by Marge Piercy
Off went the van for another trip. She had managed in the crowd and bustle to avoid meeting Tom’s gaze, to avoid face-to-face confrontation. Perhaps it would be all right. They would go along as if nothing had happened. What had would remain their small secret concerning no one else and in no way altering their patterns: a small explosion in the middle of the night, not unlike a fire but one that burned and left entire. No ash, no regret, no smoke damage. It might not have happened, although she knew it had. She felt quite safe. Sandra María and Mariela would protect her now from loneliness and temptation. She would have an instant family.
Daria had to drag Tracy away from Mariela. “Mama, she’s so smart. She’s wonderful with the kittens. She loves animals. Then we were watching the birds at the feeder and you could just see her taking all that in—she’d never seen a feeder before.” And on. Frantically they both worked to move Tracy’s things across the hall, through Daria’s bedroom to the room over the garage that had always been hers. She had no time to waste regretting the loss of what had been for eleven years her sanctuary. “Nobody appreciates how smart kids can be, Mama, how much they take in. I think I was like that, like Mariela, don’t you think so? I think I always noticed all kinds of things that Robin would ignore.”
If only Tracy would slow down her reactions: first fear of the Puerto Rican invasion menace; now total infatuation with Mariela. Well, better that way than the other.
The van returned. This time as they were unloading, Annette came out with a snow shovel and picked away at the edge of her front walk, watching, as if Daria had ever seen Annette move one shovelful of snow in all the years they had lived next door to each other. A service came and plowed Annette’s walk the same as they did Daria’s. She smiled and waved at Annette.
Annette came over at once. “What’s happening, Daria? Have you sold your house or rented it? What is this … van?”
“Sandra María is moving in,” Daria said boldly. “You’ve heard me talk about Sandra María.” She blessed Tracy for having alerted her that the neighbors would not be overjoyed.
“Bud Buchanan told Pierre you had an ad in the paper.… You’re not renting, are you?”
Because that was illegal. Their neighborhood was zoned against what they would call a rooming house. “Of course not. I ran the ad and then I changed my mind. Too much trouble.”
“Then what’s this?” Annette waved at the van.
“Why, it’s Sandra María. You know. My brother’s ex-wife and my niece. I’ve always been very close to them. She knows I’m lonely and the schools are good here. I think it’ll work out for both of us.” Relatives were permitted under the zoning.
“Oh. Your niece. I didn’t see her. How old is she?”
“Six. Very bright,” Daria said loftily, making gestures to escape toward the house with the box of books.
“Does … Sandra María have a lot of things?”
“Oh, she’ll leave most of it in storage,” Daria said, backing away. “We simply don’t have room for it here.…”
Annette called after her, “Don’t you think you’ll find it difficult to live with a little child again?”
“I think it’ll be rather fun,” Daria called back. When she turned at her own door, she saw that Annette had gone back inside, making no more pretense at shoveling.
It was five-thirty, the house an obstacle course with contents of rooms half moved into other rooms, smoke- and water-damaged goods everywhere and all of them exhausted. Elroy went off in a taxi for his Saturday night date, but the rest collapsed in the dining room, the only usable room in the house besides her own bedroom. Daria made linguine with a red sauce based on her frozen tomato sauce from the summer’s garden, two pounds of hastily defrosted chopped meat and some dried mushrooms from the cupboard. She used to cook a lot of pasta, but not since Ross had become too conscious of his waistline and too interested in serving dishes with more pretentious credentials to dinner guests. Tracy was on the phone in Ross’s old study, still not quite Daria’s office. Daria had the kitchen to herself.
The sweet smell of heating olive oil filled her head, a golden late summer smell along with the tomato, the basil. September came to life, ripe, full, warm. The onions lay in the oil growing translucent, the color of old silk. Daria felt rather than saw Tom enter the kitchen, as she tasted the sauce critically. A dash of cinnamon, yes. She did not turn, pretending she did not sense his presence. In a panic she simply could not think how to greet him. She could find nothing whatsoever to say, while silence swelled up in her. At the stove she stood frozen, mindlessly stirring the sauce round and round.
His arms enveloping her, he kissed her neck gently. Barely touching her, asking permission. A huge warm animal nudging her back. The spoon jumped from her hand. Her body temperature rose to feverish, the kitchen hot as an oven with the cool house surrounding like snow. Very slowly he turned her to him. By the time her face was angled up to his so close she could smell his scent compounded of wood always, the smell of fresh-cut wood that clung to his hair and sweater, woodsmoke from his Danish stove, a leathery tang and something of lemon, it was Daria who kissed him. Free fall, she thought, it’s all still there between us.
It was also Daria who disentangled. “The sauce will burn!”
“I wasn’t trying to make love to you over the stove.” He grinned broadly, a stove door opening. “I just wanted some acknowledgment that last night wasn’t my wet dream.”
She laughed. “You want to keep your hand in. Never mind. If you want to do something useful, set the big table for six.”
He started opening cabinets. “Where are your dishes?”
“Use the good dishes in the dining room. The house is a big enough mess. And this is a celebration. Plus if you go down to the foot of the cellar steps and look against the north wall, you’ll find a rack with some wine still in it. Get a couple of bottles of Zinfandel. The late luxuries of my late marriage.”
As they sat at the table, everyone was so hungry that eating consumed all attention for the first twenty minutes. When conversation began, it felt awkward. She realized no one at the table knew all the others. The men were on one side, the children on the other, and she and Sandra María at the ends. There was almost as much size discrepancy between the frail tousle-headed Ángel and massive Tom as between Mariela and Tracy. “I never introduced you all,” she said timidly. “This is my daughter Tracy …”
She could see Tracy was mad to ask questions, trying to figure out the relationships, staring especially at Tom and Ángel. Finally Tracy asked Ángel, “Are you related to Sandra María?”
Daria was embarrassed, because she felt the question so patently was, Are you related to Mariela? Are you her father? Ángel threw Sandra María a look as if of appeal. He was slow speaking and was still making little noises in his throat, about to force out some answer when Mariela answered at once, “Ángel is my mama’s boyfriend, Tracy. And Tom is your mama’s new boyfriend.”
Sandra María burst into laughter. Daria sat stark still not believing what Mariela had said. Even Tom looked flustered, lowering his chin onto his chest. Sandra María said rapidly, “I told you she understands everything! She listens to everything! Even when she’s asleep, she’s listening!”
Daria wanted to pretend nothing had happened, but Tracy was staring from Tom to her, speechless. She must say something. “Well, Mariela,” she began in her best lecturing tone, “it’s not exactly the same. Ángel is your mama’s regular boyfriend, for two years. Tom is only a little bit my boyfriend. We’ve only just, we’ve just begun seeing each other. Mostly we work together.”
“Work together?” Tracy repeated.
Damn it all. She wanted to question Tracy about the boy with the red Fiat, and here was Tracy looking like a mother about to question her daughter about a presumed indiscretion. I’m forty-three, she thought in sudden rebellion. I can see a man if I want to.
“Your mother has a lot of admirers.” Tom smiled at Tracy. He was not at all nonp
lussed. “You’re a good-looking family, but your mother’s other admirers make her cook for them. I cook for her. That’s the secret of my success, such as it is.”
“What are you studying at Amherst?” Sandra María asked, who knew from Daria the answer to that and a great deal more. “Oh, do you have any idea what you’re going to major in?… Art history sounds wonderful. Imagine getting paid to go around to museums and do what you’d want to do on your vacation anyhow.… Do you know Ángel’s a photographer? He’s photographer in residence for the State Council on the Arts in a school in Lynn this year.…” Sandra María was moving the conversation steadily up to high dry ground and safety. Across the flow of talk Tom gave Daria an apologetic glance and then shrugged. “Sooner or later,” he said very softly.
“It was awfully sooner,” she mouthed back. Then she remembered to explain to Sandra María and company Sandra María’s official new identity in the neighborhood.
When they went to move more boxes after supper, Sandra María exclaimed in exasperation when she saw that the smoke-stained water had leaked onto the wall-to-wall carpeting in the living room. “Daria, I’m furious at myself! I should have been more careful. What are you going to think about us if we start out spoiling your carpeting?”
Daria stood over the ruined carpet smiling faintly. “To tell you the truth, I’ve always hated this beige carpeting. It was Ross’s idea. I think it’s ludicrous in a house with flooring this beautiful. Let’s tear it up and just put down a couple of small rugs.”
“Daria, you’re being saintly about this—”
“No. It’s not to my taste and it reminds me of Ross.”
By ten they were all exhausted. Almost immediately after the men left, Daria and Tracy went to bed. But Tracy was not too tired to ask questions. “Is he really your boyfriend?”
“That’s an unfortunate term.” Daria sat on the bed’s edge brushing her hair hard. “He’s a man I’m interested in.” He was, she realized. She felt a stab of panic as if she were suddenly jumping into a river she had not committed herself to crossing. She had simply enjoyed sex with him too much to resist wanting it again. She had either to flee the whole involvement with SON or to proceed with Tom. They would not remain around each other without exploring what sexual connection bound them. And it was too late to rethink her commitment to SON, when she had just moved one of its primary organizers into her house. She felt unglued, but she was not about to confess that to her daughter. She must sound strong and sure.
A long silence followed. Nervously Daria climbed into bed beside her daughter. Then Tracy said, “He’s not at all like Daddy.”
“No,” said Daria firmly to the dark ceiling over them. “He certainly isn’t.
“That’s not necessarily bad,” Tracy said, being reasonable to her wild mother. “I guess if I’d ever thought about it—I mean, I didn’t—I would have thought you’d be interested in a lawyer. A doctor. Some professional.”
“No,” Daria said firmly, again. “I’m tired of being a professional’s wife. I’m bored with duty entertaining. I’m sick of spending evenings with old farts and pallid wives who have nothing to say. Men who talk about nothing but real estate and money.”
“What does Tom talk about?”
“Politics,” Daria said. Real estate too, but from a different point of view. “Food. People. Relationships.” Now she really had to talk with him. By lying that she knew him well, she was forced to get to know him better.
“I thought you liked Wasp types. Like Daddy. Fair and skinny.”
“I want someone more like me.” Daria sounded so convincing that she stopped and realized she agreed with herself.
“But why does he wear that earring?”
“I suppose he likes it. It never occurred to me to ask.” She was seized by the realization how very little she knew about this man she had admitted to her life. “I’m not saying I’m sold on Tom. I may not go on seeing him.”
“I understand,” Tracy said bravely. “I’m just surprised how fast things happened. But of course you want to figure out if you’re really interested. I went out with four different guys last semester and at various times I thought with each, of them, something might develop. But nothing exciting happened. I even went out once with Scott, but we didn’t click then—”
“Who’s Scott?” Daria asked quickly, pouncing on what she wanted to know. “Is he the boy with the red Fiat?”
Tracy began to tell her about the last intense two weeks, including at least half of what Scott had said. His opinions were unexceptional. Daria realized she would have to inspect Scott and form her own estimate. Tracy was obviously at least mildly infatuated. They fell asleep in the middle of talking.
19
As Tom had promised Tracy, he cooked for Daria at least once a week all through February and into March. Tonight he made a Mexican meal, as the stores were full of ripe black avocados. They had an agreement: whoever cooked, the other cleaned up. She felt that was not entirely fair, as at her house, he had simply to wash pans and load the dishwasher, whereas at his house she had to wash dishes by hand. Nonetheless she enjoyed having him cook for her. It was a small but marked luxury.
Afterward as they sat down to coffee at his long satiny maple table, Tom took from an old satchel a pile of cards written in his small huddled handwriting. His writing always surprised her whenever she encountered it on notes or lists, for his huge hands produced a cramped careful script as if paper were precious and he was concerned to waste none of it, but to rather crowd the smallest piece available with the most information.
He cleared his throat. His dark eyes brooded on her from under drooping lids. She had a moment of foreboding. “Is something wrong? Are you annoyed with me?” She tried to think what she had done or failed to do.
“I am not Walker. Whenever anything in my life goes wrong, I do not automatically assume it’s your fault. When I’m worried, it doesn’t mean I’m blaming you.”
“Great. Because nothing is ever my fault. I’m glad we agree.”
He frowned at his notes, spreading them and closing them together like a hand of cards he was hesitant to bet on.
“You might as well read those to me. Ten more buildings I don’t know I own, all mortgaged to the hilt? What is the hilt of a house, anyhow?”
The buzzer sounded. She cursed softly. As soon as she came into a room with Tom, her thoughts began a subtext under whatever was going on, would they make love that night? Although they saw a lot of each other, they managed little time alone, and that little was precious: precious and constantly broken into by just about everyone.
People were always coming by, members of SON, others in the neighborhood. They came by to tell him something disturbing they had noticed. “And there’s two vacant apartments in there now and they’re not even trying to rent them, because my cousin asked.” They came by to talk politics, international, domestic and very, very local. They came by to ask him to look at their leaking roof or figure out how they could have more cupboard space in their kitchens. They came by to tell their troubles and just hang out.
Here was Fay puffing up the stairs with a kid in tow, slight in build, dark-skinned, all elbows and teeth, about Tracy’s age. “Come on, Orlando, tell Tom what you seen.”
“It wasn’t nothing. It was dark.”
“Have a piece of double chocolate cake,” Tom said. “You want milk with it? Or coffee.”
“Coffee, man.” Orlando began spooning sugar in.
“Are you offering that cake around in general?” Fay asked, helping herself to a piece. “Well, I had a set-to with the fire marshal’s office. They are understaffed, overworked, they say it was accidental and would we please get lost.… Okay, Orlando, you been bribed. Tell Tom what you saw, already.”
“Nothing much.” Orlando finished the slice and cut another. “I was up on the roof with my girlfriend. When we can, we sneak up there at night. The roof don’t belong to nobody. The old lady next door, she yells at us sometime
s, but it ain’t her roof, man.”
Tom slumped back in his chair as if he were bored. “So what else is new? Do I care if you screw Sylvia on the roof? You’ll get frostbite, but that’s your problem.”
“A couple times lately we seen this guy on the next roof. He don’t live in that building. He don’t belong in our whole row. But Sylvie says she seen him around before.”
“Up on the roof?” Tom’s voice rang out. He was no longer pretending boredom. “Doing what? Counting pigeons by starlight?”
“Just looking around. Looking at the chimney, looking at the roofing. Always after dark. Real quiet.”
“Ever get a good look at him?”
“I told you, Sylvie recognized him. But she don’t know his name. She says she seen him going in and out of that bar, Footsie’s. Only that time, she says, he was wearing a suit.”
“Describe him.” Tom was openly making notes now.
“He’s kind of nothing looking … medium height. A skinny guy. Near as you can tell in a biker’s leather jacket. Only thing I noticed special is he sports this straggly moustache.”
“A straggly moustache.… What color?”
“He’s white, man, if that’s what you mean.”
“I’m still working on the moustache. What color hair?”
“Sort of nothing color. Ashy.”
“Orlando, take another piece of cake. Take two.” Tom grinned. His face changed so abruptly when he smiled that she still found herself charmed, while other people responded as if he had given them a gift.
Fay put her arm around Tom. “You think we’ve found the guy who lit Sandra María’s?”
