Pangs of Love

B agel's house is white. Even the oak floors have been bleached white. A stranger in a white turtleneck and white pleated trousers opens the door. He's very blond, with dazzling teeth and a jawline that's an archeologist's dream. "Well, look who's here," he says, "the brother, et al." We shake hands, and he says his name's Nino. Nino leads us to the sun-washed living room and introduces us to Mack, who's sprawled over a couch with the Times. My mother whispers that she'd warned my brother against buying a white couch because it wouldn't "withstand the dirt," but she's surprised at how clean it looks. Mack's dressed like Deborah, and this depresses me. "Billy," Nino says in a loud singsong, "big bro and Mommy's here."

Jamie of the two-seater comes into the living room. He hugs my mother, shakes my hand, and nods at Deborah. He's in a white terry-cloth robe and Italian loafers, and offers us coffee. Down the hallway someone starts to run a shower.

While Jamie grinds coffee beans in the kitchen, Nino says, "I had the worst night's sleep." He's stretched out on the other couch, his hand cupped over his eyes. "What a shock to the system, it was so damn quiet. How do the chipmunks stand it?" Then my brother makes his entrance decked out in hound's-tooth slacks, tight turquoise tennis shirt, and black-and-white saddle shoes. "God, Billy," Nino says, "you always look so pulled together."

Hugs and kisses all the way around. Bagel's got bulk. He pumps iron. I feel as if I'm holding a steer.

"Ah-Ba-ko," my mother says, once we have resettled in our seats, "come and see." She leans forward in her easy chair, a white plastic shopping bag of goodies from Chinatown at her feet. "I told her not to," I say as she unloads bundles of raw greens and paper boats of dumplings onto the armrests. When she magically lifts the roast duck from the bag, soy sauce drips from the take-out container and lands on the chair, spotting the off-white fabric. Bagel has a fit: "I invite you to dinner and you bring dinner."

"So what else is new?" I hear Deborah say.

Within seconds, Nino, Mack, Jamie, and Bagel converge on the stains with sponges, Palmolive dishwashing detergent, paper towels, and a pot of water. An eight-armed upholstery patrol.

Soon after, we're having Jamie's coffee and nibbling on my mother's dumplings, which Bagel has arranged beautifully on a Chinese-looking platter, as much a conciliatory gesture as it is his way of doing things.

"Bette Davis was buried yesterday," Mack says, from behind the paper.

"Really." says Nino. "God, now there's a lady. Hollywood heaven, open your gates. May she rest... in...peace. "

"What eyes she had," says Jamie, "like two full moons."

"Old buz eyes," Deborah says. Nino makes a hissing sound. We all look at Deborah.

"Oh, hell," Nino finally says, "what does she know?"

"How old was she?" my brother asks before Deborah can answer Nino back.

"Who knows? I saw her on Johnny Carson and she looked like hell."

"Johnny Cahson? He said Johnny Cahson, right" My mother giggles, thrilled she understood a bit of our conversation.

Bagel rolls his eyes at me like Johnny. I shrug my shoulders as if to say, I didn't invite her to the party. "I wanted so badly for Bette to be beautiful, but she looked like leftovers that even the cat won't touch. I swear I cried, she was such a mess."

"He did," says Mack. "Poor Nino, it was tragic. He cried the biggest tears ever. But you have to admit, she still had those fabulous eyes."

"Sure, eyes. The rest of her had been run over by Hurricane Hugo. "

"I saw that show,"Jamie says. "Her mind was still there. She was very sharp. "

"Oh sure," says Nino, "so's broken glass." Deborah laughs; then my mother laughs. "What is she laughing about?" my mother asks through her own laughter. I shake my head to quiet her down.

Bagel holds up a gray-skinned dumpling to the ceiling. A toast: he says, "What Ever Happened to Baby Jane?"

"Jezebel," says Jamie.

"All About Eve."

"Kid Galahad," I say.

"Oooo, that has Edward G. Robinson in it," Nino says.

Bagel's cat, Judy, and her husband, Vavoom, enter the living room, led by their noses. My mother surreptitiously plunks a shrimp dumpling on each armrest. She sees I see her doing this, and I scowl at her and she scowls back, then covers her gold mine with her hand as she breaks into a smile. She's surrounded by cats. "Look! What an adorable picture!" says Nino. "Judy, Vavoom, and Mrs. Pang, the goddess of treats." Then he adds, "Truthfully, I wouldn't give away any of these delicacies to cats; I wouldn't give any to Bette, even if she begged from her deathbed. Mrs. Pang, you've made lifelong friends." My mother, hearing her name, looks up from the cats, but the dim heat of her eyes tells everyone she's understood little else. "Silly me," Nino says, "did I say something?"

Bagel's a commercial artist, Nino's a jewelry designer, Mack's a book editor, Jamie's a city attorney. During a lull in the conversation, which we 611 by watching the cats walk across my mother's lap from one armrest to the other, Jamie asks what's new at my job. I consider the Kyoto- Musk 838/Lot No. i9I443759gI-3e affair, but realize if I mention Mandy's name my mother will start in on me. So, instead, I improvise: "The rumor going around the lab," I begin, "says the chemists are developing a spray for the homeless, a time-release formula that'll simulate, in succession, the smell of a living room in a Scarsdale Tudor, a regular coffee (cream and one sugar), a roast-beef dinner, and fresh sheets washed in Tide."

"How ingenious!" Nino says. "The nose is such an amazing organ."

"When someone asks you for change," says Mack, "you give him a squirt of the comforts of home."

"Picture this, a panhandler in a subway car: 'Spare spray, spare spray?' "

"This is sick," says Deborah.

"I'm just giving you the latest gossip," I say. "The other rumor is that the city plans to distribute the stuff to the homeless."

"Cheaper than shelters, I suppose," Mack says.

"This is news to me," says Jamie, the city attorney. "But I wouldn't put it past the mayor's office. Remember those prints of potted flowers the city put in the windows of abandoned buildings up in Harlem?"

He pours himself a cup of coffee. "I'm working on a homeless case right now," he says. "This couple, the Montezumas, show up at Bellevue one day. They're carrying one of those Express Mail envelopes and inside there's a baby, hot and sticky from being born, the cord still on. She's purple, in real trouble. The doctors hook:her up to machines, but in a few days she dies. Only she doesn't look dead. The machines pump air into her lungs, and somehow her heart keeps beating."

"Then she's alive," I say.

"No, she looks alive, but that's what Montezuma claims. Her chest goes up and down. But her brain doesn't register a single blip on the screen. Specialists are called in, and they tell Montezuma the same story. But Montezuma says God is testing us all, and he won't let the hospital pull the plug. Meanwhile the city is footing the bill. More specialists are consulted; Montezuma still refuses to sign the forms, so finally the city steps in and turns off the juice. The next thing you know, half the attorneys in town are fighting for the chance to sue the city, and I have lots of work."