THENEWYORKER,AUGUST 5 &12, 2019 63
“You’re getting married?” His voice was
quiet now. In an even quieter voice, he
said, “Mommy. You’re getting married?”
Olive nodded quickly. “I am, Chris.”
He kept shaking his head in small
gestures, slowly, just kept shaking it and
shaking it. “I don’t understand. I don’t get
this, Mom. Why are you getting married?”
“Because we’re two lonely old people
and we want to be together.”
“Then be together! But why get mar-
ried? Mom?”
“Chris, what difference does it make?”
He leaned forward and said—his voice
sounded almost menacing—“If it doesn’t
make any difference, then why are you
doing it?”
“I meant, to you. What difference
does it make to you?” But, horribly, Olive
now felt a niggling of doubt. Why was
she marrying Jack? What difference did
it make?
Christopher said, “Mom, you invited
us up here just to tell us that, didn’t you?
I can’t believe it.”
“I invited you up here because I
wanted to see you. I haven’t seen you
since your father’s funeral.”
Christopher was glaring at her. “You
invited us up here to tell us you were
getting married. Unfuckingbelievable.”
Then he said, “Mom, you have never
invited us up here.”
“I didn’t need to invite you, Chris.
You’re my son. This is your home.”
And then the color returned to his
face. “This is not my home,” he said,
looking around. “Oh, my God.” He shook
his head slowly. “Oh, my God.” He stood
up. “That’s why it looks so different.
You’re moving out. Are you going to
move into his house? Of course you are.
And sell this one? Oh, my God, Mom.”
He turned to look at her. “When are
you getting married?”
“Soon,” she said.
“Is there going to be a wedding?”
“No wedding,” she said. “We’ll go to
town hall.”
He walked to the stairs. “Good night,”
he said.
“Chris!”
He turned.
Olive stood up. “Your language is de-
plorable. You said at your father’s funeral
that the man never swore.”
Christopher stared at her. “Mom,
you’re killing me,” he said.
“Well, Jack is coming over in the
morning to meet you before you all
leave.” She was suddenly furious. “Good
night,” she said.S
he could hear, almost immediately,
Christopher and Ann talking; she
could not hear what they said—she
was sitting in the living room—but
the sound of their voices came to her
steadily. Finally, she rose and slowly,
very quietly, went and stood by the stairs.
“Always been a narcissist, Chris, you
know that.” And then Chris answered,
“But Jesus Christ,” and something more,
and Olive turned and went just as slowly
and quietly back to her chair in the liv-
ing room. In her room later that night,
she kept thinking about the word “nar-
cissist,” which she knew the meaning
of, naturally, but did she really know
the meaning? She looked at her com-
puter, finding the word “narcissism” in
the dictionary. “Self-admiration,” it said,
then, “personality disorder.” She closed
the computer. Olive didn’t understand
this; she really didn’t. Self-admiration?
Olive felt no admiration of herself! Per-
sonality disorder? Given the extensive
and widespread array of human emo-
tions, why was anything considered a
personality disorder? And who had
come up with such a term?
She got into bed, though she did not
expect to sleep, and she did not sleep.
She took from her bedside drawer a
little transistor radio, and she turned it
on low and held it to her ear, lying withit that way. The entire night went by and
she stared at the dark, shifting only a few
times. She watched the red digital clock,
and she clung to her little radio, but she
heard every word that came from it and
understood that she had not even dozed.
When it was light, she got up and
dressed and went downstairs. She put
the milk and three bowls of Cheerios on
the table. Glancing in the small mirror
by the doorway, she saw that she had the
red-eyed look of a prisoner.“Hi, Mom,” Christopher said, appear-
ing in the kitchen. “What time is he com-
ing over? Because we have a long drive.”
“I’ll call him right now,” Olive said,
and she did. “Hello, Jack,” she said. “Can
you come over now? They have a long
drive and want to get started. Wonder-
ful. See you soon.” She hung up.
“Oh, kids, look what Grandma did.”
Ann came in holding the baby. “She got
your cereal out.” The children did not
look at her—Olive noticed—but sat
down, Theodore and Annabelle balanced
together on one chair, and ate their ce-
real. They made terrible smacking sounds.
Little Henry banged his spoon on the
table, then smiled at Olive as milk and
Cheerios sprayed through the air.
“Henry,” Ann murmured. And Little
Henry said, “Airplane!,” and took the
spoon and rode it through the air.A
s soon as Olive saw Jack’s car pull-
ing into the driveway she realized
that Jack—of course—was driving his
sports car, and she hoped Christopher
wouldn’t see it. When Jack knocked on
the door, and she let him in, she saw that
he was wearing his suède coat, and she
thought he looked rich, and sly. But he
had the sense not to kiss her.
“Jack,” she said. “Hello. Come and
meet my son. And his wife,” she added.
And then, “And their kids.”
Jack gave a small bow in his ironic
way, his eyes twinkling, as they often did,
and he followed her into the living room.
“Hello, Christopher,” he said, and he held
out his hand. Christopher rose slowly
from his chair and said, “Hello.” He shook
Jack’s hand as though it were a dead fish
he had been offered.
“Oh, come on now, Chris.” The words
were out of Olive’s mouth before she re-
alized what she had done.
Christopher looked at her with open
surprise. “Come on?” He said this loudly.
“Come on? Jesus, Mom. What do you
mean, ‘Oh, come on now, Chris’?”
“I just meant—” And Olive under-
stood that she had been frightened of
her son for years.
“Oh, stop it, Christopher! Stop it,
for Christ’s sake!” This was Ann’s voice;
she had walked into the room after
Olive, and Olive, turning toward her,
was amazed to see that Ann’s face was
red. Her lips seemed bigger, her eyes
seemed bigger, and she said, again, “Stop