[We were in Maine this weekend, and I fell asleep while J was finishing his submission, so I apologize for bein' late. This is actually something I wrote before we got back into the blog, and I want to put it up here this week and edit it for next. Feel free to let me know what works for you and what leaves you feelin less intrigued. I know the parts I do and don't like, but it never hurts to have some extra points of view! I think it's too long, so next week it should be shorter—unless I pull out a thread and wind up writing more about that. WRITING!]
This time it was a duck au jus sandwich, left unattended on a picnic blanket while a frantic man in khakis attempted in vain to give a woman in a vintage floral dress the Heimlich. He succeeded in breaking two of her ribs, the pain of which forced her to gasp, pulling the hunk of brie further down her windpipe; she lost consciousness and he jogged in half circles, alternating explaining things to the emergency operator in a shaky falsetto and picking up her limp wrist, meantime leaving the unsupervised lunch by a small waddle of ducklings, the biggest of which muscled his way to the platter in the center and dragged the sandwich closer to the pond, enabling the lot of them to peck through until nothing remained on the plate. The effect was immediate.
Within weeks, the ducks had moved from the pond to the city streets, attacking hot dog vendors, converging on tourists with doggie bags, flocking restaurant dumpsters not for crumbs or stale crusts, not for rice cakes or popcorn, but for the juicy, fatty, tender flesh they had tasted. One at a time, their reptilian eyes peeked out of alleyways. Their soft squawks echoed across unlit streets. Delivery boys and girls refused to ride their bikes through the city, having returned too many times with deep scores in their calves from talons and beaks, tired of paying for meals undelivered, iodine, and bandages.
Precautions were taken, city-wide. People were afraid to buy groceries. Several of the larger chains managed to secure parking garages with labyrinthine entryways, gates, armed guards, and electric fencing. After rooting out and dispatching the half dozen ducks that terrorized one of the larger grocery stores through the ventilation system—feathers and duck shit littering the produce, torn meat packets clogging up the air vents—they were able to keep the fowl at bay. For a while, those without cars took taxis and their chances, crossing the sidewalk and slipping their key into the door with armloads of food and a slurry of feathered desperation pecking at their heels. Some people took to leaving their doors unlocked.
The smaller places, the corner grocers, had to close up shop, because no one would risk the walk laden with bags, and fencing prices had gone through the roof. Restaurants had trouble loading in food, as marauds of ducks swarmed the back alleys. A few enterprising souls had a rotating menu of duck three ways, enticing the brave to come dine on the scourge itself, but it was getting harder to justify the damage done to property and self, and few were willing to pay big money and risk the trip outside.
The areas around the ponds and parks were gradually abandoned as the ducks pushed outward, making ever-widening circles of city uninhabitable. Even if you managed to keep the ducks out of your building, the to-and-fro proved too difficult, too painful, too stressful for even the most calm, nature-loving minds. If one wasn't forced out by the constant fear of attack, one would opt to relocate to get away from the tented communities of vegan pacifists who sprung up, attempting to convert the ducks to veganism and away from carnivorous violence. Despite the frequent screaming and nightly disappearances of human beings, they reasoned that ducks were not genetically designed for consumption of meat, aside from the occasional small fish, and once the initial reaction was purged from their systems, they would revert back to their peaceable ways.
A naturalist among them stole a nest and returned home to force hatch. His last voicemail to his sister was disturbing in its quiet incomprehensibility. The baby ducks had teeth.
Henry Sloane, magnate of a company whose main business was home furnishings, but whose side business was in eider down bedding, began to buy up the city parks and negotiate for rights to all wildlife and air space within and above, effectively locking down a massive market. No one was left to oppose him. The denizens told him all they could to help design traps and were pushing to get his offers approved, hoping he could cull. One night, a team of men and women in head-to-toe protective gear similar to the kind used to train attack dogs swept through the city in near-silence, walking among throngs of ducks—their heads tucked under their wings—to collect abandoned tents, Kashi wrappers, and meatless balls. Following the sweep, a small team with clipboards came through doing a headcount. When they'd converged in an area of high concentration, it is generally agreed upon by all survivors that there was no initial sound, no signal quack, no perceivable sign or symbol, but a sudden rush of wings erupted, unbidden, on all sides—and the battering of duck bodies against a cushioned suit is not a sensation any of those who were left to remember will soon forget. Of the sixty-seven who embarked on the mission, twelve survived. None of them had clipboards. Sloane withdrew his contracts.
A pair of restaurateurs in the south east quadrant of the city was one of the first to try feeding the ducks again. Initial attempts had failed while large stacks of slightly stale bread littered the parks, molded, and were ultimately carried off by ants. This husband and wife team collected the stores from several restaurants that had been forced to close, and with the lack of patrons, everything was close to spoiling. They cooked for three days. They cleared all the tables from the serving area and put piles of food out on the floor. They opened their doors and put more food on the sidewalk and deserted street in order to entice the ducks. They waited. He stood by the bar, begging her to stay locked in the kitchen, watching through the small glass portals. She refused, standing by his side, slipping her hand into his as the sound of talons on concrete grew louder.
The ducks converged. The street and sidewalk fare was eliminated in moments, and the chefs were forced to push back into the kitchen and lock the door, watching the throng grow, downy bodies pressed tight, minor skirmishes breaking out as ducks stepped on one another or pecked out a dominant place by a particularly toothsome pile. The food would run out soon, and the influx of ducks showed no sign of slowing. When enough ducks were pushed against the small circle of glass separating them from the mass that they couldn’t see the inside of the restaurant, they breathed in unison. Her hand hadn't left his, and she put her head on his shoulder and nodded. He kissed the top of her head as he detonated the bomb. It blew away most of the block, and took with it thousands of ducks and two of the most talented chefs the city had known.
Black feathers fell as far away as five blocks, and the smell of burning forced evacuations even farther out. When the emergency and media crews responded, they couldn't get near the heart of the site. A million or more ducks were tearing each other apart to get to the seared bodies amidst a sea of rubble. Ducks smeared in blood and ash were manically hunting through falling brick and twisted metal, tearing at dimpled, crispy flesh, beaks buried deep in greasy thighs peppered with soot. The cannibalistic hysteria was deeply affecting, and several members of each crew vomited, hands shaking for several days, minds forever altered. A few of the more insensate members were discerning enough to recognize their advantage. They called it in, and all authorized enforcement officers who could get their hands on one came to the site armed with a blow torch. The ducks wanted duck.
It was open season. For every duck that was blasted with flame, firefighters were needed to prevent its flapping somewhere it could ignite an uncontrollable blaze, and the ducks that tried to eat it while it was still on fire were likewise tended to as they were immolated. The moment the flames were gone, a new slew of ducks would tear each other apart to get to the carcass. The gourmet district smelled of a mixture of burnt feathers and medium-rare duck. The sounds were inconceivable. The carnage was unfathomable. The scent was mouth-watering.
They worked in shifts as the gutters clogged with duck parts. The surrounding ponds were rainbows of greasy sheen. In the center of the rubble, duck bills dripped fat; small teeth ripped into crispy, charred flesh—their favorite part.
It was about a week before the frosts set in, and they were down to the final couple of dozens when something shut down all of the frantic gorging of the ducks. As one, they stopped fighting, stopped pecking, stopped eating.
They took flight.
A call went out to everyone and anyone with a gun and a hunting license or a badge; unofficially, anyone who had a gun and a chance in hell of hitting a duck or two. Shots rang out, and ducks rained down, bouncing as they hit the concrete. Their Vs fell apart with no spare ducks to fill in the gaps.
Media crews tracked the flocks, keeping a tally on the screen of how many individual ducks remained. The countdown ran swiftly from forty to fourteen. Fifteen minutes passed with that number holding at fourteen. It went down by one, then zeroed out. Throughout the country, people yelled, cried, hugged, laughed, cursed, and celebrated, an outpouring of relief. The displaced began to dream once more of home. The traumatized began to dream of healing. The rest of the country claimed they'd never stood for the quarantine idea that had been bandied about in recent weeks, this display of unity and triumph of the human will proof positive of the willingness of each to help a fellow person in need. The bakers dozen of ducks who were not taken down dreamed of nothing, their minds overridden by the instinct to fly, just fly, for now.
Monday, August 27, 2012
Wednesday, August 22, 2012
Potemkin Villages
I sometimes like
to pronounce "façade"
fuh-kahd.
It's something I do
to give the effect
that I'm easy
going.
to pronounce "façade"
fuh-kahd.
It's something I do
to give the effect
that I'm easy
going.
Wednesday, August 15, 2012
Nabakov's Butterflies
The lab lights always buzzed before they turned on—fluorescent blinking awake. We dragged two stools up to a table and you handed me the alcohol wipes you had in your pocket before you broke into the supplies closet.
I ran my fingertips along the outer edge of one of the packets, small, square, and stiff.
You slid a rubber mat, like a mouse pad, and some plastic sheeting under my arm. You wrapped two canvas straps around the table, bracing my elbow and hand against its surface, tightening, and testing the hold. You asked, "Can you recite the names of the bones in the human hand?"
I watched you uncap a marker and draw a line across my wrist, another across the fleshy part just below my elbow, and a long, nearly straight line connecting them. I said, "It's been a while."
You unwrapped an alcohol wipe and ran it along the lines you’d made with the marker. You held up a scalpel and studied my arm. "How about the carpals? Try?"
I watched you drag the scalpel across my wrist, the marker path dividing by a thin red line. "Scaphoid" I said, as you made a cut along the inside of my elbow. "Lu–" I stopped as you connected the parallel lines, an elongated capital "I" carved deep into my skin.
You didn't look up. “What’s next?”
“Lunate."
"Good, and?"
"I can’t remember."
Using the tip of the scalpel, you lifted a corner of skin from the center of my wrist—where there had never been a corner of skin. Without looking up, you said, “She. Looks. Too. Pretty; Try. To. Catch. Her.” The mnemonic hung between us as you slid the blade gently along the inside of the incision, peeling back a page of flesh. You open a small plastic box, dumping out straight pins.
I am surprised at the lack of smell and realize that I'd expected formaldehyde, a familiar scent in any dissection I'd witnessed. I wanted to close my eyes, but looked at you instead. "I could never keep the T's in order," I explained.
You held my skin against the plastic and rubber, trapping it with a straight pin in each corner as I watched you from several feet away. "Try."
"Looks. Too. Pretty: Lunate. Triquetral. Pisiform. I always thought triquetral should go with 'try,' but I guess that wouldn't make sense in the sentence."
You looked at my face for the first time since we turned on the lights, then picked up a piece of gauze and wiped some perspiration from my forehead. You said, "If not for the Russian Revolution, Nabokov said he probably would've become a full-time lepidopterist."
The lights seem to be humming louder, but realize it's just because I'm listening to them again.
"As it was, he identified a new species and predicted migratory patterns. They didn't take him seriously, but he was right." Your eyes reflected the fluorescence from above and as it reflected off the plastic sheeting. "He might never have written."
"The tip of the tongue taking a trip of three steps down the palate to tap, at three, on the teeth."
You pinioned the other swath of skin, and my arm lay mounted before you. "You're only halfway there. What are the rest of the carpals?" You squirted a small plastic bottle of fluid into the mass of muscle and blood, revealing the slick white bones.
"Is it the "flying trapezes?" I have to stop and remember which one comes first, alphabetically.
You ran a fingertip along the length of the ulna and asked if I could feel anything.
"Trapezium and trapezoid. Yes, they start the distals." I was proud of how calm I sounded.
"You have so much to learn." You slipped your fingers among veins and arteries, pressing muscle, identifying functions and names.
I tried not to interrupt.
You pointed to a tight mass on the side of my forearm. “There, a small, clean biopsy of the extensor brevis."
I didn't shake as I took the scalpel from you.
You watched, your fingers at your lips, my blood on the gloves pressed to your mouth—with no effort at all you could taste it. You could paint your lips with it. Your eyes did not leave the blade.
"Capitate and hamate," I whispered, cutting. Just a small, clean piece, a communion wafer of me, small enough to melt on your tongue.
I ran my fingertips along the outer edge of one of the packets, small, square, and stiff.
You slid a rubber mat, like a mouse pad, and some plastic sheeting under my arm. You wrapped two canvas straps around the table, bracing my elbow and hand against its surface, tightening, and testing the hold. You asked, "Can you recite the names of the bones in the human hand?"
I watched you uncap a marker and draw a line across my wrist, another across the fleshy part just below my elbow, and a long, nearly straight line connecting them. I said, "It's been a while."
You unwrapped an alcohol wipe and ran it along the lines you’d made with the marker. You held up a scalpel and studied my arm. "How about the carpals? Try?"
I watched you drag the scalpel across my wrist, the marker path dividing by a thin red line. "Scaphoid" I said, as you made a cut along the inside of my elbow. "Lu–" I stopped as you connected the parallel lines, an elongated capital "I" carved deep into my skin.
You didn't look up. “What’s next?”
“Lunate."
"Good, and?"
"I can’t remember."
Using the tip of the scalpel, you lifted a corner of skin from the center of my wrist—where there had never been a corner of skin. Without looking up, you said, “She. Looks. Too. Pretty; Try. To. Catch. Her.” The mnemonic hung between us as you slid the blade gently along the inside of the incision, peeling back a page of flesh. You open a small plastic box, dumping out straight pins.
I am surprised at the lack of smell and realize that I'd expected formaldehyde, a familiar scent in any dissection I'd witnessed. I wanted to close my eyes, but looked at you instead. "I could never keep the T's in order," I explained.
You held my skin against the plastic and rubber, trapping it with a straight pin in each corner as I watched you from several feet away. "Try."
"Looks. Too. Pretty: Lunate. Triquetral. Pisiform. I always thought triquetral should go with 'try,' but I guess that wouldn't make sense in the sentence."
You looked at my face for the first time since we turned on the lights, then picked up a piece of gauze and wiped some perspiration from my forehead. You said, "If not for the Russian Revolution, Nabokov said he probably would've become a full-time lepidopterist."
The lights seem to be humming louder, but realize it's just because I'm listening to them again.
"As it was, he identified a new species and predicted migratory patterns. They didn't take him seriously, but he was right." Your eyes reflected the fluorescence from above and as it reflected off the plastic sheeting. "He might never have written."
"The tip of the tongue taking a trip of three steps down the palate to tap, at three, on the teeth."
You pinioned the other swath of skin, and my arm lay mounted before you. "You're only halfway there. What are the rest of the carpals?" You squirted a small plastic bottle of fluid into the mass of muscle and blood, revealing the slick white bones.
"Is it the "flying trapezes?" I have to stop and remember which one comes first, alphabetically.
You ran a fingertip along the length of the ulna and asked if I could feel anything.
"Trapezium and trapezoid. Yes, they start the distals." I was proud of how calm I sounded.
"You have so much to learn." You slipped your fingers among veins and arteries, pressing muscle, identifying functions and names.
I tried not to interrupt.
You pointed to a tight mass on the side of my forearm. “There, a small, clean biopsy of the extensor brevis."
I didn't shake as I took the scalpel from you.
You watched, your fingers at your lips, my blood on the gloves pressed to your mouth—with no effort at all you could taste it. You could paint your lips with it. Your eyes did not leave the blade.
"Capitate and hamate," I whispered, cutting. Just a small, clean piece, a communion wafer of me, small enough to melt on your tongue.
Sunday, August 5, 2012
Snow
As we walked down the street, I remember feeling a pervading sense of calm. Even though there had been a part of me that was afraid to go for a walk, afraid the eye of the storm would close and we would find ourselves in the middle of a blizzard, I let that fear heighten the excitement of going out into the snow.
There was no one else outside. There were no dogs, no kids, no snowmen, no sounds. It was just the two of us, our boots not even crunching in the powder. I did feel a little guilty as we walked—I was ruining the pristine snow cover—but I also felt lucky that I got to be the one to do it. I never went for a walk this late. And never in the middle of a storm.
I think that was one of the first moments where I felt something approaching love for Marsha. She had invited me to do this with her. Not Dad. I was too young to understand quite yet why she wouldn't have asked dad, that it had taken enough courage to call him up and ask to bring the baby to his apartment, afraid to be alone with him in the middle of a blizzard, afraid, I'd imagine, of the big old house that Dad owned before the marriage and that neither would own after it.
Still, she didn't just go out by herself. Nor did she hole up in the bedroom away from us. She noticed the break in the storm and asked me to go with her for a walk in the storm. I knew that meant something. I believe that walk meant something for her, too. I think it solidified her decision to do what she did.
She called my mother.
"Arthur and I are separating. We have decided to divorce."
"I'm sorry to hear that."
I wonder if Marsha smiled at that. Here were two women who knew, intimately, the kind of man my father was.
"I know she will still get to see the baby. We're going to time his visits to match hers as much as possible, so it won't affect their relationship."
"She will like that."
I don't know where she found the courage to say this, except, I suppose, I didn't know her to lack much courage, even then. "I don't want to lose her. I want her to continue to be a part of my life."
At that point in my life, I'd never known her to cry. But I have to believe she was at least choked up, enough to make my mother, who is fairly unsentimental, prophesize: "Marsha, you will sit beside me at her wedding."
She was in the row behind my mom, but they were both there.
They kept it fairly simple, but consistent at first. Marsha would pick me up, eventually me and a friend, and bring us to an Italian restaurant a twenty minute drive away. Oftentimes, we met up with Barb, a friend of Marsha's, who would tell us stories about when she was younger, and worked in a club. A man once complained about how long it took her to bring his drink, so she made him a bet. "I told him, 'Let's see who can make it up to the bar and back here with a drink faster. If you beat me, the drink's on me.' Well, of course I beat him, by a full minute, and with a tray of drinks in one hand and rather high heels on my feet. He gave me a very good tip."
Sometimes Barb would bring her kids. They were nice, but the boy was too close to my age for me to ever feel fully comfortable. Parents had a way of insinuating, and the ones with boring, painfully shy, or unattractive boys seemed to be the worst. Instead I'd play Ms. Pacman until the food was ready and then we'd sit and eat. I didn't take the time to process what the dinners meant. I just thought it was nice of Marsha to take me out, and that she was more relaxed than she used to be. More fun.
Every summer, I could still count on being invited to the house on Cape Cod, and we'd spend a week together. I'd babysit Rick with a friend and I'd even get paid for it. While the teenager in me resented spending the week as a babysitter, I still knew that Marsha was being more than generous, welcoming me into her life, and treating me to bike rentals, ice cream, good food, and a week on the beach. She bought me a t-shirt or sweatshirt every year. I wish I can say I always appreciated it, but I didn't. I took it for granted most of the time, but I never lost sight of Cape Cod as a special place, even when I lost sight of the people around me; I still haven't quite recovered from the selling of that house.
That big old house was beautifully lived-in. I know now that it was somewhat run down, but it was perfect. 10 bedrooms, sinks and mirrors in every one of them. Clawfooted tubs. A caged elevator that didn't work most of the time we owned the place. A kitchen with two refrigerators and a big, open pantry. A dining room that could seat and serve nearly twenty. A small table with a chess/checkboard built right into the tabletop set beside huge bay windows. Patterned floors that tempted my mild OCD and set me tearing around, leaping from black square to black square, navy ring of rug to the fuchsia throw that slid a little when you landed on it after jumping from the top of the three-stair landing. I got yelled at a few times, but I never fell.
I didn't care that the chairs were mismatched, and a few had springs that you could feel through the threadbare cushions. I didn't care that the rugs were unraveling and worn. I didn't mind sand absolutely everywhere, despite the strict rinsing-off rules. I loved it.
One of the first summers there, Marsha's mother taught me how to dip sheets of paper below the surface of the ocean, float a piece of delicate seaweed over it just so, and lift it gently, so the weed is captured mid-flow. Let the paper dry in the sun, and you have it captured forever. I went home telling my mom that I made paper.
Marsha's mother was really fond of me. She crocheted little hearts and other shapes, and taught me how to sew, using yarn and plastic netting with patterns painted on it. We cut out fabric shapes and glued felt and magnets on the back. We made little hooks of yarn for ornaments. She made me a pink sundress with white hearts that hangs in the back of my closet for my niece. There was nothing she couldn't make.
Marsha's father loved me, too. That was harder for her. He was silly and encouraging. He led me around the grounds of their house in East Hampton, tossed me into the pool, and let me almost drive their tractor into the lake by their house (which terrified me deeper than I realized, until I tried to learn to drive and the nightmares started) and he sang old songs to me and seemed to live to make me laugh. I didn't know until I was much older and he was dead that he had been a terrible father.
When they were both fading, only in their sixties, of the tumors that were sapping away their lives, I didn't understand what had changed. I knew they were sick, but it took me a long time to realize that it wasn't the kind of sick you get better from. One somber Christmas, Grandma unwrapped a knit hat I picked out for Grandpa, smiled, and put it on. I whispered to Marsha that it was for Grandpa, and Grandma re-read the card and said "Oh! Sorry! He'll love this." And then she left the room to go to his sick room and put it on him. I don't remember being allowed to see him, just a sick room off to the side with the lights off and a strange scent in the air.
I remember her, though. When she was in hospice. We brought her rice pudding, and Marsha fed it to her. Across the hall, a man was turning 100 years old, and I was fascinated. It must've been harder than I could've appreciated for Marsha to hear me in awe of a man who had already outlived her mother, dying in her sixties of a brain tumor, smiling with a grain of rice stuck to her lip. I didn't know what to do. I just wanted to wipe her mouth and go home.
But before the hospital and the sick room, before any more summers at the Cape, before the dinners and the phone call, Marsha helped me put on my gloves and led me down the stairs of the artist's loft my Dad was renting, just alongside the Connecticut River.
"What if it starts again?"
She crouched down and tugged my hat over my ears. "It won't, not for quite a while, but, if it does, we won't go far."
I nodded.
"Do you want to go back?"
"No."
She opened the door and we stood just inside, admiring the fresh powder, untrodden and almost golden in the streetlamp's glare.
There was no one else outside. There were no dogs, no kids, no snowmen, no sounds. It was just the two of us, our boots not even crunching in the powder. I did feel a little guilty as we walked—I was ruining the pristine snow cover—but I also felt lucky that I got to be the one to do it. I never went for a walk this late. And never in the middle of a storm.
I think that was one of the first moments where I felt something approaching love for Marsha. She had invited me to do this with her. Not Dad. I was too young to understand quite yet why she wouldn't have asked dad, that it had taken enough courage to call him up and ask to bring the baby to his apartment, afraid to be alone with him in the middle of a blizzard, afraid, I'd imagine, of the big old house that Dad owned before the marriage and that neither would own after it.
Still, she didn't just go out by herself. Nor did she hole up in the bedroom away from us. She noticed the break in the storm and asked me to go with her for a walk in the storm. I knew that meant something. I believe that walk meant something for her, too. I think it solidified her decision to do what she did.
She called my mother.
"Arthur and I are separating. We have decided to divorce."
"I'm sorry to hear that."
I wonder if Marsha smiled at that. Here were two women who knew, intimately, the kind of man my father was.
"I know she will still get to see the baby. We're going to time his visits to match hers as much as possible, so it won't affect their relationship."
"She will like that."
I don't know where she found the courage to say this, except, I suppose, I didn't know her to lack much courage, even then. "I don't want to lose her. I want her to continue to be a part of my life."
At that point in my life, I'd never known her to cry. But I have to believe she was at least choked up, enough to make my mother, who is fairly unsentimental, prophesize: "Marsha, you will sit beside me at her wedding."
She was in the row behind my mom, but they were both there.
They kept it fairly simple, but consistent at first. Marsha would pick me up, eventually me and a friend, and bring us to an Italian restaurant a twenty minute drive away. Oftentimes, we met up with Barb, a friend of Marsha's, who would tell us stories about when she was younger, and worked in a club. A man once complained about how long it took her to bring his drink, so she made him a bet. "I told him, 'Let's see who can make it up to the bar and back here with a drink faster. If you beat me, the drink's on me.' Well, of course I beat him, by a full minute, and with a tray of drinks in one hand and rather high heels on my feet. He gave me a very good tip."
Sometimes Barb would bring her kids. They were nice, but the boy was too close to my age for me to ever feel fully comfortable. Parents had a way of insinuating, and the ones with boring, painfully shy, or unattractive boys seemed to be the worst. Instead I'd play Ms. Pacman until the food was ready and then we'd sit and eat. I didn't take the time to process what the dinners meant. I just thought it was nice of Marsha to take me out, and that she was more relaxed than she used to be. More fun.
Every summer, I could still count on being invited to the house on Cape Cod, and we'd spend a week together. I'd babysit Rick with a friend and I'd even get paid for it. While the teenager in me resented spending the week as a babysitter, I still knew that Marsha was being more than generous, welcoming me into her life, and treating me to bike rentals, ice cream, good food, and a week on the beach. She bought me a t-shirt or sweatshirt every year. I wish I can say I always appreciated it, but I didn't. I took it for granted most of the time, but I never lost sight of Cape Cod as a special place, even when I lost sight of the people around me; I still haven't quite recovered from the selling of that house.
That big old house was beautifully lived-in. I know now that it was somewhat run down, but it was perfect. 10 bedrooms, sinks and mirrors in every one of them. Clawfooted tubs. A caged elevator that didn't work most of the time we owned the place. A kitchen with two refrigerators and a big, open pantry. A dining room that could seat and serve nearly twenty. A small table with a chess/checkboard built right into the tabletop set beside huge bay windows. Patterned floors that tempted my mild OCD and set me tearing around, leaping from black square to black square, navy ring of rug to the fuchsia throw that slid a little when you landed on it after jumping from the top of the three-stair landing. I got yelled at a few times, but I never fell.
I didn't care that the chairs were mismatched, and a few had springs that you could feel through the threadbare cushions. I didn't care that the rugs were unraveling and worn. I didn't mind sand absolutely everywhere, despite the strict rinsing-off rules. I loved it.
One of the first summers there, Marsha's mother taught me how to dip sheets of paper below the surface of the ocean, float a piece of delicate seaweed over it just so, and lift it gently, so the weed is captured mid-flow. Let the paper dry in the sun, and you have it captured forever. I went home telling my mom that I made paper.
Marsha's mother was really fond of me. She crocheted little hearts and other shapes, and taught me how to sew, using yarn and plastic netting with patterns painted on it. We cut out fabric shapes and glued felt and magnets on the back. We made little hooks of yarn for ornaments. She made me a pink sundress with white hearts that hangs in the back of my closet for my niece. There was nothing she couldn't make.
Marsha's father loved me, too. That was harder for her. He was silly and encouraging. He led me around the grounds of their house in East Hampton, tossed me into the pool, and let me almost drive their tractor into the lake by their house (which terrified me deeper than I realized, until I tried to learn to drive and the nightmares started) and he sang old songs to me and seemed to live to make me laugh. I didn't know until I was much older and he was dead that he had been a terrible father.
When they were both fading, only in their sixties, of the tumors that were sapping away their lives, I didn't understand what had changed. I knew they were sick, but it took me a long time to realize that it wasn't the kind of sick you get better from. One somber Christmas, Grandma unwrapped a knit hat I picked out for Grandpa, smiled, and put it on. I whispered to Marsha that it was for Grandpa, and Grandma re-read the card and said "Oh! Sorry! He'll love this." And then she left the room to go to his sick room and put it on him. I don't remember being allowed to see him, just a sick room off to the side with the lights off and a strange scent in the air.
I remember her, though. When she was in hospice. We brought her rice pudding, and Marsha fed it to her. Across the hall, a man was turning 100 years old, and I was fascinated. It must've been harder than I could've appreciated for Marsha to hear me in awe of a man who had already outlived her mother, dying in her sixties of a brain tumor, smiling with a grain of rice stuck to her lip. I didn't know what to do. I just wanted to wipe her mouth and go home.
But before the hospital and the sick room, before any more summers at the Cape, before the dinners and the phone call, Marsha helped me put on my gloves and led me down the stairs of the artist's loft my Dad was renting, just alongside the Connecticut River.
"What if it starts again?"
She crouched down and tugged my hat over my ears. "It won't, not for quite a while, but, if it does, we won't go far."
I nodded.
"Do you want to go back?"
"No."
She opened the door and we stood just inside, admiring the fresh powder, untrodden and almost golden in the streetlamp's glare.
Saturday, August 4, 2012
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