Page 74 of A Happy Catastrophe

He gets up off the floor. His body is stiff and sore, but for the first time in forever, he can’t stop smiling.

The return of health—who knew it could be like the end of the apocalypse, when the zombies return to their graves and the sun shines and people turn out to be not out to eat your brains after all? That you could go from hating food and drink and even light bulbs and televisions to thinking that something as mundane as cleaning the bathtub is truly a miracle.

He buys doughnuts and flowers at Paco’s. The day Fritzie goes back to school, he goes into his studio—a major test of the will, something he couldn’t have done even as recently as three days ago—and yes, there is a huge mess, there are the vestiges of sculpture, paints, canvases, wires, scalpels, and blowtorches, but he can look at all of it and not want to jump out of the window.

Anneliese doesn’t seem to be in there.

How can he explain that? Maybe he loaded her up when he loaded up all the artwork and took it to the Pierpont Gallery. Maybe when he came home that night after the opening, she didn’t come back with him. She may be still there in the gallery, greeting art patrons and keeping Pierpont company.

He starts putting things away, but then he stops. It’s all different in here somehow. Like there’s more air and space. He takes off the sheets and folds up the futon.

Then he looks at all the paints and clay and rags and canvases. There are things he wants to make. He grabs some clay and a putty knife. The sun is shining through the window, and he turns on music, and he lets the studio fill up with the Motown stylings of Marvin Gaye.

And then he just puts his brain aside and lets his hands take over and he makes stuff.

“Okay, so I have some questions for you,” Fritzie says. He’s washing the dishes, and she’s wandering around in a circle in the kitchen, making herself dizzy. This is how you know somebody’s well, he thinks. They don’t mind getting dizzy once again.

“Is this an interview?” he says.

“Nope. Just questions.”

“Okay, shoot.”

She is spinning around with her arms out, faster and faster, punctuating each spin with a word. “What. Happens. To. Kids. Who. Are. Really. Really. Bad. And. Nobody. Wants. Them?”

“I don’t know any kids like that,” he says.

“What if a kid ran away, would that be a really bad kid, do you think?”

“Wow. That’s a tough one. I guess I’d have to know why the kid ran away. Do you know a kid who’s done that?”

“Okay, another question then. Why is Marnie still gone for so long when her dad is better?”

“Um, because she . . . is helping her mom and dad get settled again, I think.” Because she’s furious with me.

“It’s March, Patrick. Is she coming back here?”

“She is.”

“When? I said when is she coming back here?”

“That I’m not sure about.”

“Is it tomorrow?”

“No.”

“The next day?”

“No.”

“The day after that?”

“I don’t really know.”

“You don’t ask her?”

“I, um, try to let her make her own decisions, and not pressure her.”

“Ah. You don’t want to pressure her.”

“Yep. I’m nice that way.”

“Patrick, we have to get Marnie to come back,” she says. “Here, I’m going to help you dry the dishes.” She gets a dish towel out and stands on her tiptoes and gets one of the plates out of the dish drainer and very carefully dries it. “This isn’t all that good here with her gone.”

“What? We’re doing okay, aren’t we?”

She laughs. “Patrick! We are not doing okay!”

“Wait. I’m hurt. We eat good meals, we play games sometimes, we keep the house pretty clean.”

“Nope, nope, nope,” she says. “We are not that good without Marnie. I think you should beg her to come back. Have you even asked her?”

“No,” he says. “It’s up to her.”

“Oh, Patrick.”

“You don’t know how it works,” he says.

“Okay, my last question,” she says. “This is a tough one, I gotta warn you.”

“I’m warned.”

“If my mum doesn’t want to come back, what’s going to happen to me?” She puts the dried plate very carefully on the kitchen table, centering it so it’s not too near the edge. He is touched by the fact that she won’t look at him and the precision with which she places the plate just so.

“Listen,” he says. He turns off the water. His voice might be shaking a little. “The adults in your life are going to figure things out. You don’t have to worry. It’s going to be okay. We’re all talking about what to do.”

“Okay,” she says, and her voice is quivering a bit, too. “Because when my mum called, you know, she said she’s not ready . . . she wants me to stay longer . . .”

“I know,” he says. He might be growling when he says it.

“Richard doesn’t really like me, you know. It’s okay and all that, but he doesn’t.”

“He’s an idiot then,” says Patrick, and then he’s shocked at himself. But he means it. She laughs a little bit and trots off to play with Bedford.

Later, after she’s gone to bed, he goes in and sits down next to her bed the way he did for so many nights when she was sick. God, what is wrong with him? The sight of her eyelashes on her cheeks makes him feel like crying.

Here’s what it is: he knows something he didn’t know before, that he’s going to figure out how to keep her. He doesn’t want to send her back to Tessa. In fact, he can’t.

He gets up and paces around the room. He woke up last night in the middle of the night thinking about Anneliese, and for the first time she wasn’t screaming, and he wasn’t feeling guilty toward her. She wafted away.

The streetlight is shining in the window, making a patch of light on the floor. The windows rattle like they’re rattling his bones. Why, he finds himself wondering, has he wasted so much time on guilt? Hell, he ran toward her in the fire, didn’t he? He tried to save her. He gave his utmost in that effort. What if . . . what if, like everybody kept saying to him, it really wasn’t his fault?

It wasn’t my fault, he thinks, experimentally. He sits down. I didn’t do anything wrong. I am a survivor.

He says the words again: I tried to save her.

He holds out his arms and looks at them. They look strong and capable, these hands, even with their scars and their uneven coloring. He remembers back before, before the fire, when he thought of himself as strong. He’s been contemptuous the last few years, thinking of that guy—but he was a good guy. He got stuff done.

He doesn’t have to hate himself for who he is.

He was strong for Blix when she was dying. And then he was strong for Marnie when she needed him, back when she first moved here, and through all the months of figuring out how to be a Brooklynite. He smiles, remembering how she acted like she’d come to a quaint but baffling foreign country or something, a place filled with mysterious hipsters and subways and scary radiators clanging in the darkness.

ts up off the floor. His body is stiff and sore, but for the first time in forever, he can’t stop smiling.

The return of health—who knew it could be like the end of the apocalypse, when the zombies return to their graves and the sun shines and people turn out to be not out to eat your brains after all? That you could go from hating food and drink and even light bulbs and televisions to thinking that something as mundane as cleaning the bathtub is truly a miracle.

He buys doughnuts and flowers at Paco’s. The day Fritzie goes back to school, he goes into his studio—a major test of the will, something he couldn’t have done even as recently as three days ago—and yes, there is a huge mess, there are the vestiges of sculpture, paints, canvases, wires, scalpels, and blowtorches, but he can look at all of it and not want to jump out of the window.

Anneliese doesn’t seem to be in there.

How can he explain that? Maybe he loaded her up when he loaded up all the artwork and took it to the Pierpont Gallery. Maybe when he came home that night after the opening, she didn’t come back with him. She may be still there in the gallery, greeting art patrons and keeping Pierpont company.

He starts putting things away, but then he stops. It’s all different in here somehow. Like there’s more air and space. He takes off the sheets and folds up the futon.

Then he looks at all the paints and clay and rags and canvases. There are things he wants to make. He grabs some clay and a putty knife. The sun is shining through the window, and he turns on music, and he lets the studio fill up with the Motown stylings of Marvin Gaye.

And then he just puts his brain aside and lets his hands take over and he makes stuff.

“Okay, so I have some questions for you,” Fritzie says. He’s washing the dishes, and she’s wandering around in a circle in the kitchen, making herself dizzy. This is how you know somebody’s well, he thinks. They don’t mind getting dizzy once again.

“Is this an interview?” he says.

“Nope. Just questions.”

“Okay, shoot.”

She is spinning around with her arms out, faster and faster, punctuating each spin with a word. “What. Happens. To. Kids. Who. Are. Really. Really. Bad. And. Nobody. Wants. Them?”

“I don’t know any kids like that,” he says.

“What if a kid ran away, would that be a really bad kid, do you think?”

“Wow. That’s a tough one. I guess I’d have to know why the kid ran away. Do you know a kid who’s done that?”

“Okay, another question then. Why is Marnie still gone for so long when her dad is better?”

“Um, because she . . . is helping her mom and dad get settled again, I think.” Because she’s furious with me.

“It’s March, Patrick. Is she coming back here?”

“She is.”

“When? I said when is she coming back here?”

“That I’m not sure about.”

“Is it tomorrow?”

“No.”

“The next day?”

“No.”

“The day after that?”

“I don’t really know.”

“You don’t ask her?”

“I, um, try to let her make her own decisions, and not pressure her.”

“Ah. You don’t want to pressure her.”

“Yep. I’m nice that way.”

“Patrick, we have to get Marnie to come back,” she says. “Here, I’m going to help you dry the dishes.” She gets a dish towel out and stands on her tiptoes and gets one of the plates out of the dish drainer and very carefully dries it. “This isn’t all that good here with her gone.”

“What? We’re doing okay, aren’t we?”

She laughs. “Patrick! We are not doing okay!”

“Wait. I’m hurt. We eat good meals, we play games sometimes, we keep the house pretty clean.”

“Nope, nope, nope,” she says. “We are not that good without Marnie. I think you should beg her to come back. Have you even asked her?”

“No,” he says. “It’s up to her.”

“Oh, Patrick.”

“You don’t know how it works,” he says.

“Okay, my last question,” she says. “This is a tough one, I gotta warn you.”

“I’m warned.”

“If my mum doesn’t want to come back, what’s going to happen to me?” She puts the dried plate very carefully on the kitchen table, centering it so it’s not too near the edge. He is touched by the fact that she won’t look at him and the precision with which she places the plate just so.

“Listen,” he says. He turns off the water. His voice might be shaking a little. “The adults in your life are going to figure things out. You don’t have to worry. It’s going to be okay. We’re all talking about what to do.”

“Okay,” she says, and her voice is quivering a bit, too. “Because when my mum called, you know, she said she’s not ready . . . she wants me to stay longer . . .”

“I know,” he says. He might be growling when he says it.

“Richard doesn’t really like me, you know. It’s okay and all that, but he doesn’t.”

“He’s an idiot then,” says Patrick, and then he’s shocked at himself. But he means it. She laughs a little bit and trots off to play with Bedford.

Later, after she’s gone to bed, he goes in and sits down next to her bed the way he did for so many nights when she was sick. God, what is wrong with him? The sight of her eyelashes on her cheeks makes him feel like crying.

Here’s what it is: he knows something he didn’t know before, that he’s going to figure out how to keep her. He doesn’t want to send her back to Tessa. In fact, he can’t.

He gets up and paces around the room. He woke up last night in the middle of the night thinking about Anneliese, and for the first time she wasn’t screaming, and he wasn’t feeling guilty toward her. She wafted away.

The streetlight is shining in the window, making a patch of light on the floor. The windows rattle like they’re rattling his bones. Why, he finds himself wondering, has he wasted so much time on guilt? Hell, he ran toward her in the fire, didn’t he? He tried to save her. He gave his utmost in that effort. What if . . . what if, like everybody kept saying to him, it really wasn’t his fault?

It wasn’t my fault, he thinks, experimentally. He sits down. I didn’t do anything wrong. I am a survivor.

He says the words again: I tried to save her.

He holds out his arms and looks at them. They look strong and capable, these hands, even with their scars and their uneven coloring. He remembers back before, before the fire, when he thought of himself as strong. He’s been contemptuous the last few years, thinking of that guy—but he was a good guy. He got stuff done.

He doesn’t have to hate himself for who he is.

He was strong for Blix when she was dying. And then he was strong for Marnie when she needed him, back when she first moved here, and through all the months of figuring out how to be a Brooklynite. He smiles, remembering how she acted like she’d come to a quaint but baffling foreign country or something, a place filled with mysterious hipsters and subways and scary radiators clanging in the darkness.

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