Hump

What can you see?

Running with Sasha in Riverside Park

I published an earlier version of this piece in 1997 in a book of novella-length memoirs called Close to the Bone (Grove). When I reread older work, I’m looking for what still sings and feels alive. A lot of the original of this has been left on the cutting room floor. Snakes have to keep shedding their skin.

The stack is now 18 months old. Part of what’s happening is it’s becoming a giant novel that isn’t a novel. A giant piece of autofiction. A giant something that holds together as a thing as well as a collection of separate pieces. I hope you read it this way, and if you don’t that’s fine too.

I love deadlines. The demand produces the creativity. It’s never just floating out there like a bunch of gas you can capture. There is nothing to capture without the demand. By the way.

Also by the way, if you would like to attend the next ZOOM conversation on writing craft—for example what goes into making a piece like this—it takes place this SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 24 from 3 to 4pm EST and please RSVP to me at: lauriestone@substack.com.

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Hump

My mother had an expression in Yiddish. The translation is, “No one can see their own hump.”

1993

My mother and I are on Broadway. She is seventy-eight, and I’m forty-seven. She slips a pendant out from under the scarf she’s wearing, a chunk of turquoise in filigreed silver. She says, “Do you like it?” I say, “It looks like a mezuzah.” She says, “You have a point. I can put it over my door.” She pulls back and says, “You look good, knock wood. I don't compliment you as often as you would like, but to me that's asking for trouble. When you were a baby, your father said, ‘Tobe, this kid is smart’. I said, ‘Really’? I can see you as a little girl like it was yesterday. You were wearing this coat Daddy made for you. Everyone wanted it, because it looked so good on you. It changed his business. He became very popular after that. You wore the coat to a party and at night I found little frankfurters in the pockets.”

I say, “I still take food from parties.” She says, “Why would you do such a thing? It makes you look like a beggar.” I say, “I often feel like a beggar.” She says, “Why?” I say, “I don’t need to know. All I need is to tell the truth.”

In the French film Drugstore Romance (1978), Pierre works as a garage mechanic. At home, he takes care of his body the way he fine tunes the fire engines in his shop. We meet him when he is thirty-five. He fears he is shallow and cold. When he feels this way, he goes out to seduce women. He sets out to conquer a woman who at first resists him. That’s the type he goes for. Unexpectedly, he falls in love.

Sometime in my thirties, I began sitting near children on busses and staring at the down on their cheeks. I would lean in to smell them. I admired their ability to walk and talk. I would picture myself arriving home to a little girl. She would jump up like a dog at the sound of my voice. Or we’d be on the street, holding hands. When I was little, after my sister would leave for school and my father would go to work, I’d sit on the bed in my parents’ room and watch my mother pull on her stockings and attach them to little garters. Outside on the street, we’d squeeze each other’s hands in little pulse beats that meant, “I love you.” She was the prettiest mother in the chicest clothes.

2002

My mother calls and says, “Dr. Postley is concerned about the congestion in my lungs.” I say, “Does he know you smoke?” She says, “Are you crazy? Do you think I would tell him such a thing?” I say, “How many cigarettes do you smoke a day?” She says, “Seven.” I say, “If you quit, your lungs will clear up.” She says, “The last time I quit, I blew up.” I say, “You can control what you eat.” She says, “It's not the eating. It's the metabolism. At my age, you blow up if you stop smoking. It's a fact.” I say, “So you'll blow up. At least you won't be dead.”

Did she ever quit?

My mother says my sister’s daughter is planning to start a family right away. She says, “Ellen is going to quit her job and move to Boston. She doesn't want to miss a minute with her grandchildren. She said, 'Ma, You're coming with me, even if I have to drug you. I'm not leaving you alone’.”

I say, “What would you do in Boston? You know how much you love New York.” My mother says, “Of course, but you don't understand what it is to be alone. At least the other one cares if I live or die. If I get sick, I have no one to make me a cup of tea. What, I'm going to depend on you?”  I say, “I will make you a cup of tea.”

Sometimes, I’m struck by my mother’s wit or charm, or I'm touched by her beauty, or I respect the way she manages on her own. I compliment her, and she says, “You don't really mean that.” Or, “I don't see how you can say that.” Or, “Suddenly, I'm funny to you. Everyone else thinks I'm funny all the time.”

My parents kissing at my sister’s wedding.

1990

According to Santayana: “To be happy you must have taken the measure of your powers, tasted the fruits of your passion, and learned your place in the world.”   

I went to a party for a famous author. The place was posh and went on forever. There were celebrities there, the kind you don't usually see at book parties. There was a handsome actor I think was John Shea, and Carly Simon was sitting at a little table, as if cordoned off by velvet ropes. No one stared at her except me. Waiters passed around tiny food: blinis the size of dimes; miniature pizzas with wild mushrooms; Lilliputian slices of beef. I hugged a wall, and the trays kept coming. I got full, and it was consoling, until I minded being comforted by food.

My head was swiveling. My life was dribbling away. Across the room was a man I meet only at book parties. I couldn't remember his name. I could see his latest book in its alphabetical slot on my bookshelf, so I could have figured out the initial of his last name, but I was too alarmed by the lapse of memory to think clearly. The man was standing in a circle. Everyone was holding a glass. No one was lunging for food.

In another part of the room was a prolific novelist I slightly knew. She was reed thin, tall, and raven-haired, and she was laughing with the guest of honor. Her last novel was now a movie everyone liked, including me. I was suddenly thirsty. As I moved toward the bar, who should I run into but a woman even more famous and accomplished than the raven-haired writer? I’ll call this one Jane. Jane was ten years younger than me and pregnant out to here. She said my name, smiling. I said hi without moving my mouth. I hadn't known she was pregnant. I thought I should go home and kill myself.

A few minutes later, I saw my friend Sheila. She described an article she was writing about therapists who induce false memories of childhood abuse in their patients. I wondered what was in it for the patients. Why would you want to believe you had experienced more than the usual amount of childhood whatever? Did people yearn for something to blame the mess of their lives on? One good explanation, and whisk, whisk whisk, wash your hands of further questions?

I recently met a man who was thirty-seven and had had a vasectomy. He said he didn't want to bring more children into the world. He said he would adopt if he decided to raise another child. He was the stepfather of his wife's son. He said it didn’t feel the same as having a child of his own. Did I think he was damaged because he hadn't reproduced? I did not.

1992

I was a guest at the home of a friend who was rich and lived in a fancy suburb outside New York. I was helping her prepare Thanksgiving dinner, and I had brought my dog. Early in the morning, I heard Natalie let Sasha out and a few minutes later call him back in. I went back to sleep and came downstairs at nine. Natalie was in the kitchen, talking with a friend. When she went up to shower, I made coffee and scooted Sasha out the back door again.

The dog was a thirty-pound mix, part spaniel and part terrier, with a black face, white body, plumy tail, and fluffy knickers. He was seventeen and creaky. Arthritis was stiffening his back legs. Sometimes, he still moved with his old bounce, but now it took as much time for him to circle the block as it had in his prime to walk to Zabar's, a mile away. I didn't bother to slip on his collar. I thought he'd sniff around for a while, as he usually did, then bark to be let back in.

I went up to wash and dress, listening for the dog. No sounds. After twenty minutes, I went outside, into the bright light and biting air. No dog. Not behind the garage or down the front drive. I whistled and clapped. Nothing. I went back in and told Natalie, who looked at me without expression and said, "Search all the backyards."

I threw on my coat and climbed over stone ledges and through mounds of dried leaves. I'd adopted Sasha when he was six weeks old, when I was living in East Hampton. As a young dog, he'd been free to roam and, throughout his life, had always found his way back to me. Now though, without his collar and tags, he couldn't jingle. I clapped and called, remembering that his hearing, too, was failing. His sense of smell? Was he somewhere eating garbage? Hurt?

Back at the house, Natalie said, "Let's take the car." We cruised the neighborhood in her BMW, then crossed the highway and searched another enclave. A few people were raking leaves and jogging, but no one had seen the dog. I said, “I’m sorry.” Natalie had pies to bake and turkeys to baste. She glued her eyes on the road and said, “He's got to be somewhere.”

As we searched for Sasha, her face was a mask. We’d become friends a few years earlier, both of us volunteers at God’s Love We Deliver, the organization that fed homebound people with AIDS and still provides meals for people who are disabled. I began working there after Gardner died in 1990. Natalie had had twin daughters who were born with an immune deficiency. Both had died in their twenties, several years before Natalie and I met. As we drove around, maybe she was worrying about her pies. The thought I imagined floating above her head was, “I raised two sons who adore me! I secured an extra decade of life for my daughters, and you can't take care of one fucking dog!”

I had never regretted having Sasha, not when he tracked dirt through my apartment, not when he vomited on my bed. When I'd contemplated having a kid, I'd counted my patience with the dog as maybe an indicator of my fitness. But what if Sasha didn't materialize? I would place notices in the local newspapers. I would plaster the neighborhood with fliers. But my life would have to stop. That’s what I thought. I looked at Natalie, knowing her loss was unimaginable. Everything in her experience seemed beyond my grasp, and I felt ashamed. “I'm such a fool,” I kept saying. She didn't contradict me.

Back at her house, she called the police. The cop on duty tried to brush her off, but she insisted he listen as she described the dog. A few minutes later, one of her sons, Will, called. Natalie filled him in, and he said he'd help search. When I heard his tires on the gravel, I flew into his car. His hair was wet from a shower. His mouth curled into a smile when he said, "We'll find Sasha." As we drove around, he told me stories of family dogs that had been lost and found. When I said I felt guilty, he said, “Don't.” When I said I was an idiot, he said, “You're not.” We tramped through a wildlife preserve, shouting and whistling, and I loved him and his sweet willingness to be part of a family.

We cruised the neighborhood again. It was preternaturally quiet. Only one child was playing outside. At this point, Sasha had been missing for two hours. When Will drove up an unlikely hill, we came upon two police cars with lights flashing. My heart pounded. A burly cop was by the side of the road, looking down. At a dead dog? I jumped out, and there was Sasha, standing near a pile of leaves. I hugged him, and he shot me a look that said, “What's the big deal?” He wasn't shivering or disoriented. I threw my arms around the cop and said, “Thank-you, thank-you.” It took no time for the fear to drain, and then I was myself, and I cannot tell you who that was.

When we got back, Natalie was removing pies from the oven and setting them on racks. She hugged me now. The sink was overflowing with dishes and pots which I immediately began to wash. “Penance,” she said.

It was pleasant in the kitchen. Now that the strain was gone from Natalie's face, I helped her set the table and arrange flowers. I went to the den to read. It was sunny, and I wanted to stay there, but guests began arriving at three-thirty, and the house was full by four. I made it a project to chat with everyone who came.

One of the guests was a TV producer, who had seen Angels In America and said he was repulsed by “seeing men kiss.” He said “the gays” had undue political clout and had collected more public money for AIDS than was fair. I said what I said, although I didn’t want to say anything to this person, and I began to feel something was wrong with my life.

I went to sit with Natalie’s mother Lillian, who had been beautiful, as Natalie still was. It was the reason I’d first been attracted to her at God’s Love. Lillian, too, had lost a child. Natalie's older brother, Kenneth, had died of liver cancer at forty-one. I took Lillian's hand and leaned into her ear. She was in her late nineties and blind. I said, “You look wonderful.” She said,  “Thank-you, dear. Frankly, I don't know why I'm alive.” Last year she'd broken a hip and she now used a walker. The hip was healing and, aside from her eyesight, she was physically sound. But everything she thought of as her life was in the past and everything had been a function of running a family.

I said, “Would you really like to be done with life?” She said, “I would, dear, but I couldn't do it to Natalie. She's been through too much. A year ago, I could make out shapes. Now I can only tell if there is something in front of me, not what it is.” I said, “It's too soon for you to go. I would miss you.” She said, “Thank-you, dear. Now tell me how you are.” I said, “I'm happy with what I have, but I'm lonely without a man in my life.” She said, “When you find one, make sure he's rich.” I said, “I don't need money from a man.” She said, “What do you need, dear?” I said, “Someone to be myself with and sex." She said, “I'm sorry you don't have sex,” and she patted my hand.

I floated upstairs to the hallway and rooms where Natalie’s daughters had spent their last days. The walls of the hallway were filled with photographs, arranged as densely as stamps in an album. In one shot, the family stood in front of their pool, their arms entwined, the boys with long hair and scruffy beards, Natalie and her husband Marty sleek in cut-off jeans. And everywhere were pictures of the girls before their bodies gave out.

They looked like their father with long, delicate faces and saddles of freckles across their cheeks. They were slender but not frail or forlorn. In the central photograph, they posed on adjacent seesaws, Jill stretched out on one, Dana on the other one, so their bodies formed an X, with their eyes meeting the camera. They were sixteen. “Their best year,” Natalie had told me. They looked defiant and mischievous and as if they shared a secret.

When Natalie spoke of her daughters, they didn't seem real to me, because they were only the objects of her love. Looking at them now, separate from the family and defined by a loveliness they knew would shortly be erased, I imagined the anger they must have felt at such a bum roll of the dice. For a moment, at least to me, they were independent of their mother, although still secure in the chain of connection extending from Lillian, to Natalie, to them. I couldn't know how it felt to be so loved by a mother or to feel the love for a child. No matter how often I listened to Natalie’s stories, I would never grasp her experience. Whenever I tried to imagine it, I would meet a closed door.

1966

When I was nineteen, I married Nathan. He had wanted to be an architect or a photographer. He went to law school. He had a vision of our marriage. I was going to go to graduate school, earn a Ph.D., and become a college professor. It would give me “flexible hours to have time for our kids.”  He said, “You can write on your days off and on vacations.”

In 1968, when Nathan was at risk for getting drafted into the Vietnam War, it was possible for men to get deferments if they had a child. This was a decision he didn’t fear. To the contrary. He’d been adopted, and he badly wanted a blood tie. He was patient and loving with little children.

He introduced the idea of a baby while I was taking a shower. The water streamed down like bars on a cage. I suggested we join the Peace Corps or defect to Canada. I was willing to live in a remote village in a country I'd never heard of. I was willing to forfeit my citizenship. But to have a child, well, why didn't I just stretch out on a sacrificial slab like Tess Durberville.

Nathan and I were accepted into Vista, but we didn't go. There was a shakeup in the school system, and Nathan landed a job teaching second graders in the Oceanhill/Brownsville section of Brooklyn. He loved it.

In 1969, I went to London, met Ian, who sold hashish and sometimes tricked for money with men. He lived in a ground floor flat in Chelsea, with a toilet in the yard. After a few weeks with him, I went to Ireland and hitchhiked around on my own. When I got back to Ian’s flat, a note on the door said he was at a rock concert in Somerset. I stretched out on the bed. A few hours later, two English cops shook me awake. I was wearing one of those trench coats that told them everything they needed to know. They were nice. They were looking for drugs. They said, “You don't want to be messing around with his sort.” I swore I wouldn’t go back. I lied.

1994

I am perched in the window of Starbuck's. It’s a Saturday night, and I am looking out at Broadway. Everyone is strolling along in couples, their arms linked, their faces expectant, their children carried in snugglies. I have five male friends who are married to women twenty years younger than them, men who were wild, got scared, and are now having babies.

Today Exxon was fined five billion dollars in punitive damages for the Alaska oil spill. I remember my trip there, to cover the consequences. The town of Valdez was ugly, with the pipeline terminal choking the harbor, but it was surrounded by mountains, draped in emerald-colored forests and capped with blue glaciers. In Alaska, I was anticipating a trip to the MacDowell colony and later that year the publication of my first book. Twelve months after my trip to Alaska, Gardner was diagnosed with terminal cancer, and six months later he was dead.

I am watching a dog tied to a parking meter. Its head is jerking this way and that. Its tongue is peeking out. Its ears are cocked and its nose is in the air. When another dog is near, the tail of the first dog wags furiously and its paws bounce up and down.

Kids are sitting on the sidewalk in a circle: two girls and three boys, early twenties, scruffy, with backpacks, the classic look of we own our lives and we own the world, which they do. They are smoking cigarettes, their long hair escaping rubber bands and macramé bands on their ankles and wrists. A friend told me recently she thought Toby’s complaint with me is that I don’t mother her enough.

2024

Richard has been a subject in a study of type 1 diabetes for forty years. We’re in the city for his annual visit. I’m in the cafe of a bookstore, waiting for a friend. The seating is tight. You have to sit with strangers. Among the different ways there are to sit with strangers is the Toby way. It’s a little like everyone already knows you. You have already lived together all your lives. In New York City, this approach can be beautiful and can sometimes transform the way things are. I’m sitting here, feeling Toby enter me. I am her. I was always her. It’s not funny.

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