by David Arnold
I cry because I love. For some reason, I always have.
25
Our Only Color
September 3—late afternoonish
Dear Isabel,
“Your mother and I are getting divorced.”
Seven words. All it took to wash away the millions that came before. I’d heard them in movies, on TV, read them in books. I’d heard them probably dozens of times in my life, yet somehow, never . . . in my life, you know? Mom said a few words about “taking care of herself.” Dad nodded during that part. Ironically, this was the most evident display of unity I’d seen from them in years. After Mom’s bit, Dad gave a little speech about doing what was right for our family, no matter how difficult, and they hadn’t worked out all the specifics yet, but it didn’t change how much they loved me, and blah, blah, blah. It was the kind of speech where the first line was the only one that mattered. Your mother and I are getting divorced. Done. Ball game. That is the speech.
The night they told me, I barely slept. And when I did, it was uneasy. (This letter contains no Reasons, so if you’d like to skip it, Iz, go right ahead. Honestly, I’m not even sure who these words are for: you or me.)
In a dream, I sat on the edge of my parents’ bed, alone in their room. My stomach burned. And my throat, too, like lava. I could feel my tongue forming words, and while I sensed their urgency, I couldn’t hear them. Something fell from my hands, landed on the carpet with a dull thud. I looked down and noticed my bare feet—how had they grown so old? I wondered.
Rising from the bed, I saw those old feet sink into the carpet. I kept a close eye on them, because they weren’t mine, and you just can’t trust someone else’s feet.
Like a rusty freighter on the Atlantic, I drifted across the room. It took hours, days, years even. By the time my hip nudged the edge of my mother’s vanity, I’d come to terms with my old age. Raising my head by inches, I saw the red wood of the vanity’s curved legs, the cabinets with those shiny brass handles, and resting on top, my mother’s makeup tray. Normally, the tray was full of her favorite perfumes, blushes, eyeliners, and concealers. But just then, it held only one item: her lipstick. The very lipstick she’d used on my one and only makeover.
In the dream, I could feel the vanity’s tall mirror looming. I must look up, I thought. I’ve spent a lifetime, crossed an ocean to look up.
I looked up.
I laughed, cried, laughed.
I am not me, I said to the ocean, to the old feet, to the face in the mirror. And it was true. In the dream, the reflection staring back was not my own.
It was my mother’s.
I raised my chin, my eyebrows and hands. I watched the chin, eyebrows, and hands of my mother in the mirror. I opened my mouth. Her mouth opened. I winked. She winked back. I spoke, she spoke.
Mary can’t possibly understand what I’m trying to say, we said.
Fine, we replied. She’ll understand this . . .
We picked up the lipstick. Calmly, we removed the cap and drew on our face. A Ferris wheel. Fireworks. A diamond ring, a bottle, a record. As soon as we finished each one, the drawings disappeared. We drew faster, a thousand things, each one more indistinct than the last.
The final drawing was more methodical.
In the mirror, our hands and face came together to paint the sky. Left cheek first, one decisive stroke. We drew the two-sided arrow, brought it to a point at the bridge of our nose—then the line across our forehead. The third brushstroke mirrored the first: an arrow on the right cheek. We drew a thick line from forehead to chin, and finally, a dot inside both arrows.
It disappeared, so we drew it again. And again, and again, like some sad automaton, doomed to an existence of unvaried motion.
Finally, it stuck.
We dropped the lipstick to the floor, where it splashed between our old feet. Our face was old, too, all the blood drained away.
The war paint is our only color, we said.
The next morning, I woke up in a sweat.
From my bedroom, I could hear Dad down the hall, talking in low tones. I got up, and without even bothering to put on pants, crept toward my parents’ bedroom. Their door was cracked open just enough to see inside. Dad sat on the edge of his bed, talking on the phone. His voice sounded tired, and even from my limited vantage point, I could see the outlines of dark rings under his eyes. I could see that he was wearing the same clothes as yesterday. He said good-bye, then hung up and sat there for a second. I pushed open the door.
“Hi, honey,” he said, turning sideways. “I didn’t know you were awake.”
“Dad,” I said simply. It was enough.
He began talking, using words that made no sense at all. “She had to leave.” I stood in the door, half-naked, holding my breath, rearranging what truths I thought I knew. “It’ll only be for a while, until she figures things out.” His words were oblong, misshapen. They fit into none of my known boxes, so I was forced to create a new one. In red pen, it was labeled GROW UP. “She wanted to say good-bye, but this was for the best.” As he talked, I stepped inside this new box, pulled the lid shut over my head, hugged my knees to my chest, screamed my guts out, surrendered myself to all the worst things from all the worst places.
“Mim? You okay?”
My box melted. “Am I okay?” I stared at him for a second, unable to buy . . . any of it. Across the room, I saw Mom’s vanity—the tall mirror, the red wood, the curved legs. My heart sank when I saw the makeup tray. I swept across the room, careful not to look at my feet. The dream was still too close.
“Mim, put on some clothes, let’s talk about this.”
The makeup tray—usually full of her perfumes, blushes, eyeliners, concealers—was empty. All of it gone, save one item: the lipstick. It sat on the tray like unwanted leftovers.
“Mim,” said Dad.
I grabbed the lipstick off the tray and turned for the door.
“Mim.”
But I was gone.
Back in my room, I stood in front of my own rarely used mirror, recalled the war paint from my dream, and began.
And it felt good.
I do not know why.
For the next two months, we stayed in that house, during which time a number of things happened, including but not limited to (1) I found the words ten easy steps to a ten-day divorce left in the Google search bar of the family computer, and (2) my parents were divorced twelve days later, compelling me to wonder which of the “easy steps” my father had botched, and (3) Kathy, who had once waited on us at Denny’s, started coming around the house, and (4) I received no less than one hollow-sounding letter a week from my mother, assuring me that all was well, that I would be seeing her soon, etc., etc., which led me to (5) beg Dad if I could live with Mom in Cleveland, to which he responded (6) Out of the question, to which I responded (7) What the hell is going on, to which he (8) married Kathy and moved us way the hell away from Mom, bringing us to (9) when Mom’s letters stopped, her phone was disconnected, and I was left 110 percent alone in this world, an island unto myself, a sad, lost little person living in one mosquito-ridden sweat storm of an ass-backwards state.
My whole fucking world had fallen apart, Isabel, that’s the long and short of it. And no matter where I turned, I got no answers. For a while, I was pissed at my mom. Honestly, I could have survived all of it, even the BREAKING NEWS, if I could’ve counted on that one letter—hollow-sounding or not—per week. Just one.
But I’m beginning to suspect something, and it’s almost too awful for words. Among the reasons behind Dad’s recent actions (and there are many), what if one of them—God, what if one of them is her disease?
What if Dad got rid of my mom because she’s sick?
Signing off,
Mary Iris Malone,
An Island Unto Myself
CINCINNATI, OHIO
(249 Miles to Go
)
26
Remember the Rendezvouski!
A FLOCK OF teenage girls stands in front of us in line, each one carrying identical shopping bags. The bags depict a group of ripped, shirtless dudes on a pier. Plastered across the top in bold marquee lettering it says LIVE YOUR LIFE.
It’s an odd feeling, being chagrinned by your own generation. Long ago, I traded my pie-in-the-sky idealism—as it relates to what people are like and what they are interested in—for a more realistic worldview. It all starts in middle school. Friends with interesting quirks, like double-jointed thumbs, or overactive gastrointestinal reactions to Cheez Whiz, suddenly strive to hide the very things that make them interesting. Before you know it, you’re in high school, wondering if you’re the only one who actually read Brave New World, rather than its summary on Wikipedia. Or you’re sitting in the cafeteria, pondering the complexities of the latest Christopher Nolan film while the nearest table of cheerleaders discusses whatever reality TV show is popular that week, then argues over who gives the most efficient blow job. I used to remind myself that it was only high school. Surely, the real world would be different. But I’m beginning to wonder if the whole damn planet hasn’t been Wikipedia’d.
This shopping bag, with its profound LIVE YOUR LIFE, is a great example of this. Short of discouraging death, it means absolutely nothing. Some suit in some high-rise thought it sounded cool, and now it’s on a bag. In my face. Making me want to not live mine.
Walt, Beck, and I stand in the ticket window line. Beck is texting someone while Walt is holding a butterfly by the wings, inspecting its undercarriage.
“Y’all need tickets?”
A stranger sidles up next to us. He’s wearing an army jacket, a turtleneck, mittens, earmuffs, and a scarf. Dude is either deathly afraid of a sudden cold front or in love with winter accessories. Actually, stick a pipe in his mouth, and he could pass as a snowman.
“No thanks,” says Beck, tucking his phone away.
Snowman leans in. “I got primo tickets, man. Lap of luxury. Third base side, six rows back. Just above the dugout. Absolute fucking lap of luxury.”
Beck looks at the long line, then at me.
“How much?” I ask.
Snowman shrugs. “You guys seem like nice people. I’ll give you four for five hundred.”
“Dollars? What is this, the World Series? The Yankees aren’t in town, man.”
“There’s a holiday weekend fireworks show,” says Snowman. “After the game.”
Next to me, Walt shoves the butterfly into his empty Mountain Dew bottle; he screws on the lid, and offers all of us an enthusiastic thumbs-up.
Snowman eyes Walt, turns back to Beck. “Fine. Four hundred—for three tickets.”
I step in front of Beck. Time to put an end to this debacle. “I’ll give you a hundred for three tickets, dude. Plus three free nights at a Holiday Inn.”
Snowman and Beck are both eyeballing me now.
“Long story,” I mutter. Then, to Snowman, “Look, the game’s already started. It’s Reds versus Cubs, and I’ll bet you got a stack of tickets, which in approximately two and a half hours won’t be worth a nickel.”
Walt pokes a stick in the bottle, torturing the poor creature.
“Make it one twenty, little lady, and you got yourself a deal.”
I kneel down and unzip my bag to get the money. Above me, I hear Snowman say, “Your little lady drives a hard bargain.”
I blush the blush of all blushes, grateful they can’t see my face.
Tickets in hand, the three of us make our way toward the ballpark. Walt is literally skipping with excitement, an act worth every penny I just forked over.
Beck reaches out, stops us in front of a bronzed statue. “Idea. If at any point one of us gets lost, let’s agree to meet back here. At this statue, okay? Sort of like a rendezvous point.”
I raise my ticket. “We have these. We could just meet at our seats.”
His eyes flutter toward Walt, then back to me. “I just think this might be a little . . . easier, you know? And fun. Or something.”
I think back to the one Indians game I attended, and how frenzied the crowd was afterward, everyone trying to get back to their cars to beat traffic. One look at Walt—currently jabbing his butterfly, oblivious to the world around him—and I follow Beck’s lead. “You know, I think that’s a great idea. Walt?”
“Hey, hey,” he says, not taking his eyes off the bottle. Inside, the butterfly’s wings have gone from flapping to twitching.
“Walt, look at me buddy, this is important. You see this statue?” His eyes follow my index finger to the bronze baseball player. “If you get lost or separated from us, come straight here, okay? Straight to . . .” I read the name on the plaque. “Ted . . . Kluszewski.”
Beck pats Walt’s back. “Kluszewski is the rendezvous, Walt. Can you remember that?”
“Yes,” says Walt, going back to his butterfly. “I’ll remember the rendezvouski.”
I smile at Beck, a wide-eyed, can-you-believe-the-awesomeness-that-is-Walt sort of smile. He’s wearing the same one.
“I think we’ll all remember the rendezvouski.”
ONCE THROUGH THE gates, we follow the signs to our section. Vendors are everywhere, selling hot dogs, beer, peanuts—one guy even has a half-dozen empty beer bottles glued to his hat. Just before we reach our aisle, Walt hands Beck his bottle-slash-butterfly coffin. “Bathroom,” he says. Throwing his finger in the air, he disappears into the men’s room.
Beck raises the bottle to his face, flicks the plastic to see if the butterfly is alive.
“Call it,” I say, grimacing.
Beck looks at his phone. “Time of death, four fifty-two.”
“Poor thing never stood a chance.” I kneel down to tighten the Velcro straps on my shoes; afterward, I notice Beck admiring them. “Très chic, non?” I say, kicking a foot up in the air.
He nods. “Oui. Et . . . French-for-old.”
“Vieilles. And yes, they’re old. I like old things, though.”
He looks at me like he wants to laugh. “You like old things?”
“Sure. Frayed, worn, stringy, faded . . . It’s all just proof of a life lived well.”
“Or maybe it’s proof of a life, well . . . lived.”
I smile, and for the next few moments, we people-watch. I’m about to crack a joke about how crowds wouldn’t be so bad if it weren’t for all the people when Beck says, “Speaking of life and living it—Mim, you see this?” He points to the same gaggle of girls I’d seen out front, the ones with the ridiculous shopping bags.
Easy, Mary. Don’t scare him off.
I nod—coolly, coyly, like I just noticed.
“Live your life,” he chuckles, rolling his eyes. But it’s no normal eye roll. It’s an iris-receding, sigh-inducing, shoulder-sagging eye roll. In the history of History, no one has rolled eyes like this, and I suddenly can’t remember the name of any boy I’ve ever known. I’m not sure what that says about me, that I can get this turned on by an eye roll. Honestly, I don’t care. In the movie of my life, I jump in Beck’s arms, wrap my legs around his waist, feel the slight bitterness of his tongue against my own as we kiss and the crowd goes wild. Walt—depicted by an unknown actor in an Oscar Award–winning breakout performance—is an ordained minister. He marries us then and there, right by the men’s restroom. Beck is a Phoenix brother, either River (pre–Viper Room) or Joaquin (pre-bearded insanity), and I, as discussed earlier, am indie-darling Zooey Deschanel. Or . . . fine, a young, straight Ellen Page.
“Live your life. How about, breathe your air?” he says.
I smile at him. “Eat your food.”
“Button your pants.”
“Walk your dog.”
“Take your shower.”
“Do your work.”
Beck
shakes his head. “Live your life, Mim. Whatever you do, just . . . live your life, okay?”
Walt returns from the bathroom. “I’ve decided something important,” he says. Taking his bottle from Beck, he holds it an inch from his nose. “I’m going to name him Mr. Luke Skywalker Butterfly.”
Beck and I smile at each other, and as we turn toward our aisle, neither of us says a word. We don’t have the heart to tell him Mr. Luke Skywalker Butterfly has gone the way of Obi-Wan.
27
The Many Flaws of Beck Van Buren
THE CHEERING, CLAPPING Beck Van Buren best exemplifies the contagious nature of Walt’s enthusiasm. The Cubs’ first batter of the inning draws a walk, but from the exuberance of my friends, you’d think they’d just won the pennant. It is, truly, a thing of beauty.
I rummage through my backpack, locate the Hills Bros. can, and do some math. I started with eight hundred eighty dollars, minus one eighty for the bus ticket, then seven dollars for haircutting shears and makeup remover. Between there and Nashville, everything was covered by the Goofball Greyhound Corp. Three bucks on carnitas, five on ice cream (at the inimitable Aces Dairy Dip Mart Stop Plus), three hundred on Uncle Phil, fifty-six on gas, nineteen at Medieval Burger, one hundred twenty on these tickets, and six on my official Reds program. I have a total of one hundred eighty-four dollars.
Damn, Malone.
Still. It’s not my money.
“I’m gonna get a pretzel,” I say.
The Cubs ground into a double play, something they do often and well. Beck and Walt throw their hands in the air as if the ump got the call wrong.
“You’re getting a pretzel now?” mutters Beck, leafing through the program. “It’s a long game.”
“Is it, Beck? Please, enlighten me about the ins and outs of this strange game.” I stand, start for the aisle.
“Here, wait. Gimme your phone.”
