White Noise - Don Delillo [16]
He was almost whispering now and I tried to get up closer without ramming my cart into Babette’s. I wanted to hear everything.
“Supermarkets this large and clean and modern are a revelation to me. I spent my life in small steamy delicatessens with slanted display cabinets full of trays that hold soft wet lumpy matter in pale colors. High enough cabinets so you had to stand on tiptoes to give your order. Shouts, accents. In cities no one notices specific dying. Dying is a quality of the air. It’s everywhere and nowhere. Men shout as they die, to be noticed, remembered for a second or two. To die in an apartment instead of a house can depress the soul, I would imagine, for several lives to come. In a town there are houses, plants in bay windows. People notice dying better. The dead have faces, automobiles. If you don’t know a name, you know a street name, a dog’s name. ‘He drove an orange Mazda.’ You know a couple of useless things about a person that become major facts of identification and cosmic placement when he dies suddenly, after a short illness, in his own bed, with a comforter and matching pillows, on a rainy Wednesday afternoon, feverish, a little congested in the sinuses and chest, thinking about his dry cleaning.”
Babette said, “Where is Wilder?” and turned to stare at me in a way that suggested ten minutes had passed since she’d last seen him. Other looks, less pensive and less guilty, indicated greater time spans, deeper seas of inattention. Like: “I didn’t know whales were mammals.” The greater the time span, the blanker the look, the more dangerous the situation. It was as if guilt were a luxury she allowed herself only when the danger was minimal.
“How could he get out of the cart without my noticing?”
The three adults each stood at the head of an aisle and peered into the traffic of carts and gliding bodies. Then we did three more aisles, heads set forward, weaving slightly as we changed our sightlines. I kept seeing colored spots off to the right but when I turned there was nothing there. I’d been seeing colored spots for years but never so many, so gaily animated. Murray saw Wilder in another woman’s cart. The woman waved at Babette and headed toward us. She lived on our
street with a teenage daughter and an Asian baby, Chun Duc. Everyone referred to the baby by name, almost in a tone of proud proprietorship, but no one knew who Chun belonged to or where he or she had come from.
“Kleenex Softique, Kleenex Softique.”
Steffie was holding my hand in a way I’d come to realize, over a period of time, was not meant to be gently possessive, as I’d thought at first, but reassuring. I was a little astonished. A firm grip that would help me restore confidence in myself, keep me from becoming resigned to whatever melancholy moods she thought she detected hovering about my person.
Before Murray went to the express line he invited us to dinner, a week from Saturday.
“You don’t have to let me know till the last minute.”
“We’ll be there,” Babette said.
“I’m not preparing anything major, so just call beforehand and tell me if something else came up. You don’t even have to call. If you don’t show up, I’ll know that something came up and you couldn’t let me know.”
“Murray, we’ll be there.”
“Bring the kids.”
“No.”
“Great. But if you decide to bring them, no problem. I don’t want you to feel I’m holding you to something. Don’t feel you’ve made an ironclad commitment. You’ll show up or you won’t. I have to eat anyway, so there’s no major catastrophe if something comes up and you have to cancel. I just want you to know I’ll be there if you decide to drop by, with or without kids. We have till next May or June to do this thing so there’s no special mystique about a week from Saturday.”
“Are you coming back next semester?” I said.
“They want me to teach a course in the cinema of car crashes.”
“Do it.”
“I will.”
I rubbed against Babette in the checkout line. She backed into me and I reached around her and put my hands on her breasts. She rotated her