On the Rim

by Florida Ann Town

  Joanne phones later in the week and puts Jana on the line. Jana loves to talk — about everything and everybody. All Ellen has to do is listen.

  Then Joanne comes back on the line. “Mom, don’t worry about me. We’re working through this. I’ll write you next week. Okay?”

  “Okay,” she agrees, then adds, “Does this mean I don’t have to get an answering machine?”

  Joanne laughs. Thank the gods for that little spark. Maybe things will work out after all.

  “And spoil your birthday surprise?” she flips back. They hang up, a mutual smile singing over the wires. Joanne doesn’t mention Stan. Ellen doesn’t ask.

  Ellen writes careful letters to Jennifer, Geoffrey, and Robby, asking them to be especially attentive to Joanne for the next little while.

  “Even if you have nothing to say,” she writes, “she needs to hear from you. No matter what you say on paper, your letter tells her you care and that she has her family behind her.”

  Ellen pictures the groans that will elicit. “There’s Mom,” Jennifer will quip. “Psych 101 and holding.” The boys will complain she’s watching too many daytime talk shows. They’ll laugh at her insistence on writing letters instead of phoning. They might even phone Joanne and laugh about it with her. No matter. Whatever they do, the response will help Joanne.

  Now it’s time to get her own life back on track.

  “There’s no reason why I can’t go ahead with my plans for California,” she tells her image in the mirror as she brushes her teeth, gurgling around the froth of toothpaste in her mouth. It’s still a goal. A dream. Her wish-upon-a-star. She’s entitled. Cancelling the trip won’t help Lissy. It won’t make any difference to Jana. Unless something changes drastically, it won’t make things either better or worse for Joanne.

  She spits, then rinses her mouth.

  “The only one it will affect is me.”

  Her mirrored image nods and she smiles as she pulls on her riding gear. She looks forward to riding. Her body needs it now. Her head needs it, too. She suspects she’s become addicted, but she doesn’t care. There’s a wonderful freedom on the bike. Nothing matters but Ellen and the road: How to get around the next bend. Which gear to use for this little hill. Which gear for that larger hill. When to start pumping extra hard. When to ease off.

  She’s learned to stretch as she pedals, staving off the cramps and soreness that once plagued her. She’s learned a lot and it’s been good for her. As she rides, her mind wanders, slipping into a trance-like state as her body goes on automatic pilot.

  She’s spending more time with Tim and enjoying the easy feeling of being with him. She’s learned more about him. He’s a talented photographer and runs his freelance business, but he also works full time with a professional theatre company.

  “That’s why you’re home during the day!”

  He nods.

  “I used to feel sorry for you. I thought you were out of work, but you never seemed very worried about it.”

  “Nope. Lots of work, as it happens.”

  “Is the set designing just filling in until you get starring roles?”

  “Never! Never wanted to do that. I work backstage. Actually, I do some of the costumes, too — designing them, not making them. In between times, I’m the assistant stage manager. That means you have all the fun of a production but you don’t have to memorize lines. You can read your cues and create magic.”

  As the months wind by, they become closer friends. It’s comfortable not to have to worry about the boy-girl thing. Looking at Tim, adding up his artistic talents, his tea-drinking, and his gentle personality, she realizes he’s gay. And that means safe.

  While her friendship with Tim ripens, Al continues to call. He’s coming over this evening because there’s something else that he “needs” to talk to her about. She’s suspicious about what’s happening. He behaves as though they’re in dating mode. They’re not. At least, she’s not. Is he looking for a replacement for his girlfriend? Is he tired of looking after himself? If he’s genuinely interested in reconciliation, that’s too bad, because she isn’t. It’s flattering, of course, to be wooed by an ex, but it’s also dangerous ground to walk on. Her head knows they’re divorced, but her body doesn’t. There’s a set of perfidious responses, learned over the long years together, that kick in of their own accord.

  She invites him for dinner, hoping she can end the evening more quickly that way. She does a casserole of veggies, chicken, and rice. Served with crusty bread, it’s easy but elegant, or at least, elegant enough. She doesn’t have to impress Al. She doesn’t have to impress anybody. She doesn’t even have to impress herself anymore. She knows she can use up every pot in the kitchen if she wants to, and bring off a wall-to-wall cooking effort. But she doesn’t have to. There’s a wonderful freedom in that.

  The casserole is in the oven, the table is set, and the apartment is as tidy as she feels like making it. That means clean towels in the bathroom, but she’s not into candles and linen napkins.

  Al arrives with an unexpected bouquet of flowers.

  “Uh — thank you.” She hates herself for stammering. “They’re lovely.”

  They are, but she wishes he hadn’t brought them, and tells him so.

  “I know, Babe, but I couldn’t resist them. They reminded me of you.”

  And the ball bounces back into Ellen’s court. She’s said the wrong thing. Again. Instead of telling him he didn’t have to

  bring flowers, she should have told him she didn’t want him

  to bring flowers. There’s a difference.

  Maybe, she thinks, if we’d been more open with each other and communicated better, things might have been different.

  No, she decides. The problem had more to do with honesty than communication. She was too afraid of provoking his anger to tell him what she really thought, meant, or wanted.

  This business with the flowers is typical, she tells herself. What she means is, “I don’t want you to do that because I really don’t want flowers from you,” But what he hears is “My, that was nice of you. I’ll say you didn’t have to do it because that’s the polite thing to do, but the truth is, I’m awfully glad you did.”

  That isn’t the message she wants to send.

  If he backhanded her around the room, there wouldn’t be a problem. She’d throw him out and get a restraining order or lay assault charges. But how does she protest against insidious kindness? Kindness that violates her space? It’s a type of abuse and she’s an accomplice because she’s letting it happen.

  Helplessly, she waves the flowers around, then puts them on the kitchen counter.

  “I don’t have a vase,” she tells him.

  “That doesn’t matter,” he replies. “Just seeing the pleasure on your face when you saw them is enough. I’ll bring you a vase the next time I come over. I’ve got lots.”

  Indeed. She knows exactly which vases he’s talking about. There are at least a dozen in the cupboard at home — their house, no, his house. Vases that were gifts over the years, vases she’d bought at funny little shops and at flea markets.

  She doesn’t want them here. She doesn’t want them anywhere. They’re no longer part of her life.

  Her mind suddenly registers his words: Next time. Nice and easy and familiar, like there’s no doubt there will be a next time, a lot of next times. Even while her mind roils, her lips form the automatic response: “Thank you.”

  She takes a plastic jug from the cupboard and angrily jams the flowers into it.

  “That’ll do for now,” she says. “You can take them with you when you leave.”

  She pulls the casserole from the oven and they seat themselves at the table. While he eats, his eyes roam around the apartment.

  “Nice place you’ve got here,” he says.

  She makes a polite noise.

  He looks around some more, then a grin splits his face.

  “Okay,” he laughs. “What’s with the bike? Looks like a good one.�
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  “It is,” she agrees. “That’s what I’ve been doing lately. Riding.”

  He looks at her approvingly. “So that’s it. You look in awfully good shape. I mean, the shape has always been good, but you look in good condition, too.” He laughs at his own joke.

  She ignores it.

  “I try to ride most days. It’s harder during the rainy season, but I manage. And it’s wonderful during the nice weather.”

  “Where do you ride?”

  “Oh, just around.”

  “Maybe I could come with you sometime.”

  She lets that pass. Once again, she’s made the wrong move. He takes her silence for agreement.

  “If you’re going out this weekend, I’ll come over and we can start from here.”

  He busies himself eating for a few minutes while she says nothing, shoving veggies around on her plate, arranging carrots in straight lines and kernels of corn in gentle curlicues.

  “Actually, it’s supposed to be nice this weekend,” he resumes. “What time do you go?”

  “Oh, it varies,” she says, weakly.

  Way to go Ellen! That’s the old backbone. That’s letting him know you don’t want him to intrude on your ride.

  Not surprisingly, he doesn’t recognize her comment for what she means it to be. Even she can’t recognize it as what she wants to say. She changes the subject.

  “What was it you wanted to talk about?”

  He finishes his mouthful, puts the fork down, and sits up straight in his chair. It’s his Chairman of the Board stance.

  “I’ve been looking around the place lately, and there’s an awful lot of stuff that we don’t really need to keep. Like, things the kids left when they moved out. I know we told them they could store it there for a while, but they all have places of their own now and it’s time they dealt with things like grownups. So I’m going to tell them they have to decide what they really want to keep, want enough to take into their own homes, and we can get rid of the rest.

  “The girls still have their old doll house in the rec room. Even their bedroom is the same as it always was. We need to think about redoing the house, do some updating. And it needs painting, that sort of thing. I need to know if there’s anything you want. I hoped you’d help me go through some of the boxes — the family pictures, the old home movies — do we want any of them? Should we get them converted to DVD? That sort of thing.”

  She wonders how much of this is his own thinking and how much is left over from the Bimbo … sorry, Verna. Ellen can almost hear Verna’s squeaky voice as she tracks around the house, complaining about the residue from Al’s family. Reminders of the past. Intrusions on her turf.

  She tries to ignore the number of times he said “we” in that statement, then realizes he’s waiting for acquiescence.

  “I guess there is a lot of clutter,” she agrees. “Are you thinking of selling the house? Is that what’s prompting this? Or is it any of my business?”

  “Hey, Ellie. It’s always your business. You’re entitled to know. I mean, it was your home too for a lot of years. It could still be your home if you wanted.”

  “No, Al. It couldn’t. We’re not in that space anymore. Remember?”

  He laughs. “Can’t blame a guy for trying.”

  He sounds like too many late night movies. Ellen’s sure she’s heard this dialogue before, with and without violins. So far everything he’s said has been a cliché. It rolls so smoothly from his lips she wonders if he rehearses his lines while he shaves in the morning, practising the expressions that go with them.

  “So, are you planning to sell?”

  “No, nothing that drastic. At least, not right now. The bottom line is, the place looks a little tired and I didn’t want to do anything without talking to you. Maybe you could come over and take a look? Give me an idea of what’s worth keeping — or what needs doing.”

  “Al, I keep telling you, do what you want with the house. Fix it up however you want. You wouldn’t be comfortable with my suggestions.”

  “Not true, Babe. We may have had our disagreements, but I always thought you had great taste. Still do. I’d value your suggestions. And I don’t want to get rid of anything you might want. That’s only fair, isn’t it?”

  She thinks about it.

  “So, when do you plan to do all this?”

  “No timeline. Just whenever it’s convenient for you. How’d it be if we went for a little ride this weekend, then we could go back to the house and check out a few things? I could maybe put together a little dinner for us. Does that sound like a good idea?”

  It sounds like a crappy idea, but her head nods up and down in agreement, like the bobble-headed toys in the back window of teenagers’ cars. What she needs is a neck brace to prevent herself from agreeing to things she doesn’t want to do. And this is definitely something she doesn’t want to do. But it’s hard to turn down a request that sounds so reasonable.

  “Okay,” she says. “But let’s skip the ride. I’ll come over after lunch.”

  The evening dribbles on. They chat about nothing in particular. He settles in, she tries to bring the evening to a close. He starts to clear away the dishes.

  “I’d really rather you didn’t,” she tells him. “It’s a small kitchen and you don’t know where things go. It’ll only take me a minute to clear up after you leave.”

  There. She’s finally said the magic word: Leave. But he’s got his blinders on. Selective hearing. He dials her out. Instead of picking up on the real message — “It’s time for you to go” — he hears only, “We’ll spend our time together doing something more interesting than dishes.”

  “You know, I’d almost forgotten what a good cook you are. That was a terrific dinner, Ellie.”

  Now that’s a piece of crap. Ellie’s not a good cook. She never was and never will be. She doesn’t have the patience, or the imagination. She can produce a fancy meal but it doesn’t come easily. Over the years she tailored her cooking to his tastes. That’s more than likely what he’s referring to. Bimbo didn’t have enough time to learn all his likes and dislikes, so she couldn’t score very high marks in that field.

  She smiles to herself, imagining exactly where Verna did score high marks and wondering what happened to wipe them out. Al knew she wasn’t Ellen when he first started going out with her. That’s why he started going out with her. Now he keeps repeating “She wasn’t you, Babe,” every time Verna’s name comes up, as though it caught him by surprise.

  He notices her sudden smile, takes it as gratitude for his comment on her cooking, and continues to talk. Words drift aimlessly between them, like softballs in a sandlot. He tosses a pitch. She bunts. It isn’t a conversation. They’re just making noises — Al because he doesn’t want to go, Ellen because she doesn’t want him to stay. Finally he looks at his watch and makes a face that tries to indicate surprise.

  “My gosh! I didn’t realize it was this late. I didn’t mean to stay this long. Sure I can’t help with those dishes before I go?”

  She shakes her head. Then the shuffling begins. He gets his jacket from the hall, she takes the flowers from the jug, holds them over the sink, shaking the water from the stems, and stuffs them into a plastic bag.

  “Hey, Babe, I really wanted you to have those flowers.”

  She’s flustered again. She really doesn’t want them. In her minimal lifestyle, juice is a more useful commodity than flowers and she needs the jug to make juice in the morning.

  He puts his arm around her, takes the flowers from her hand, and puts them back on the counter.

  “Come on, Babe. Bend a little. It won’t hurt you to take a few flowers. We can at least be friends, can’t we?”

  Ellen knows the expected response: of course they can be friends. But she’s not sure at this moment if the expected response is the safe response. She says nothing. But it’s the most dangerous response of all, because it lets him assume what he wants to hear. He closes his arms around her and gives her
a hug.

  “Okay, Babe. Thanks for the dinner, and for the evening. I enjoyed them both. I’ll see you on Saturday — my treat this time. You’ll be surprised at what I’ve learned in the kitchen.”

  He pauses, grinning. It sounds like an invitation to play straight man in some shticky routine he’s figured out. She doesn’t want to play. She doesn’t care what he’s learned in the kitchen. Or any other room in the house. Or who he learned them from. But she doesn’t say any of this.

  “Okay, Al. I’ll see you Saturday and we can look at whatever needs to be done.”

  She finally eases him out, evading another attempt at a hug. As the door clicks shut, she retraces her steps, picks up the flowers, and jams them in the garbage. She really does need the jug.

  That night she has trouble getting to sleep.

  “What kind of spineless nit are you?” she berates herself. “Why didn’t you just tell him to burn the house down if he really wants to get rid of all the stuff that’s in it? You’re dumb, you know that?”

  Lying motionless in bed, watching shadows move in the dark, she realizes she’s backing herself into a corner. It’s a lose-lose situation. At this moment, she doesn’t know how to get out of it, and that really scares her.

  The rest of the week plods by.

  She wakens early on Saturday. The sky is clear.

  “To hell with you, Al,” she fumes, as she chokes down a quick breakfast. “You don’t have any right to come waltzing in and upset my life like this.”

  The bike flaunts its gleaming chrome handlebars, shooting sparkling reflections around the room. It’s an inanimate object, so why is it laughing at her, spraying sunbeams around like that? The tree branch outside her window waves.

  “That’s odd,” she says. “There isn’t any wind.”

  The motion is explained when a small bird suddenly hops into view, bounces cheekily along the branch, and pauses, cocking its head to one side and regarding Ellen for a long minute. She freezes. The lack of motion reassures him and he resumes his cheerful path along the branch. Suddenly he throws back his head and begins to sing. The song is out of all proportion to his size. How can a drab black and brown bird, hardly larger than her thumb, contain a song of such proportions? On and on he goes, secure in his environment, affirming his universe. Ellen presses closer to the window. The motion catches his eye and he stops, instantly, leftover bits of song hanging in the air. He peers intently in her direction. She freezes, but he isn’t so easily fooled this time. With a quick motion he launches himself through the branches and soars away.