Good to Make a Habit of it by Molly Anders
Editorial intern Megan Poe on today’s short: Molly Anders’ "Good to Make a Habit of It" is humorously serious. Delectably irreverent. A unique perspective on grief. An avant-garde interpretation of death. Anders' surgical nuances of friendships and the arbitrariness of life illustrate to us the weird things we care about and the important things we don't.
good to make a habit of it
We go down to visit our friend Tina, who is dying.
A week ago she called to break the news. Over brunch we took a vote and agreed: OK, fine, we’ll go along with it.
Tina’s living room is crammed with memorabilia, that pretty confluence of time and capitalism. On the mantle Tina or Tina’s helpers have positioned a gilded, ancient framed photo of the four of us on a ladies’ weekend to Myrtle Beach. “Is that even us?” Joy says. “I don’t remember that at all.” But I remember. The ladies’ weekend had served double-duty as a bachelorette celebration for Tina, who was about to drop into marriage from a dizzying altitude. We suspected what was coming, and so we doubled-up the weekend as a two-day toast to our four-way bond, which has so far outlasted that marriage by about seven hundred percent.
“My women,” Tina says, coming into the living room. Her nightgown is light-catching and atmospheric, scratchy probably, but her skin is good, warm with life. Her feathered, eighties hair-do is an anachronism but hey, so is death.
“Really I lived pretty well, didn’t I? The right ratio of fucks to heartbreaks, all of that stuff?”
“Yes, definitely,” Joy says, patting her hand. “Plus a lot of really good cheese.”
“The best, the very best cheese,” I agree.
The journey from the bedroom has worn her out. A wheeze rises in her chest like a rancid wish. “Has anyone heard from Eliot?”
None of us has. Eliot is husband number three, though we all think he should’ve been number one. Certain immunizations you should get out of the way early, before your body weakens and what should be a simple prick becomes full-blown yellow fever.
“Forget Eliot,” I say. “Let’s celebrate you.”
One of Tina’s helpers brings out champagne on a tray.
“I think he’s in Nevada again. Maybe New Mexico. One of those dry, dusty places. When he called he sounded country-western.”
Tina’s Eliot is a voice actor for T.V. commercials. Being trained in theatre arts he is an excellent mimic, often without realizing it. Sometimes you can tell who he’s sleeping with by the way he languishes over his As and Es or whether or not he hedges his i-n-gs. No one is yet blaming Eliot for Tina’s decline, but it’s still early. Guilt and blame are late-risers.
The truth is, Tina’s life has not been easy. Her parents left her at an early age. The foster system found alternatives right away—she has always been a diaphanous, blonde cutie, with a wide forehead and acid-blue eyes—but then her new foster parents died in a car accident when she was only a teenager. From there she just tried to take care. Got herself to college. She even managed a PhD, a private psychiatric practice uptown. But like all chronically lonely people her heart was a clearance bin; free and open for just about anybody to rummage through. What she has now is us, her loving friends, this roomy apartment with its high windows and, as mentioned, a knack for throwing together a cheese plate.
She cups each of our faces in her hands. “I am so lucky to have known and loved you,” she says. She tells us, “Who cares? Death? What’s the big deal?” We praise her tearfully for her wide open attitude.
At the end of the visit we stand in the hallway waiting for her to do or say something else. Some kind of sacrament or prophesy, something we can carry into our own doom. Maybe a gift bag. Instead she just smiles. “Until next time,” she says, and slams the door.
On the two-hour train journey home Joy picks up a foul mood.
“Why is this stupid track so bumpy?”
Then: “They’re out of candied pecans again, for fuck’s sake.”
Then: “My God, what is the point? Why does Tina need to bring us into it?”
You have to be careful with Joy when she gets like this. I think it comes from too many deaths. All that going down and down and down, then having to stop short while they go on without you, down and down.
“Because we’re her friends, Joy. We’re all she has.”
“I feel a little hustled.”
“That’s OK,” I tell her. “Death is a hustle. It’s a pyramid scheme and we humans are at the very bottom. Who knows who’s pulling the strings but he or she is undoubtedly a very slick customer.” I try to take her hand but she yanks away, gathers her stuff and moves into the vestibule as the train pulls into our stop.
Two weeks later our visit goes pretty much the same. The same tasseled nightgown, Tina’s dry palms on our cheeks.
Two weeks after that, her helper is a different woman.
Then the next time, we bring bottles of wine.
It’s raining on the following visit and Tina is late, soaking from head to toe in a pantsuit, no time to change into the nightgown.
Two weeks after that, I don’t remember. It went fine probably. Another time, there was coffee. The snow makes everybody sleepy.
One time someone brings a bag of crullers, two for one at the bakery.
One week Stephanie’s mother dies, so we postpone for the following week.
Other than that, the visits go smoothly. Year after year after year.
“I can’t take it,” Joy says on another train ride home. “Obviously, she’s not dying. She looks fabulous. I don’t have time for this. What’s the point?”
We all nod, eyes closed, minds open to the eternal mysteries.
Not long after, at her office, Joy has an aneurysm. Perfect health. A freak occurrence, the doctor tells us; hidden wires fraying in the damp dark of her brain. We try to visit her—just one lonely visit to say goodbye—but by the time we get dressed, get the wine and pick Tina up from the train station, it’s too late.
“Such a shame,” We say, taking turns patting Joy’s cold cheek. It is a shame. All that practice for nothing.
Molly Anders is a fiction writer from Kentucky. Her short stories have appeared or are forthcoming from Ploughshares, North American Review, Cimarron Review, The Stinging Fly, Tin House and elsewhere. She is currently a fiction fellow at the Fine Arts Work Center in Provincetown. She tweets @andmollu and you can find her on Instagram @andmollys
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