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Authors: Alice Mattison
have thought about. This is my only contribution to philosophy. This is the Three Levels of Stuff.
Deborah laughed. I like the way you say stuff. You have a Brooklyn accent.
âI do not, said Ruben, though she was from Brooklyn. She had worked out the Three Levels of Stuff when Squirrel was first born, during those frenzied, lonely weeks. There are three levels of stuff, she said. First level: food, shit, and sleep.
âSex?
âI donât know about sex. She hadnât thought about sex when Squirrel was first born.
âGo on. Second level?
They walked. Let me explain third level first. Third level: art, maybe God, death.
âThe spirit.
âThe spirit, said Ruben. First level things make you think of third level things. When you take care of a baby you know he could die.
âI think sex is both, said Deborah. Itâs both first level and third level.
âMaybe.
âBut whatâs second level? said Deborah.
âSecond level, said Ruben. Second level is offices.
âOffices?
Where Harry had rushed when she was frantic because the baby had vomited in the wrong way, the dangerous, possibly fatal way sheâd read about. Where she pictured Harry stopping as he walked downâ a corridor in which the sun made squares on the floor, holding a file folder open in his right hand, reading something slightly unsatisfying that had just been typed.
Ruben said, Offices exist so the people in them can forget about death. Like the place where you get a dog license.
âOh, I want a dog! said Deborah.
âOh, me, too.
Ruben couldnât remember why she started to talk about the Three Levels of Stuff, but Deborah said, So you think teaching is second level, and that was why. Deborah continued, But teaching can be third level. Teaching proves the existence of God.
âNow how is that? But Squirrel cried. And when he stopped, after Ruben shook him back to sleep, bouncing as she walked, Deborah turned, bigly and warmly, to Ruben, her mouth open in a loose oblong, her light hair on her face. Are all mothers afraid? she said.
âI donât know. But Iâm glad I found you. Since I am and you are.
âOh, yes, said Deborah. But sometimes I think we talk each other into it.
Ruben felt a stricture in her throat. You want to take this walk? Itâs not too tiring?
âMaybe we should turn back now, said Deborah, and Ruben said little on the way back.
Â
Â
When the sleepy sitter had a toothache, Ruben brought Squirrel to class again. He cried and she nursed him. The group argued about breast-feeding. Lily said, Nobodyâs eating from my breast but my boyfriend.
âThat is so foolish, girl, said Mary. Forget you said that, before you think how foolish it is.
After class, Ruben didnât need to hurry. Let me see where you work, she said to Lily.
Lily led her, with Squirrel in her arms, upstairs where small children ran, mothers talked, teachers shoutedâsome affectionately, some coldly. A woman reached to touch Squirrel. Then Emma came out of a classroom, carrying two babies.
âEmma, Emma, why donât you come to school? said Ruben. But Squirrel was crying. She bounced him on her arm, but he cried.
âIt didnât work out, said Emma. She smiled indulgently. It just didnât work out.
âBut I want you.
âThatâs nice of you to say. Emma had a big body. The babies she held were both black, and Ruben felt outnumbered. Emma waited to find out whether Ruben wanted to say some-thing else, as they listened to Squirrel cry, and then she said, Naps for my honeys, here, hoisting the babies higher and letting them settle. One laughed. And she crossed the hall and went into another room.
âOh, drag her by the hair, Deborah said that night on the phone.
âIâm going to go up and drag Emma down by the hair, Ruben said to the rest of her group, before the next class.
âDonât you touch her hair, girl, she spends
Deborah laughed. I like the way you say stuff. You have a Brooklyn accent.
âI do not, said Ruben, though she was from Brooklyn. She had worked out the Three Levels of Stuff when Squirrel was first born, during those frenzied, lonely weeks. There are three levels of stuff, she said. First level: food, shit, and sleep.
âSex?
âI donât know about sex. She hadnât thought about sex when Squirrel was first born.
âGo on. Second level?
They walked. Let me explain third level first. Third level: art, maybe God, death.
âThe spirit.
âThe spirit, said Ruben. First level things make you think of third level things. When you take care of a baby you know he could die.
âI think sex is both, said Deborah. Itâs both first level and third level.
âMaybe.
âBut whatâs second level? said Deborah.
âSecond level, said Ruben. Second level is offices.
âOffices?
Where Harry had rushed when she was frantic because the baby had vomited in the wrong way, the dangerous, possibly fatal way sheâd read about. Where she pictured Harry stopping as he walked downâ a corridor in which the sun made squares on the floor, holding a file folder open in his right hand, reading something slightly unsatisfying that had just been typed.
Ruben said, Offices exist so the people in them can forget about death. Like the place where you get a dog license.
âOh, I want a dog! said Deborah.
âOh, me, too.
Ruben couldnât remember why she started to talk about the Three Levels of Stuff, but Deborah said, So you think teaching is second level, and that was why. Deborah continued, But teaching can be third level. Teaching proves the existence of God.
âNow how is that? But Squirrel cried. And when he stopped, after Ruben shook him back to sleep, bouncing as she walked, Deborah turned, bigly and warmly, to Ruben, her mouth open in a loose oblong, her light hair on her face. Are all mothers afraid? she said.
âI donât know. But Iâm glad I found you. Since I am and you are.
âOh, yes, said Deborah. But sometimes I think we talk each other into it.
Ruben felt a stricture in her throat. You want to take this walk? Itâs not too tiring?
âMaybe we should turn back now, said Deborah, and Ruben said little on the way back.
Â
Â
When the sleepy sitter had a toothache, Ruben brought Squirrel to class again. He cried and she nursed him. The group argued about breast-feeding. Lily said, Nobodyâs eating from my breast but my boyfriend.
âThat is so foolish, girl, said Mary. Forget you said that, before you think how foolish it is.
After class, Ruben didnât need to hurry. Let me see where you work, she said to Lily.
Lily led her, with Squirrel in her arms, upstairs where small children ran, mothers talked, teachers shoutedâsome affectionately, some coldly. A woman reached to touch Squirrel. Then Emma came out of a classroom, carrying two babies.
âEmma, Emma, why donât you come to school? said Ruben. But Squirrel was crying. She bounced him on her arm, but he cried.
âIt didnât work out, said Emma. She smiled indulgently. It just didnât work out.
âBut I want you.
âThatâs nice of you to say. Emma had a big body. The babies she held were both black, and Ruben felt outnumbered. Emma waited to find out whether Ruben wanted to say some-thing else, as they listened to Squirrel cry, and then she said, Naps for my honeys, here, hoisting the babies higher and letting them settle. One laughed. And she crossed the hall and went into another room.
âOh, drag her by the hair, Deborah said that night on the phone.
âIâm going to go up and drag Emma down by the hair, Ruben said to the rest of her group, before the next class.
âDonât you touch her hair, girl, she spends
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