Liz thinks, I have no idea what enough time would be. How long does it take to say goodbye to everything and everyone you've ever known? Does it take twentyfive minutes, a little longer than a sitcom without the commercials? Who knows? "Yes, thank you," she says, closing her hand around the coins.
In the elevator, Liz stands next to a willowy blonde in a black shift dress. The woman sobs quiedy, but in a way that is meant to attract attention.
"Are you all right?" Liz asks her.
"No, I most certainly am not." The woman stares at Liz with bloodshot eyes.
"Did you die just recently?"
"I don't know," the woman says, "but I prefer to grieve alone, if you don't mind."
Liz nods. She's sorry she even asked.
A moment later, the woman continues. "I'm in mourning for my life and I'm more unhappy than you can even imagine." The woman puts on a pair of black cat-eye sunglasses. So adorned, she continues to weep for the remainder of the elevator ride.
This Observation Deck, or OD, looks almost exactly like the one on the SS Nile except it is smaller. The room has windows on all sides, lined with a tidy row of binoculars. Liz notes that not everyone who visits the OD is as unhappy as the weeping woman on the elevator.
A plump middle-aged woman with a bad perm sits in a glass box by the elevator. She waves the weeping woman through the turnstile that separates the OD from the elevator. The weeping woman nods curtly and checks her reflection in the attendant's glass box.
"That woman's in love with her own grief," the attendant says, shaking her head. "Some people just love all that drama." She turns to Liz. "You're new, so I'll give you my little spiel. Our hours are seven a.m. to ten p.m., Monday through Friday, ten a.m. to twelve a.m. Saturday, and seven a.m. to seven p.m. Sunday. We're open three hundred sixty-five days a year, including holidays.
One eternim gets you five minutes of time, and you can buy as much time as you want. The price is not negotiable. Whether you want five minutes or five hundred minutes, the rate is the same.
The operation of the binoculars should be like ones you've encountered before. Just press the side button for a different view, turn the eyepieces to adjust focus, and pivot the head as necessary. I'm Esther, by the way."
"Liz."
"You just get here, Liz?" Esther asks.
"How can you tell?"
"You have that shell-shocked, recently arrived look about you. Don't worry, honey. It'll pass, I promise. What'd you die of?"
"Hit by a car. And you?" Liz asks politely.
"Alzheimer's disease, but I guess it was the pneumonia that really did me in," Esther answers.
"What was that like?"
"Can't say I remember," Esther says with a laugh, "and that's probably just as well."
Liz selects Binoculars #15, which faces the land. After all the time on the Nile, Liz has grown tired of water. She sits on the hard metal stool and places an eternim in the slot.
Liz watches her family first. Her parents are sitting across from each other on opposite sides of the dining room table. Her mother looks like she's been awake for days. She smokes a cigarette, even though she'd quit when she became pregnant with Liz. Her father appears to be doing the New York Times crossword puzzle, but he isn't really. He just keeps tracing over the same answer (chauvinism) with his pencil until he's pierced the newspaper all the way through and is writing on the tablecloth. In the living room, Alvy watches cartoons, even though it's a school night and her parents don't allow Liz and her brother to watch television on school nights, no exceptions. The phone rings. Liz's mother jumps to answer it. At that moment, the binoculars'
lenses click closed.
By the time Liz puts a second eternim in the slot, her mother is off the phone. Alvy enters the dining room, wearing a ceramic flowerpot on his head. "I'm a pothead!" he announces proudly.
"Take that off!" her mother screams at Alvy. "Arthur, make your son behave!"
"Alvy, take the pot off your head," Liz's father says in a measured voice.
"But I'm a pothead!" Alvy persists, even though his joke is not at all playing.
"Alvy, I'm warning you." Liz's father is serious now.
"Oh, all right." Alvy removes the pot and leaves the room.
Thirty seconds later, Alvy is back. This time he carries an old wicker Easter basket in his mouth.
"Urmph uf raket ash," says Alvy.
"Now what?" Liz's mother asks.
"Urmph uf rasket ace," Alvy repeats with improved enunciation.
"Alvy, take the basket out of your mouth," Liz's father says. "No one can understand you."
Alvy obeys. "I'm a basket case, get it?"
Alvy is met with blank stares.
"I'm carrying a basket in my mouth, so I'm a basket case "
Liz's father takes the basket with one hand and tousles Alvy's hair with the other. "We all miss Lizzie, but that's really no way to honor your sister."
"Why?" Alvy asks.
"Well, prop comedy has traditionally been viewed as the lowest form of humor, son," Liz's father says in his teaching voice.
"But I'm a basket case," Alvy says plaintively. "Like Mom," he adds.
The lenses click shut before Liz gets to see her mother's reaction. With her next coin, Liz decides to watch someone else. She settles on Zooey.
Zooey is sitting on her bed, talking on the phone. Her eyes are red from crying. "I just can't believe she's gone," Zooey says.
Now this is more like it, Liz thinks. At least someone knows how to mourn properly. Liz can't hear the other side of the conversation but feels sufficiently gratified by Zooey's grief to continue listening.
"I broke up with John. I mean, if he hadn't asked me to the prom, I wouldn't have told Liz to meet me at the mall, and she wouldn't be . . ." Her voice trails off.
"No!" Zooey says adamantly. "I do not want to go!" And then, a moment later in a softer voice, "Besides, I don't even have a dress ..." Zooey twirls the phone cord around her ankle with her foot. "Well, there was this black strapless one ..." The lenses click shut.
Her last two eternims later, Liz is still not sure whether Zooey will or will not go to prom. During that time, Zooey does cry twice. Her tears make Liz happy. (Liz is only a little ashamed that her best friend's tears make her happy.)
At first, Liz feels bad about listening in on her loved ones, but the feeling doesn't last long. She rationalizes that she is really doing this for them. Liz imagines herself as a beautiful, benevolent, generous angel looking down on everyone from . . . from wherever she is.
Leaving the lighthouse that night, Liz realizes that it will take many more eternims to follow the goings on of all her friends and family. (She spent three whole eternims on that small portion of Zooey's phone conversation alone.) If she isn't going to get totally behind, she calculates that she will probably need at least twentyfour eternims a day, or two hours, which amounts to five minutes for every one hour of real life.
"I'm going to need some eternims," Liz announces to Betty during the short drive back to Betty's house, "and I was hoping you would lend them to me."