It was because she got so angry that he found out he could fly.
They had the fight, if you could call it a fight, at breakfast. She had certainly called it a fight. Her anger had flamed through the house and left the doors and curtains smoking, then poured out and filled the whole garden, set it quivering and flashing. He just left the house because he wasn't hungry anymore. He walked all the way down by the river and sat on a rock and tried to think how the fight had started but he couldn't remember so he tried to think how the fight had gone and it made his head ache so he just sat on the rock and stared and threw sticks at the river.
She stayed. She worked in the garden.
She worked under the fruit trees, pulling up big handfuls of grass from around the edges of the flowers and throwing them hard into the wheelbarrow. She was trimming the grass with her hands but she did not care.
She could remember the fight very well, how it had gone as well as how it had begun, and she was not ready not to be angry. He had stared out the window when she was trying to tell him how sad the days and days of rain were making her and finally, when she said something sharp, he had just turned his head the tiniest bit and said, well, the sun is out now, so that's fine, isn't it? and smiled before he turned away again to his window staring. He never looks at me, she thought, he never sees me really. He never hangs on to what is important, she told herself, he doesn't know what's real. She was so deep in remembering how hurtful he had been with all that ignoring that she actually grabbed the snake in her hands before she saw it. It was moving in her hands and she was bringing them up to her face to see what was moving in the long green strands. If she had been thinking she never would have brought some moving garden thing so close to her face. But her mind was all on her hurt, and the snake was right there before she thought clearly about it.
Down at the river he heard her screaming.
He stood up and stood still for a few seconds, only for a few seconds before he was there, somehow, there in the garden. It was another moment, only another moment before he found her where she was behind the wheelbarrow. Then he was holding her, running his hands over her and over her but there was nothing, no reason for the scream, for the shaking and the stiff, jerking breaths she took, gasping and ragged. That was where all the time went, that was what cost him.
By the time he found the two holes in her arm her lips were blue and her hands were cold. It was that her sleeve had fallen over the place the snake had fastened when it twisted in her hands, when she peered at it without knowing what it was she saw. The sleeve cost him the time. The sleeve, and the snake that bit and slid completely away so he never thought to look for a bite, never thought about it at all. That, and he just couldn't believe in a snake in the garden. They never saw snakes in her garden. Down by the river, yes, snakes by the river, but not in the garden. He tried to shake it out of his head. He had gone down to the snakes and the snake had come to her in the garden.
Later, when he tried to talk it out, when he tried to tell people how it happened, they set their hands heavy on his shoulder and nodded in silence. Yes, her sleeve. Yes, the wheelbarrow. Yes. The snake. He was bewildered. He said the same things over and over again. He should have gotten a dog to live in her garden. He should have brought a dog to lie by her and to protect her and to be there when he was working or traveling or sitting throwing sticks into the river. Snakes don't like a dog. She had said no dogs in the house, a dog had to live outside, and he had decided not to get a dog in that case. They didn't need a dog, they just didn't need a dog, he didn't think they needed a dog, you know? he said to the people and they lifted their heavy hands and let them fall again onto his shoulder. Yes, they said. No dog they said. You can't blame yourself they said and he shook off the weight of their hands and went to stare out the window.
When he got her to the hospital he was carrying her carefully, so carefully and she was strange, stiff and shaking and it hurt him to be so close to her if she was like this. The nurses or the doctors or whoever it was in the emergency room rushed to take her away but he hung onto her shirt, was dragged along while they tried to brush him away and he fought them. Let us do our job, one of them told him and he fought them. He had to show them, had to pull up her sleeve to show the two holes there in her arm. He felt her going away from him and felt the weight of hands on his shoulders and the doctor was trying to talk to him, saying the same things over and over. You did well, the doctor said. You did fine. Don't worry. Nobody dies of snake bite anymore. This is shock. She's in shock. You did well. You got her here. No one dies of snake bite. Not anymore.
He sat alone, waiting. He remembered and he planned. This is real, he thought, and he dropped his head into his hands and gave up. This is really bad, he said, then, no, this is good. He told himself, this is a blessing. Now I know. This is how you find out. This is how it happens. This is the end of the world and now I know. He looked at the chair and was amazed, swept away. The chair was so clear, so definite. It was real, it was right there. He shook his head at the chair, his eyes filled with tears. Outside the window there were millions of leaves on the trees and he could hear people talking down the hall, make out each separate little word they said. He felt the breath in his chest and the hairs on his head. I want to do it right. I can do a good job. This is real. Please, God, let me do a good job. Please, God. All I want is to do a good job.
He waited.
Later they helped him fill out papers and brought him juice and told him he could take her home in about an hour. Do you need help getting her out of the car when you get home? they asked, and he stared at them without speaking. The doctors looked at each other and one of them asked him the question again, carefully. Once you get home, can you get her out of the car by yourself? We think it would be good if you called a friend to help you, the doctor said slowly and clearly, to meet you when you get home. The doctor patted his shoulder. You did a great job, you got her here in plenty of time and she's going to be fine, but she just won't be up and around when you get home, not today, not for a little while. He looked at the doctors and out the window beyond them. All those leaves on the trees. His heart was hurting him. Leaves on the trees. Is there a problem? one of the doctors asked. They watched him. Is it a problem at home? Is there a problem with your car?
Car? he asked. Your car, they said. The car you came in. He shook his head. My car? he asked. Yes, they said, your car. You must have driven her here, how else did you get here? The doctors laughed a little, joshing him, to calm him, to put him at his ease. How else did you get here? Don't tell us you flew.
He knew then. Right then he knew.
He opened his mouth. They had said not to tell them so he wouldn't, but he knew. Knowing bloomed in him, stopped his heart, started his heart and set his fingers on fire.
I'll call a friend, he said, where's your phone?
Tuesday, June 7, 2011
Monday, June 6, 2011
Forty Days and Nights: Love Stories. 16. Grey Light of Day
She lay, peaceful, listening. She loved to listen to the cars go by as she fell asleep. Swoosh, swoosh, swoosh. She smiled to herself and closed her eyes. Swoosh, swoosh, tap, swoosh, taptap.
She sat up.
Dark and dark in her room. She looked at the window, frozen and not at all breathing.
Nothing.
Swoosh, swoosh. Swoosh.
Nothing.
She slid back beneath the covers, carefully, silently, not disturbing them at all, at all, not making the slightest sound, not moving the blankets or the sheets in any way. It took forever, it could take all night, it could take as long as it needed to take. All the way down. Further. Completely under the covers. Pause. Listen, wait. Swoosh, swoosh, swoosh.
Nothing.
Breathe.
Swoosh. Swoosh, swoosh.
Nothing.
Relax.
Nothing.
Swoosh.
Swoosh.
Sleepy.
Tap.
Swoosh.
Taptaptap.
She did not move, she was speared to the sheet, to the mattress, to the floor. Not a breath, her heart had stopped, she could not blink her wide-staring eyes.
Taptap.
Tap.
TAPTAPTAP.
She couldn't make her mouth open, couldn't find breath to scream for her mother in the next room. What could be tapping at her window, her upstairs window? Nothing, nothing, not a bird, not a branch, not the wind, nothing. Someone could be on the carport roof, but they'd have had to climb and anyway they'd have to be on the carport roof. No one would want to be on the carport roof. No, she said out loud before she knew she would, no, she said so softly it frightened her. No. No one could be there. No one would want to. No. No. NO
Tap.
She looked, she had to look. She looked without moving in any way, without rustling or wrinkling the covers at all, at all, she looked from under her quilt at the window and saw the hand pulling away, pulling back to tap on the glass. Saw it and saw that the tap would come and saw the soft green light around the hand. Saw it and pulled as far into herself, as far from her outside skin, as far into the core of her body where her heart was maybe still not beating as she could possibly go. Right into her center, right into the safe middle.
Tap.
He was looking at her, right at her where she was under the quilt. He could see her and she knew he could. His grey hair stood up from his head and danced in the green and grey light from his eyes. He was looking straight at her and no one moved at all. Then he put his face right up against the glass and tapped with both hands on the pane, unblinking eyes fixed on hers. Light shot from his fingers, raced across the glass and disappeared into the wood trim. I need a friend, he said into her eyes, I need a friend to help me. When he spoke, light dripped and splashed off his teeth. Help, he said. Get out from under there and come be a friend.
She didn't move.
You're not, she thought, desperate, denying, you're not real. I don't know you, she thought, I'm not your friend, I don't know you.
Oh, he said and leaned back his head, ah, he said as if she had spoken, this is what you are? Horrified, she watched him ponder as if they were speaking together, as if she were a minor problem, an enigma for him to resolve. You want to know a friend? he asked, his eyes on hers. Knowledge? You want knowledge? Yes, then, he said, making his eyes wide, making them huge and leaning forward, you will come flying? and he was right through the glass, right into her room, without a sound, without any effort or noise or warning or mercy, come flying and you'll know me. Come flying, he whispered against her face as he took her from her bed, come flying and we are friends.
She never stopped thinking. She never moved or took her eyes from him or looked down or wondered how far he would fly or how it would end. She never stopped looking at him and thinking and listening to his words and waiting with care for him to say the words she listened for, would know, could recognize as she heard them. She listened and thought til she ached with it. He clasped her easily and callously and flew her high and told her all the places he could take her and why she would love them and wish never to come back and all the places he couldn't ever take her and why and how those places would kill him and she listened and listened and listened. He adored her listening and he spoke and spoke into her soft ears, told her all there was to him, all that made and marred him and he longed for her to listen so to him always and he told her more and more and more than she needed to know. When she had it, when she had enough, she lifted her arms suddenly and made herself limp and heavy and impossible and slid through his arms, poured away from him as water pours itself over the edge of the world. And when she saw him shooting down so quickly to catch her, as she had known he would, she made herself an arrow, made herself a spear, tore through the air toward the ground. She heard him, what he said as he sped to catch her before she hit, before she was ended, sped to be there first, to stop her, to outmaneuver her, to prevent her. Just as she had known he would.
It was a near thing.
He set her on the ground, on the grass, set her on her feet and put his eyes right up to hers. That is not helpful, friend, he said as he had said in the air, light from his teeth landing on her shoulders and arms. That is not how we know each other.
And another boy was there, right there and not afraid, not even surprised at the girl suddenly landing on his lawn with a boy who dripped and spat grey light. Leave her alone, said this new boy, back off. You are not helpful, friend, the first spat and swore, light streaming from him into the grass and bouncing off the newcomer's glasses. I'm not your friend, the new boy said evenly, and turned to the girl, Is he bothering you? he asked politely.
But she was gone.
She might have died at his strange steadiness, she might have fainted at his courtesy, at his old fashioned courtliness and the gentlemanly way of him if she hadn't been running for her life, running to the garden hose and to turn on the spigot that was at the corner of the house, right where she was expecting it, right where she had known it would be. Is he bothering you? she asked herself as she raced back to turn the hose and all the water it could convey on the green and grey light pouring from hair and hands and teeth, is he bothering you? Why yes, unknown sir, yes he is, she thought, and thank you very much for asking. And she wondered, washing him away into the grass, why it was always water? Every movie, every story, every single time. What do these people have against running water? she asked herself. Why is it always water, and why did he tell me? Because he had, he had told her straight out and she had been listening. He must not have thought there was much to me, she thought grimly. He must not have supposed I was up to it.
The other boy stood quietly as she washed the last of the light down the storm drain. Wow, he said, that was very neat, he told her, man oh man, very quick and tidy. He looked at her with interest and respect. I'm impressed, he said, would you like a jacket? He was carefully not looking at her nightgown. Wait here, I'll get one and then I'll drive you home. She waited. She couldn't move. When he put the jacket on her he felt her shaking and put his arm around her. Come on, he said, I'll drive you. Don't worry about the hose, I'll take care of it when I get back, he said, and he laughed. She didn't move. You know where I live, she said, a question and not a question, and such an edge to her voice. A sharp edge. I know your brother, he said gently, taking the hose away from her. I know you, she said, surprised, but I don't know your name, why don't I know your name? I sit behind you in chemistry, he said and laughed again, and you will know my name. Give it a day, he said, laughing. She looked at him, now that she knew him. You laugh a lot, she said soberly. I do, he said, and then he laughed. I do. Come on. She shook her head. Why were you awake? she asked and he said softly, steadily, Star watching. Strange things going on in the sky tonight. I was lying on the tramp in the back. So I saw you, um, coming down. I saw you land. She still just stood there so he folded his arms patiently, waiting. How did you do it? he asked while he waited. With the hose? You're amazing, he told her, how did you do it? I read a lot, she told him, I read and I listen and I think. He nodded. Yes, he said, you do. I see that you do. He laughed, hugely admiring. Come on, it's getting light. I'm taking you home.
She sat up.
Dark and dark in her room. She looked at the window, frozen and not at all breathing.
Nothing.
Swoosh, swoosh. Swoosh.
Nothing.
She slid back beneath the covers, carefully, silently, not disturbing them at all, at all, not making the slightest sound, not moving the blankets or the sheets in any way. It took forever, it could take all night, it could take as long as it needed to take. All the way down. Further. Completely under the covers. Pause. Listen, wait. Swoosh, swoosh, swoosh.
Nothing.
Breathe.
Swoosh. Swoosh, swoosh.
Nothing.
Relax.
Nothing.
Swoosh.
Swoosh.
Sleepy.
Tap.
Swoosh.
Taptaptap.
She did not move, she was speared to the sheet, to the mattress, to the floor. Not a breath, her heart had stopped, she could not blink her wide-staring eyes.
Taptap.
Tap.
TAPTAPTAP.
She couldn't make her mouth open, couldn't find breath to scream for her mother in the next room. What could be tapping at her window, her upstairs window? Nothing, nothing, not a bird, not a branch, not the wind, nothing. Someone could be on the carport roof, but they'd have had to climb and anyway they'd have to be on the carport roof. No one would want to be on the carport roof. No, she said out loud before she knew she would, no, she said so softly it frightened her. No. No one could be there. No one would want to. No. No. NO
Tap.
She looked, she had to look. She looked without moving in any way, without rustling or wrinkling the covers at all, at all, she looked from under her quilt at the window and saw the hand pulling away, pulling back to tap on the glass. Saw it and saw that the tap would come and saw the soft green light around the hand. Saw it and pulled as far into herself, as far from her outside skin, as far into the core of her body where her heart was maybe still not beating as she could possibly go. Right into her center, right into the safe middle.
Tap.
He was looking at her, right at her where she was under the quilt. He could see her and she knew he could. His grey hair stood up from his head and danced in the green and grey light from his eyes. He was looking straight at her and no one moved at all. Then he put his face right up against the glass and tapped with both hands on the pane, unblinking eyes fixed on hers. Light shot from his fingers, raced across the glass and disappeared into the wood trim. I need a friend, he said into her eyes, I need a friend to help me. When he spoke, light dripped and splashed off his teeth. Help, he said. Get out from under there and come be a friend.
She didn't move.
You're not, she thought, desperate, denying, you're not real. I don't know you, she thought, I'm not your friend, I don't know you.
Oh, he said and leaned back his head, ah, he said as if she had spoken, this is what you are? Horrified, she watched him ponder as if they were speaking together, as if she were a minor problem, an enigma for him to resolve. You want to know a friend? he asked, his eyes on hers. Knowledge? You want knowledge? Yes, then, he said, making his eyes wide, making them huge and leaning forward, you will come flying? and he was right through the glass, right into her room, without a sound, without any effort or noise or warning or mercy, come flying and you'll know me. Come flying, he whispered against her face as he took her from her bed, come flying and we are friends.
She never stopped thinking. She never moved or took her eyes from him or looked down or wondered how far he would fly or how it would end. She never stopped looking at him and thinking and listening to his words and waiting with care for him to say the words she listened for, would know, could recognize as she heard them. She listened and thought til she ached with it. He clasped her easily and callously and flew her high and told her all the places he could take her and why she would love them and wish never to come back and all the places he couldn't ever take her and why and how those places would kill him and she listened and listened and listened. He adored her listening and he spoke and spoke into her soft ears, told her all there was to him, all that made and marred him and he longed for her to listen so to him always and he told her more and more and more than she needed to know. When she had it, when she had enough, she lifted her arms suddenly and made herself limp and heavy and impossible and slid through his arms, poured away from him as water pours itself over the edge of the world. And when she saw him shooting down so quickly to catch her, as she had known he would, she made herself an arrow, made herself a spear, tore through the air toward the ground. She heard him, what he said as he sped to catch her before she hit, before she was ended, sped to be there first, to stop her, to outmaneuver her, to prevent her. Just as she had known he would.
It was a near thing.
He set her on the ground, on the grass, set her on her feet and put his eyes right up to hers. That is not helpful, friend, he said as he had said in the air, light from his teeth landing on her shoulders and arms. That is not how we know each other.
And another boy was there, right there and not afraid, not even surprised at the girl suddenly landing on his lawn with a boy who dripped and spat grey light. Leave her alone, said this new boy, back off. You are not helpful, friend, the first spat and swore, light streaming from him into the grass and bouncing off the newcomer's glasses. I'm not your friend, the new boy said evenly, and turned to the girl, Is he bothering you? he asked politely.
But she was gone.
She might have died at his strange steadiness, she might have fainted at his courtesy, at his old fashioned courtliness and the gentlemanly way of him if she hadn't been running for her life, running to the garden hose and to turn on the spigot that was at the corner of the house, right where she was expecting it, right where she had known it would be. Is he bothering you? she asked herself as she raced back to turn the hose and all the water it could convey on the green and grey light pouring from hair and hands and teeth, is he bothering you? Why yes, unknown sir, yes he is, she thought, and thank you very much for asking. And she wondered, washing him away into the grass, why it was always water? Every movie, every story, every single time. What do these people have against running water? she asked herself. Why is it always water, and why did he tell me? Because he had, he had told her straight out and she had been listening. He must not have thought there was much to me, she thought grimly. He must not have supposed I was up to it.
The other boy stood quietly as she washed the last of the light down the storm drain. Wow, he said, that was very neat, he told her, man oh man, very quick and tidy. He looked at her with interest and respect. I'm impressed, he said, would you like a jacket? He was carefully not looking at her nightgown. Wait here, I'll get one and then I'll drive you home. She waited. She couldn't move. When he put the jacket on her he felt her shaking and put his arm around her. Come on, he said, I'll drive you. Don't worry about the hose, I'll take care of it when I get back, he said, and he laughed. She didn't move. You know where I live, she said, a question and not a question, and such an edge to her voice. A sharp edge. I know your brother, he said gently, taking the hose away from her. I know you, she said, surprised, but I don't know your name, why don't I know your name? I sit behind you in chemistry, he said and laughed again, and you will know my name. Give it a day, he said, laughing. She looked at him, now that she knew him. You laugh a lot, she said soberly. I do, he said, and then he laughed. I do. Come on. She shook her head. Why were you awake? she asked and he said softly, steadily, Star watching. Strange things going on in the sky tonight. I was lying on the tramp in the back. So I saw you, um, coming down. I saw you land. She still just stood there so he folded his arms patiently, waiting. How did you do it? he asked while he waited. With the hose? You're amazing, he told her, how did you do it? I read a lot, she told him, I read and I listen and I think. He nodded. Yes, he said, you do. I see that you do. He laughed, hugely admiring. Come on, it's getting light. I'm taking you home.
Sunday, June 5, 2011
Forty Days and Nights: Love Stories. 15. Flower Bed
She stood at the back door looking into the early morning light, waiting for the sunrise. As soon as the first stream of true sunlight slipped into the garden she took her old jacket from the hook and pulled a hat out of the pocket. No gloves. She would need to be able to feel. She picked up the paper bag with its soft, heavy burden from the basket where it had been waiting and went softly and heavily out the back door.
She stood in the cold sunshine, straightening her shoulders a little painfully as she looked all around their garden. Holding the bag on her open left hand, reaching in with her right to begin this work, she was distracted for a moment by the wonder, the heft and smooth consistency of all the seeds. Millions of seeds, she thought. She filled her hand and grasped a fistfull of them, held them hard, opened her hand and let them fall, pour through her fingers. Millions of lives sitting on her hand, in a bag in the cold backyard.
She began planting.
She threw seeds all along the fence and down both the edges of the sidewalk. She sowed them thickly in the front parts of the beds and under the trees, where he had dug out the grass to make mowing easier. So many of their gardening decisions had come to be based on ease. Ease in maintenance had become their inspiration, their guiding principle. She planted in the corners of the yard, even throwing seeds in the only corner where poppies already grew. He had planted them that first spring, first summer, really, they had lived in this house. She had laughed at him. It's too late for planting those, she had reminded him, you know that very well. That should have been done in the fall. He smiled at her, squinting against the sunshine, scattering seeds as if she hadn't spoken. I know, he said, I know. It's late, but I think these will come up fine. Not this year, she said, still laughing. No, he said, not this year. Maybe not this year. But next year. Some year. I want them to get started even if they show up late, he told her simply. Poppies are my favorite.
She had been right about the poppies, and wrong. Like she always was. It was too late for them that year, and they didn't show up the next year either. She was sad, she bought more seeds for him to use in the fall, but that fall he had gotten so sick, she remembered, so sick. No one planted anything that fall. And the next year that corner of the backyard was filled with poppies. Just like that. Filled. He would sit and watch them when they were in bloom, take his work and go sit close to his flowers, smiling at her from the backyard. Not triumphant, not I-told-you-so. He was never like that. She didn't believe he had it in him. Just confident in his late planted flowers, just reveling in their success, their abundant beauty and abandoned giving. Like he always was.
She worked carefully on around the yard, scattered the seeds under the windows and on both sides of the back door. She had not considered, not even considered, planting them in the front yard. The front yard was trim, tidy, interesting but not beguiling. Not enticing. Not messy. The front yard was their necessary sacrifice to the world and all its harms. The front yard belonged to the neighbors, to the town, to the people out there, outside. The back yard was home. They strung lights and built seats and made fires and dug and harvested and talked and built high fences on all its sides. She planted seeds for him in the back yard.
She worked methodically, taking time, plenty of time, making her way along the edges of the house til she stood again where she had begun this planting, and there she looked about her, a bit defeated. Ridiculous. She still had half the seeds left. Soft and yielding in the bag in her hand, all those lives. She hefted the bag, looking for more places she could reasonably put poppies. His corner was full, jammed. Every year she had pulled out poppies, pushed them back, tamed them. Piles of poppy bodies. He would stand by her, his hand on her hair. You could let them go, he would say, you could just let them go and see what would happen. She had laughed at that, too. Let them go? See what would happen? You know what would happen. Poppies everywhere. They'd take over the world. We'd be buried in a sea of poppies. Would that be so bad? he would ask, looking around the garden as if he could see them, all those poppies, scarlet and lacy and festive. Would that be so bad?
She stood, half the seeds she had gathered so carefully nestled in the creased and felted paper bag, resting. Waiting. She saw herself not here in this cold sunshine but in the hot and endless summer, all summer long, every day it seemed, shaking poppy heads into this bag, every single head on every single plant in his corner. Saving every seed. And going through the neighborhood, asking if she could have seeds, saving and hoarding and amassing this treasure, this gift. Working her way up and down the streets, knocking on friends' doors and strangers' doors and bending over the poppy heads working and working and waiting to go home and sleep and not remember and never think. Just gather these seeds into this bag. Waiting for the time, the right time, because she was like that. Now she stood in the sun and it was the right time and she had filled every space, every nook and crack and recess she could think of but half of her gathering was still poised in her hand. She shook her head. Poppies were planted thickly in every conceivable, every possible, every practical place.
Would it be so bad? he asked inside her head, would that be so bad?
She turned away from the sunshine, turned back again, bent and carefully set the bag on the ground and put her hands over her eyes. She stood still a long time and remembered. She remembered everything. All, all all of it. There was no way not to remember. There was no way out.
Would it be so bad? he asked, would that be so bad?
She reached her hand into the bag, felt the seeds left there, took out a handful and threw them into the grass. Threw seeds over the garden plot and all the beds. Tossed and scattered his poppy seeds to the four winds. Take over the world, she thought, take over the world. Her tears were cold on her cheeks in the cold morning sun. Bury me, she thought, bury me in a sea of poppies. Would that be so bad?
She stood in the cold sunshine, straightening her shoulders a little painfully as she looked all around their garden. Holding the bag on her open left hand, reaching in with her right to begin this work, she was distracted for a moment by the wonder, the heft and smooth consistency of all the seeds. Millions of seeds, she thought. She filled her hand and grasped a fistfull of them, held them hard, opened her hand and let them fall, pour through her fingers. Millions of lives sitting on her hand, in a bag in the cold backyard.
She began planting.
She threw seeds all along the fence and down both the edges of the sidewalk. She sowed them thickly in the front parts of the beds and under the trees, where he had dug out the grass to make mowing easier. So many of their gardening decisions had come to be based on ease. Ease in maintenance had become their inspiration, their guiding principle. She planted in the corners of the yard, even throwing seeds in the only corner where poppies already grew. He had planted them that first spring, first summer, really, they had lived in this house. She had laughed at him. It's too late for planting those, she had reminded him, you know that very well. That should have been done in the fall. He smiled at her, squinting against the sunshine, scattering seeds as if she hadn't spoken. I know, he said, I know. It's late, but I think these will come up fine. Not this year, she said, still laughing. No, he said, not this year. Maybe not this year. But next year. Some year. I want them to get started even if they show up late, he told her simply. Poppies are my favorite.
She had been right about the poppies, and wrong. Like she always was. It was too late for them that year, and they didn't show up the next year either. She was sad, she bought more seeds for him to use in the fall, but that fall he had gotten so sick, she remembered, so sick. No one planted anything that fall. And the next year that corner of the backyard was filled with poppies. Just like that. Filled. He would sit and watch them when they were in bloom, take his work and go sit close to his flowers, smiling at her from the backyard. Not triumphant, not I-told-you-so. He was never like that. She didn't believe he had it in him. Just confident in his late planted flowers, just reveling in their success, their abundant beauty and abandoned giving. Like he always was.
She worked carefully on around the yard, scattered the seeds under the windows and on both sides of the back door. She had not considered, not even considered, planting them in the front yard. The front yard was trim, tidy, interesting but not beguiling. Not enticing. Not messy. The front yard was their necessary sacrifice to the world and all its harms. The front yard belonged to the neighbors, to the town, to the people out there, outside. The back yard was home. They strung lights and built seats and made fires and dug and harvested and talked and built high fences on all its sides. She planted seeds for him in the back yard.
She worked methodically, taking time, plenty of time, making her way along the edges of the house til she stood again where she had begun this planting, and there she looked about her, a bit defeated. Ridiculous. She still had half the seeds left. Soft and yielding in the bag in her hand, all those lives. She hefted the bag, looking for more places she could reasonably put poppies. His corner was full, jammed. Every year she had pulled out poppies, pushed them back, tamed them. Piles of poppy bodies. He would stand by her, his hand on her hair. You could let them go, he would say, you could just let them go and see what would happen. She had laughed at that, too. Let them go? See what would happen? You know what would happen. Poppies everywhere. They'd take over the world. We'd be buried in a sea of poppies. Would that be so bad? he would ask, looking around the garden as if he could see them, all those poppies, scarlet and lacy and festive. Would that be so bad?
She stood, half the seeds she had gathered so carefully nestled in the creased and felted paper bag, resting. Waiting. She saw herself not here in this cold sunshine but in the hot and endless summer, all summer long, every day it seemed, shaking poppy heads into this bag, every single head on every single plant in his corner. Saving every seed. And going through the neighborhood, asking if she could have seeds, saving and hoarding and amassing this treasure, this gift. Working her way up and down the streets, knocking on friends' doors and strangers' doors and bending over the poppy heads working and working and waiting to go home and sleep and not remember and never think. Just gather these seeds into this bag. Waiting for the time, the right time, because she was like that. Now she stood in the sun and it was the right time and she had filled every space, every nook and crack and recess she could think of but half of her gathering was still poised in her hand. She shook her head. Poppies were planted thickly in every conceivable, every possible, every practical place.
Would it be so bad? he asked inside her head, would that be so bad?
She turned away from the sunshine, turned back again, bent and carefully set the bag on the ground and put her hands over her eyes. She stood still a long time and remembered. She remembered everything. All, all all of it. There was no way not to remember. There was no way out.
Would it be so bad? he asked, would that be so bad?
She reached her hand into the bag, felt the seeds left there, took out a handful and threw them into the grass. Threw seeds over the garden plot and all the beds. Tossed and scattered his poppy seeds to the four winds. Take over the world, she thought, take over the world. Her tears were cold on her cheeks in the cold morning sun. Bury me, she thought, bury me in a sea of poppies. Would that be so bad?
Saturday, June 4, 2011
Forty Days and Nights: Love Stories. 14. Filling the Space
She made the book for him and left it where he would find it when he came in from the snow. She stitched the pages and folded the cover and waited for words to fill the spaces but when nothing came she just left the book where he would find it and went to bed.
In the morning he was gone, of course, and so was the book.
She wondered about it as she went through the day, wondered what he had thought of the empty pages and the space between the covers. She waited for him to say something to her when he came in, but the snow fell all day and she was asleep again before he came home.
The next day when she awoke he was sleeping hard, buried under their mound of quilts and the book was lying on the floor right where she would put her feet down when she swung them out of bed. She sat, arrested, her feet suspended above the book, and she looked back at him. His face was soft, flushed, his dark hair mussed and curling. She leaned down to pick up the book and went softly out of their bed to sit by the window in the dark daylight that was all the storm allowed them and wrapped herself and the book in a thick comforter. She held the book against her chest and listened to the wind shout and insist outside the thick glass, waiting til the book was warmed through with the heat of her body before she brought it out, into the day, and held it, closed, between her two hands as if she were praying with it held there, before God. She twisted it in her hands then, left hand under the book, right hand on top. She held it that way for a moment more, trying to see into what he might have seen, felt, when he picked up the book for the first time, then she pushed her thumbs between the covers and opened it, hesitantly, as if the joint of its spine were stiff and old with disuse instead of brand new and excited to be opened.
Empty pages.
No words.
She turned five pages, ten.
Empty pages.
No words.
She caught her breath, so--pained, so--hurt.
She shut the book, stood up and the comforter fell in a warm heap on the floor. She walked out to the kitchen, walked quickly back, sank into the comforter and pulled it up around her arms, then up over her shoulders, then over her head.
What had she expected? Poetry? Love letters? A novel? Whatever she had thought, whatever she had hoped for, it had not been this. It had not been nothing.
Be fair, she told her desolate heart, be fair. You made that book to fill it with words for him and nothing came to you. Not one thing. Holding fast to fairness, grasping it grimly with both hands, she faced the empty pages she had thrust on him, the great absence she had handed to him and waited for him to fill. Be fair, she told herself, be fair. You couldn't do it. You couldn't do it either.
Why had she even thought of making the book, anyway?
Why had she assumed, hoped, waited for him to fill it?
She reached out of the nest of the comforter and pulled the book across the floor. She opened it as it was, opened it face down, opened it from the back and as the storm light slanted across the paper she suddenly noticed them. Bumps. The paper was covered with little bumps, little blisters. She tilted the book and scores of minute shadows bloomed at the bases of the bumps. She ran her fingers across them, feeling their uniform size. What in the world? She flipped the pages, looking for a pattern to the blisters and suddenly there were flowers. Flowers drawn in pencil on the pages, flowers filling the spaces. She snatched the book up to herself and saw that they were not flowers; they were snowflakes. Snowflakes. He had worked from the back and filled pages with snowflake drawings, delicate and detailed and endlessly, endlessly varied. Pages and pages of snowflakes.
She left the book on the floor when she slid into bed next him. He stirred, smiled, so sleepy, tried to get his arms around her. You're so cold, he said. Hey, he said, waking more and focusing on her. Hey, sweetheart, what's wrong? He ran the back of his hand softly across her wet cheeks and she turned her face, kissing his hand. I found the book, she told him. Yeah? he laughed a little, drawing her close. Sweetie, you are an ice cube, an ice cube. You drew snowflakes, she said, you filled the book with snowflakes. Hey, he pulled back a bit so he could focus on her face. Is that alright? Are snowflakes alright? Oh, hey, I didn't ruin your book, did I? he asked, really awake and worried now. It's not my book, it's your book, she said and made a small sound that was laughing and crying and thanking him. She opened her mouth and shook her head and buried her face in him. Hey, he said, hey. He tipped her chin up and smoothed her hair away from her face. Talk to me, he said.
I just, she said and stopped. Started again. I just made you that book and it was a terrible thing. I didn't even think of it. I thought I wanted to write and write to you so you could take the book out with you and have it, in your pocket or in your pack, the book I made and what I wrote. But when I got it done I couldn't think of the things to say. And then I just, I just left it empty and left it where you could find it and let that be the gift.
He rested his chin gently on her head and waited.
But, but really, she said, really, I wanted you to do it all, she said, I wanted you to see the book and be happy to fill it with words for me. I wanted you to want to fill all those pages, she said to his chest, I wanted you to want to do that for me.
And instead I just made snowflakes, he said soberly. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.
No, she said, no! It was perfect. They're so lovely. You made it so lovely, and I was such a jerk. I gave all the work to you, she said earnestly, and you made a beautiful book. Thank you, she said, I'm sorry, she said.
He leaned back again, focusing on her, her serious face, her tear filled eyes. Okay, he said, helplessly. I'm glad you like it. I love you, he said, tucking her head back under his chin, and I really thought I ruined your book.
It's your book, she said, and why, why did you think so?
He said, well, first I tried pressing them. Tons of them. Snowflakes. But I ended up having to draw them. I'm sorry, he said.
In the morning he was gone, of course, and so was the book.
She wondered about it as she went through the day, wondered what he had thought of the empty pages and the space between the covers. She waited for him to say something to her when he came in, but the snow fell all day and she was asleep again before he came home.
The next day when she awoke he was sleeping hard, buried under their mound of quilts and the book was lying on the floor right where she would put her feet down when she swung them out of bed. She sat, arrested, her feet suspended above the book, and she looked back at him. His face was soft, flushed, his dark hair mussed and curling. She leaned down to pick up the book and went softly out of their bed to sit by the window in the dark daylight that was all the storm allowed them and wrapped herself and the book in a thick comforter. She held the book against her chest and listened to the wind shout and insist outside the thick glass, waiting til the book was warmed through with the heat of her body before she brought it out, into the day, and held it, closed, between her two hands as if she were praying with it held there, before God. She twisted it in her hands then, left hand under the book, right hand on top. She held it that way for a moment more, trying to see into what he might have seen, felt, when he picked up the book for the first time, then she pushed her thumbs between the covers and opened it, hesitantly, as if the joint of its spine were stiff and old with disuse instead of brand new and excited to be opened.
Empty pages.
No words.
She turned five pages, ten.
Empty pages.
No words.
She caught her breath, so--pained, so--hurt.
She shut the book, stood up and the comforter fell in a warm heap on the floor. She walked out to the kitchen, walked quickly back, sank into the comforter and pulled it up around her arms, then up over her shoulders, then over her head.
What had she expected? Poetry? Love letters? A novel? Whatever she had thought, whatever she had hoped for, it had not been this. It had not been nothing.
Be fair, she told her desolate heart, be fair. You made that book to fill it with words for him and nothing came to you. Not one thing. Holding fast to fairness, grasping it grimly with both hands, she faced the empty pages she had thrust on him, the great absence she had handed to him and waited for him to fill. Be fair, she told herself, be fair. You couldn't do it. You couldn't do it either.
Why had she even thought of making the book, anyway?
Why had she assumed, hoped, waited for him to fill it?
She reached out of the nest of the comforter and pulled the book across the floor. She opened it as it was, opened it face down, opened it from the back and as the storm light slanted across the paper she suddenly noticed them. Bumps. The paper was covered with little bumps, little blisters. She tilted the book and scores of minute shadows bloomed at the bases of the bumps. She ran her fingers across them, feeling their uniform size. What in the world? She flipped the pages, looking for a pattern to the blisters and suddenly there were flowers. Flowers drawn in pencil on the pages, flowers filling the spaces. She snatched the book up to herself and saw that they were not flowers; they were snowflakes. Snowflakes. He had worked from the back and filled pages with snowflake drawings, delicate and detailed and endlessly, endlessly varied. Pages and pages of snowflakes.
She left the book on the floor when she slid into bed next him. He stirred, smiled, so sleepy, tried to get his arms around her. You're so cold, he said. Hey, he said, waking more and focusing on her. Hey, sweetheart, what's wrong? He ran the back of his hand softly across her wet cheeks and she turned her face, kissing his hand. I found the book, she told him. Yeah? he laughed a little, drawing her close. Sweetie, you are an ice cube, an ice cube. You drew snowflakes, she said, you filled the book with snowflakes. Hey, he pulled back a bit so he could focus on her face. Is that alright? Are snowflakes alright? Oh, hey, I didn't ruin your book, did I? he asked, really awake and worried now. It's not my book, it's your book, she said and made a small sound that was laughing and crying and thanking him. She opened her mouth and shook her head and buried her face in him. Hey, he said, hey. He tipped her chin up and smoothed her hair away from her face. Talk to me, he said.
I just, she said and stopped. Started again. I just made you that book and it was a terrible thing. I didn't even think of it. I thought I wanted to write and write to you so you could take the book out with you and have it, in your pocket or in your pack, the book I made and what I wrote. But when I got it done I couldn't think of the things to say. And then I just, I just left it empty and left it where you could find it and let that be the gift.
He rested his chin gently on her head and waited.
But, but really, she said, really, I wanted you to do it all, she said, I wanted you to see the book and be happy to fill it with words for me. I wanted you to want to fill all those pages, she said to his chest, I wanted you to want to do that for me.
And instead I just made snowflakes, he said soberly. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.
No, she said, no! It was perfect. They're so lovely. You made it so lovely, and I was such a jerk. I gave all the work to you, she said earnestly, and you made a beautiful book. Thank you, she said, I'm sorry, she said.
He leaned back again, focusing on her, her serious face, her tear filled eyes. Okay, he said, helplessly. I'm glad you like it. I love you, he said, tucking her head back under his chin, and I really thought I ruined your book.
It's your book, she said, and why, why did you think so?
He said, well, first I tried pressing them. Tons of them. Snowflakes. But I ended up having to draw them. I'm sorry, he said.
Friday, June 3, 2011
Forty Days and Nights: Love Stories. 13. Northern Beaches
It was a perfect day.
There was sand everywhere.
He loved it, he loved that. He even loved it when there was a little sand in the sandwiches. It made him laugh to himself, a tiny joke in the food. Not too much sand in the food, just a very little grit. These were scrambled egg sandwiches, his favorite. The sand in the egg made him think of eggshells. He loved that.
His sister was trying to wipe sand off a cookie she had dropped. He watched her as she concentrated, carefully wiping every single grain, and wiping more and more onto the cookie from her sandy hand. She was too little, too small to understand where the sand kept coming from or to be surprised that there was more and more. He thought somebody older would just throw that cookie away, but he knew the pink waffle ones were her favorite. She worked seriously and contentedly on the cookie for a long time, and he watched her, wondering if she would win or the sand would win. Then his mom leaned over to the sister, a new pink cookie in her hand and her other hand held out for the sandy cookie. Trade you? his mom asked, and his sister smiled when she took the new cookie. Their mom took the sandy cookie at the same time and his sister never noticed. He watched his mom keeping her eyes on his laughing sister while she threw the sandy cookie far away. His mom was so smart!
Now two seagulls swooped down to grab the sandy cookie while it was still flying through the air. They were fighting for it! They both pulled on the pink cookie and he watched, hardly breathing. They were fighting in the air. One of them, the younger gull, twisted the cookie away and flew off, tossing its head up and back, swallowing the whole thing in one gulp. He knew it was a younger gull; his dad had taught him to tell from the feathers. He bounced in the sand and laughed. He wished they had more food to throw. Sometimes his mom brought a loaf of bread for him to tear in pieces and throw up into the sky. Gulls would come diving for it, they never let a piece touch the ground. He wished they could do that now. He loved watching the gulls.
He was looking around for some old food to throw when he saw the baby eating sand. He stopped to watch the baby picking up both fists full of hot, dry sand. The baby watched the sand pour through its fingers, and then jammed the sand that was left into its mouth. The baby's mouth was all black and dusty, no, muddy, from eating sand. He looked over at his mom; she was reading a magazine. She didn't see the baby with a mouth full of sand. He smiled at the baby and the baby smiled back, wet sand running down its chin. The sand dribbled onto the baby's leg and made the smallest sandcastle in the world. The baby waved its hands and laughed, and he laughed too.
He made a sand castle, a big one.
He and his sister ran in the wet, hard sand where the ocean ran back and forth. They looked for shells and when they found one they washed off the sand and made a pile of shells where their mom was reading the magazine. She looked up and smiled every time they brought another shell. The baby waved and threw sand. Their mom smiled at the baby and shook sand out of her magazine and off of the blanket where the baby had slung it. They ate, and later they ate again. He was careful and the only sand that stayed on his hands was the tiny black kind that is like flakes and sticks to your fingers.
His mom put sunscreen on the children twice.
He watched his dad sleeping and his dad had turned the most beautiful color while he was asleep. Like a rose, he thought to himself. His dad was the same color as the sunset and that thought made him very happy too. It was a very pretty color. He thought how nice it would be for his dad, when he woke up and had turned such a pretty color.
His mom said it was time to go home.
He helped her, carrying towels and her magazine. His dad and everyone carried things. They walked back to the car and their shoes filled with dry sand that had been hot when they came, but was getting very cold now. He turned around and turned around to watch the sun sliding down into the ocean. Everything was bright, the sand was golden. As far as he could see it was golden sand and sun gold water. He turned back around and sang a little song while he was walking. In the car they ate the rest of the waffle cookies and there was a little bit of grit in them so he was happy the sand was coming home with them.
His dad was a more beautiful red color now, and he wasn't as happy being a wonderful color as the little boy had thought he would be. His dad was talking about all the sand they were taking home with them. His dad was saying the car was full of sand. Absolutely full! The little boy was so happy, curling his toes in and out of the sand inside his shoes. He hadn't known they were bringing any sand home with them, and he was very happy to think they were. He was so happy about a car full of sand. He ate a brown waffle cookie and thought how smart his mom was. Sand in the car. What a good day. He was so happy.
There was sand everywhere.
He loved it, he loved that. He even loved it when there was a little sand in the sandwiches. It made him laugh to himself, a tiny joke in the food. Not too much sand in the food, just a very little grit. These were scrambled egg sandwiches, his favorite. The sand in the egg made him think of eggshells. He loved that.
His sister was trying to wipe sand off a cookie she had dropped. He watched her as she concentrated, carefully wiping every single grain, and wiping more and more onto the cookie from her sandy hand. She was too little, too small to understand where the sand kept coming from or to be surprised that there was more and more. He thought somebody older would just throw that cookie away, but he knew the pink waffle ones were her favorite. She worked seriously and contentedly on the cookie for a long time, and he watched her, wondering if she would win or the sand would win. Then his mom leaned over to the sister, a new pink cookie in her hand and her other hand held out for the sandy cookie. Trade you? his mom asked, and his sister smiled when she took the new cookie. Their mom took the sandy cookie at the same time and his sister never noticed. He watched his mom keeping her eyes on his laughing sister while she threw the sandy cookie far away. His mom was so smart!
Now two seagulls swooped down to grab the sandy cookie while it was still flying through the air. They were fighting for it! They both pulled on the pink cookie and he watched, hardly breathing. They were fighting in the air. One of them, the younger gull, twisted the cookie away and flew off, tossing its head up and back, swallowing the whole thing in one gulp. He knew it was a younger gull; his dad had taught him to tell from the feathers. He bounced in the sand and laughed. He wished they had more food to throw. Sometimes his mom brought a loaf of bread for him to tear in pieces and throw up into the sky. Gulls would come diving for it, they never let a piece touch the ground. He wished they could do that now. He loved watching the gulls.
He was looking around for some old food to throw when he saw the baby eating sand. He stopped to watch the baby picking up both fists full of hot, dry sand. The baby watched the sand pour through its fingers, and then jammed the sand that was left into its mouth. The baby's mouth was all black and dusty, no, muddy, from eating sand. He looked over at his mom; she was reading a magazine. She didn't see the baby with a mouth full of sand. He smiled at the baby and the baby smiled back, wet sand running down its chin. The sand dribbled onto the baby's leg and made the smallest sandcastle in the world. The baby waved its hands and laughed, and he laughed too.
He made a sand castle, a big one.
He and his sister ran in the wet, hard sand where the ocean ran back and forth. They looked for shells and when they found one they washed off the sand and made a pile of shells where their mom was reading the magazine. She looked up and smiled every time they brought another shell. The baby waved and threw sand. Their mom smiled at the baby and shook sand out of her magazine and off of the blanket where the baby had slung it. They ate, and later they ate again. He was careful and the only sand that stayed on his hands was the tiny black kind that is like flakes and sticks to your fingers.
His mom put sunscreen on the children twice.
He watched his dad sleeping and his dad had turned the most beautiful color while he was asleep. Like a rose, he thought to himself. His dad was the same color as the sunset and that thought made him very happy too. It was a very pretty color. He thought how nice it would be for his dad, when he woke up and had turned such a pretty color.
His mom said it was time to go home.
He helped her, carrying towels and her magazine. His dad and everyone carried things. They walked back to the car and their shoes filled with dry sand that had been hot when they came, but was getting very cold now. He turned around and turned around to watch the sun sliding down into the ocean. Everything was bright, the sand was golden. As far as he could see it was golden sand and sun gold water. He turned back around and sang a little song while he was walking. In the car they ate the rest of the waffle cookies and there was a little bit of grit in them so he was happy the sand was coming home with them.
His dad was a more beautiful red color now, and he wasn't as happy being a wonderful color as the little boy had thought he would be. His dad was talking about all the sand they were taking home with them. His dad was saying the car was full of sand. Absolutely full! The little boy was so happy, curling his toes in and out of the sand inside his shoes. He hadn't known they were bringing any sand home with them, and he was very happy to think they were. He was so happy about a car full of sand. He ate a brown waffle cookie and thought how smart his mom was. Sand in the car. What a good day. He was so happy.
Thursday, June 2, 2011
Forty Days and Nights: Love Stories. 12. Happy Place
Once there was a boy who lived in a scone. He loved it there. He could stretch out full length, and it was soft and squishy inside the scone. He loved the golden-crisp outside. He was really very happy. When he met the girl he was excited to show her the scone, and he happily anticipated her pleasure at the golden-crisp outside and he wondered, nervously, how they might enjoy the soft squishiness. He didn't tell her too much about the scone before they got there; he didn't want to spoil it, as it were.
What she said was, What's with all the honey and butter?
Truth be told, he had never thought much about the butter, or the honey. It's what happens if you live in a scone. He said, It's butter and honey. It's what happens it you live in a scone.
She said, How on earth do you manage?
He said, Manage what?
She said, You'd be sticky all the time, while he said, Well, I guess I'm sort of sticky all the time, and they said it at the same time.
It was not a fight, but it was getting to be sort of like a fight.
He said, What's wrong with butter and honey, anyway?
She didn't even bother to answer.
He said, Well, where do you live that's so great?
She said, I live in a ham and Swiss sandwich, myself.
Oh, he said, oh, what's so fine about that? It came out meaner than he meant it to, but he was sad she hadn't at all noticed the golden-crisp outside.
She said, Well, if you really want to know.
He said, I really want to know.
She said, I enjoy the stability, and I love the organic shapes.
The what? he asked and he was sarcastic. The organic shapes? Like what, the shape of lettuce? He was out of line, but his pride was hurt and he was very disappointed about the soft and squishy part of this day that wasn't happening.
Now she was trying not to cry. Organic shapes, she said. Round. Curving. Swiss cheese has lovely round holes, she said with dignity.
And that was the end of that.
Later, of course, they got to talking again. They were looking at places that were available and he thought it was mighty doubtful she would ever be happy anywhere that wasn't thinly sliced and one hundred per cent whole wheat. With port holes for windows, he thought with just an edge of bitterness.
But then.
She was all starry eyed and he was looking from her face to the place and back again. This? he asked, this is a place you could be happy? Oh, yes, she breathed, yes. Look at the wonderful golden-crisp outside. WHAT? he said, you like that?
I love it, she said, simply. Look at the stability, the organic shape.
Soft, he thought, soft and squishy, and golden-crisp outside.
They moved into the unglazed doughnut and lived there very happily indeed. People said they made a mistake not holding out for a bagel, but they knew their own hearts, and were well contented and satisfied. Anyway, she said with a shudder, all that cream cheese.
Yes, he said, who needs it?
What she said was, What's with all the honey and butter?
Truth be told, he had never thought much about the butter, or the honey. It's what happens if you live in a scone. He said, It's butter and honey. It's what happens it you live in a scone.
She said, How on earth do you manage?
He said, Manage what?
She said, You'd be sticky all the time, while he said, Well, I guess I'm sort of sticky all the time, and they said it at the same time.
It was not a fight, but it was getting to be sort of like a fight.
He said, What's wrong with butter and honey, anyway?
She didn't even bother to answer.
He said, Well, where do you live that's so great?
She said, I live in a ham and Swiss sandwich, myself.
Oh, he said, oh, what's so fine about that? It came out meaner than he meant it to, but he was sad she hadn't at all noticed the golden-crisp outside.
She said, Well, if you really want to know.
He said, I really want to know.
She said, I enjoy the stability, and I love the organic shapes.
The what? he asked and he was sarcastic. The organic shapes? Like what, the shape of lettuce? He was out of line, but his pride was hurt and he was very disappointed about the soft and squishy part of this day that wasn't happening.
Now she was trying not to cry. Organic shapes, she said. Round. Curving. Swiss cheese has lovely round holes, she said with dignity.
And that was the end of that.
Later, of course, they got to talking again. They were looking at places that were available and he thought it was mighty doubtful she would ever be happy anywhere that wasn't thinly sliced and one hundred per cent whole wheat. With port holes for windows, he thought with just an edge of bitterness.
But then.
She was all starry eyed and he was looking from her face to the place and back again. This? he asked, this is a place you could be happy? Oh, yes, she breathed, yes. Look at the wonderful golden-crisp outside. WHAT? he said, you like that?
I love it, she said, simply. Look at the stability, the organic shape.
Soft, he thought, soft and squishy, and golden-crisp outside.
They moved into the unglazed doughnut and lived there very happily indeed. People said they made a mistake not holding out for a bagel, but they knew their own hearts, and were well contented and satisfied. Anyway, she said with a shudder, all that cream cheese.
Yes, he said, who needs it?
Wednesday, June 1, 2011
Forty Days and Nights: Love Stories. 11. Her, Now
He had thought she was so beautiful. He had never seen anyone so beautiful and it made him afraid. He was still afraid when they had been married for a long time, such a long time that he spoke of her beauty with detachment, as a thing seen from far off and not connected to himself. Her beauty was a puzzle, a bewilderment to him and a burden to her. She carried it as a task beyond her, too big for her, staggered under it, dropped it awkwardly into conversations, hit people and the edges of doorways with it as she made her way through church services and school events, parties and family dinners. In the end, for him her beauty was a wound he carried that never healed and for her, after she had denied being a beauty for so long and so well, it became the one place in her life she finally got her way, finally got what she insisted had always been the case and lost her beauty as though it had never been.
But in the beginning she was so lovely he was undone by her, unable not to try, not to risk, not to reach out. He staked everything he had, took all he was and set it out before her, nakedly, not even trying at all to pretend there might be more where that came from, he might have a trick or two up his sleeve, that whatever she had seen so far she hadn't seen nothin' yet. He set all himself in front of her and waited for her to take it or to leave it and he waited quite a while, because he was like that and so, it turned out, was she. She let him wait and even after years of married days, he was still waiting.
Her beauty was deep to him; he wanted to believe it was deep and alive like the ocean on the planet and essential to her soul, as rich and thick on the inside of her as it was on her outside. She's lovely, people said admiringly, especially when they saw her with him in a picture, and he had to agree. She was lovely, especially when she stood by him for a picture to be taken. She turned to him then, curved to him then, smiled by him then and if you only saw them in pictures they made a picture to sigh for, to reach for, to believe a man might risk his whole self on. After the picture she straightened and turned away, her smile gone, vanished like a flame can vanish. Light, heat, life, nothing. And he had seen her arrested as she stepped away from him, stopped cold when the person with the camera said, oh, wait, that one wasn't good, let me get another, and he had seen her whip around to him, smile warm and delightful, arms reaching around him, her face tucked right up by his, turning the both of them to the reflective eye of the camera. Flash. Click. Gone. What a lovely picture.
He wasn't the sort of man, when first he saw her or later or ever, who could look at such color and texture and not see it running right through her, touching every part and piece of her, even if what he was seeing was a story he was building as he went along. He wasn't, then, at the beginning or ever in his life, a man to wrap himself in a surface and call that living. He poured all his fresh, untried, hopeful ideals about people, about life, about everything, into her, gave her beauty direction and purpose and narrative and she adored the way he saw her and feared it and loathed it and hated him for not being able to make her as real as he thought she was. She held him fiercely to that idea of her he had created between the two of them before he even knew her, before he knew anything, held him by a short and cruel rope that twisted more tightly about the two of them with every passing day of married life. She never had been and never became the woman he had held up for the two of them to believe in and admire, she never became anything at all, and she never forgave him for that. Never. She threw it at him every day, every night, in every fight, and that bewildered him as much as anything about her ever had.
There were photographs of the two of them all over the walls of their house, and she shuffled them, adjusted them, rearranged them often, often. He was always coming upon his own smiling face in some unexpected place, his own face telling him what it told all the people who looked at their marriage from the outside. Look, his face said to him, look at this happy couple. Look at all the love, look at that beautiful woman. It was what he said to her when she screamed and stormed, the picture of them he held up to her when she ranted and threw both of them out of the house, out of her life, out of the frame. Look, he said, look at the love. Look at all the love. She was a beautiful woman, no doubt about that, and the face she gave him when they were alone, red and swollen and tear streaked, mouth set in permanent and impotent rage, silly words streaming out for hours, why can't you when will you you always if you would just you are so, that face was so beautiful he just stood back and looked at it. Stood back quite a ways, further and further as years of married days went by. Even from there he could see that she was a beautiful woman. Such a beautiful woman.
When finally he stood so far off that he could no longer hear words coming out of the mouth that smiled so easily and readily for the camera and never kissed his own mouth with any trace of life in the lips, when he finally stood right out of the frame, he carried within him still the boy he had been when first he saw her and what he had supposed to be the beauty of her soul had stopped his heart and started it again, beating now in a rhythm he had assumed was a dance for two, the dance of his life. He remembered the story of the two of them he had told himself and he gasped at the gut punch of never having believed it, not at all, not even when in the beginning she had been so beautiful he had simply been unable to reconcile that beauty he could touch with that absence in her heart he could feel. He had made up a story to explain her, to justify her in the world as he had understood it then. He had fallen in love at first sight with a story he had made up on the spot and he had married his own story and he knew that if he had it to do all over again he would do it all over again. He stuffed his hands into his pockets and shook his head. Shook it again and tried to straighten under the dead weight of all he had lost, dragging a killing burden of things he never had. What a waste, what a waste, the both of them. She had been so beautiful. So achingly, breakingly beautiful, and look at her now. Just look at her now. Just look.
But in the beginning she was so lovely he was undone by her, unable not to try, not to risk, not to reach out. He staked everything he had, took all he was and set it out before her, nakedly, not even trying at all to pretend there might be more where that came from, he might have a trick or two up his sleeve, that whatever she had seen so far she hadn't seen nothin' yet. He set all himself in front of her and waited for her to take it or to leave it and he waited quite a while, because he was like that and so, it turned out, was she. She let him wait and even after years of married days, he was still waiting.
Her beauty was deep to him; he wanted to believe it was deep and alive like the ocean on the planet and essential to her soul, as rich and thick on the inside of her as it was on her outside. She's lovely, people said admiringly, especially when they saw her with him in a picture, and he had to agree. She was lovely, especially when she stood by him for a picture to be taken. She turned to him then, curved to him then, smiled by him then and if you only saw them in pictures they made a picture to sigh for, to reach for, to believe a man might risk his whole self on. After the picture she straightened and turned away, her smile gone, vanished like a flame can vanish. Light, heat, life, nothing. And he had seen her arrested as she stepped away from him, stopped cold when the person with the camera said, oh, wait, that one wasn't good, let me get another, and he had seen her whip around to him, smile warm and delightful, arms reaching around him, her face tucked right up by his, turning the both of them to the reflective eye of the camera. Flash. Click. Gone. What a lovely picture.
He wasn't the sort of man, when first he saw her or later or ever, who could look at such color and texture and not see it running right through her, touching every part and piece of her, even if what he was seeing was a story he was building as he went along. He wasn't, then, at the beginning or ever in his life, a man to wrap himself in a surface and call that living. He poured all his fresh, untried, hopeful ideals about people, about life, about everything, into her, gave her beauty direction and purpose and narrative and she adored the way he saw her and feared it and loathed it and hated him for not being able to make her as real as he thought she was. She held him fiercely to that idea of her he had created between the two of them before he even knew her, before he knew anything, held him by a short and cruel rope that twisted more tightly about the two of them with every passing day of married life. She never had been and never became the woman he had held up for the two of them to believe in and admire, she never became anything at all, and she never forgave him for that. Never. She threw it at him every day, every night, in every fight, and that bewildered him as much as anything about her ever had.
There were photographs of the two of them all over the walls of their house, and she shuffled them, adjusted them, rearranged them often, often. He was always coming upon his own smiling face in some unexpected place, his own face telling him what it told all the people who looked at their marriage from the outside. Look, his face said to him, look at this happy couple. Look at all the love, look at that beautiful woman. It was what he said to her when she screamed and stormed, the picture of them he held up to her when she ranted and threw both of them out of the house, out of her life, out of the frame. Look, he said, look at the love. Look at all the love. She was a beautiful woman, no doubt about that, and the face she gave him when they were alone, red and swollen and tear streaked, mouth set in permanent and impotent rage, silly words streaming out for hours, why can't you when will you you always if you would just you are so, that face was so beautiful he just stood back and looked at it. Stood back quite a ways, further and further as years of married days went by. Even from there he could see that she was a beautiful woman. Such a beautiful woman.
When finally he stood so far off that he could no longer hear words coming out of the mouth that smiled so easily and readily for the camera and never kissed his own mouth with any trace of life in the lips, when he finally stood right out of the frame, he carried within him still the boy he had been when first he saw her and what he had supposed to be the beauty of her soul had stopped his heart and started it again, beating now in a rhythm he had assumed was a dance for two, the dance of his life. He remembered the story of the two of them he had told himself and he gasped at the gut punch of never having believed it, not at all, not even when in the beginning she had been so beautiful he had simply been unable to reconcile that beauty he could touch with that absence in her heart he could feel. He had made up a story to explain her, to justify her in the world as he had understood it then. He had fallen in love at first sight with a story he had made up on the spot and he had married his own story and he knew that if he had it to do all over again he would do it all over again. He stuffed his hands into his pockets and shook his head. Shook it again and tried to straighten under the dead weight of all he had lost, dragging a killing burden of things he never had. What a waste, what a waste, the both of them. She had been so beautiful. So achingly, breakingly beautiful, and look at her now. Just look at her now. Just look.
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