop talking about sex.”

  “Well, but he’s talking about fertility figures,” Patty said. “It’s not his fault if the only sculpture we have from fifty thousand years ago is about sex. Plus he’s got a white beard, and that’s enough to make me feel sorry for him. I mean, think about it. He’s up there, and he’s got all these dirty things he wants to say about ‘young ladies today,’ you know, and our ‘scrawny thighs,’ and all, and he knows he’s making us uncomfortable, and he knows he has this beard and he’s middle-aged and we’re all, you know, younger. But he can’t help saying things anyway. I think that would be so hard. Not being able to help humiliating yourself.”

  “But it’s so offensive!”

  “And also,” Patty said, “I think he’s actually really into thunder thighs. I think that’s what it’s really about: he’s into the Stone Aged thing. You know: fat. Which is sweet and kind of heartbreaking, that he’s so into ancient art.”

  “But aren’t you offended, as a feminist?”

  “I don’t really think of myself as a feminist.”

  “That’s unbelievable!” Walter said, reddening. “You don’t support the ERA?”

  “Well, I’m not very political.”

  “But the whole reason you’re here in Minnesota is you got an athletic scholarship, which couldn’t even have happened five years ago. You’re here because of feminist federal legislation. You’re here because of Title Nine.”

  “But Title Nine’s just basic fairness,” Patty said. “If half your students are female, they should be getting half the athletic money.”

  “That’s feminism!”

  “No, it’s basic fairness. Because, like, Ann Meyers? Have you heard of her? She was a big star at UCLA and she just signed a contract with the NBA, which is ridiculous. She’s like five-six and a girl. She’s never going to play. Men are just better athletes than women and always will be. That’s why a hundred times more people go to see men’s basketball than women’s basketball—there’s so much more that men can do athletically. It’s just dumb to deny it.”

  “But what if you want to be a doctor, and they don’t let you into medical school because they’d rather have male students?”

  “That would be unfair, too, although I don’t want to be a doctor.”

  “So what do you want?”

  Sort of by default, because her mother was so relentless in promoting impressive careers for her daughters, and also because her mother had been, in Patty’s opinion, a substandard parent, Patty was inclined to want to be a homemaker and an outstanding mother. “I want to live in a beautiful old house and have two children,” she told Walter. “I want to be a really, really great mom.”

  “Do you want a career, too?”

  “Raising children would be my career.”

  He frowned and nodded.

  “You see,” she said, “I’m not very interesting. I’m not nearly as interesting as your other friends.”

  “That’s so untrue,” he said. “You’re incredibly interesting.”

  “Well, that’s very nice of you to say, but I don’t think it makes much sense.”

  “I think there’s so much more inside you than you give yourself credit for.”

  “I’m afraid you’re not very realistic about me,” Patty said. “I bet you can’t actually name one interesting thing about me.”

  “Well, your athletic ability, for starters,” Walter said.

  “Dribble dribble. That’s real interesting.”

  “And the way you think,” he said. “The fact that you think that that hideous prof is sweet and heartbreaking.”

  “But you disagree with me about that!”

  “And the way you talk
about your family. The way you tell stories about them. The fact that you’re so far away from them and having your own life here. That’s all incredibly interesting.”

  Patty had never been around a man so obviously in love with her. What he and she were secretly talking about, of course, was Walter’s desire to put his hands on her. And yet the more time she spent with him, the more she was coming to feel that even though she wasn’t nice—or maybe because she wasn’t nice; because she was morbidly competitive and attracted to unhealthy things—she was, in fact, a fairly interesting person. And Walter, by insisting so fervently on her interestingness, was definitely making progress toward making himself interesting to her in turn.

  “If you’re so feminist,” she said, “why are you best friends with Richard? Isn’t he kind of disrespectful?”

  Walter’s face clouded. “Definitely, if I had a sister, I’d make sure she never met him.”

  “Why?” Patty said. “Because he’d treat her badly? Is he bad to women?”

  “He doesn’t mean to be. He likes women. He just goes through them pretty quickly.”

  “Because we’re interchangeable? Because we’re just objects?”

  “It’s not political,” Walter said. “He’s in favor of equal rights. It’s more like this is his addiction, or one of them. You know, his dad was such a drunk, and Richard doesn’t drink. But it’s the same thing as emptying your whole liquor cabinet down the drain, after a binge. That’s the way he is with a girl he’s done with.”

  “That sounds horrible.”

  “Yeah, I don’t particularly like it in him.”

  “But you’re still friends with him, even though you’re a feminist.”

  “You don’t stop being loyal to a friend just because they’re not perfect.”

  “No, but you try to help them be a better person. You explain why what they’re doing is wrong.”