Esperanza bathed the baby, tucking her up in the clean sheets of the new soft bed, and walked out to the balcony. The house had been surprisingly easy to find, she thought, as if she had walked the way before, and had known somehow, when she’d seen the house, that that was the one where she’d work. The yard below was still tangled with the growth of neglect, but it appealed to the girl. She would be happy to be part of the renewal project, the house that was still being painted, this felt to her like a place to stay, although the concept of home was internal to her, it did not have a physical location, but this house promised a different kind of life, and Esperanza looked forward to being there although she did not think it or say it; it was something that lingered in her mind, like expectation, asking for only the next moment, but now, right now, wanting to rest because she would have much to do when she awoke. She walked back inside and turned on the warm water, feeling the water run gently over her fingertips, stepping out of her dusty dress, letting it fall on the shiny ceramic tiles, slipping out of her cotton panties, and stepping into the shower, using, timidly, the soap, that smelled so good, the shampoo, that turned her dark hair to foamy white, slowly working her long fingers into her hair, scrunching it in the soap, turning to the spray of sweet water, letting it sprinkle her face, slip over her skin, pushing the globs of foamy bubbles down her stomach, moving down her legs, washing down the drain, turning, slowly, to feel the warm water in her hair, on her shoulder, on her back, her shoulder, her soapy breasts, and the warmth, the watery warmth, washing away the journey’s dust.
After the pizza came, Maggie took it upstairs to Esperanza, apologizing for pizza, and hoping Esperanza understood, but thinking the girl was glad to have pizza anyway, something was better than nothing, and tonight pizza had to do. She smiled seeing the baby asleep in the bed, closing the door and going back downstairs to eat her own dinner, sitting on the stairs with a Budweiser, and a box of pizza, wondering how long it might take to pull the house together, and thinking with help it would be sooner, surely, it would, and glad, at least, the studio in the attic was finished, but surely she couldn’t throw pottery until the kitchen was put together, and at least tomorrow she would clean the floor in the living room and roll out the Oriental rug and that would make this part of the house more livable, she thought, yes, it might; certainly, it would: she’d polish the hardwood floors and roll out the carpet.
A bag of Melody Food’s yogurt-covered raisins hung on top of the bannister, and Maggie got up and gathered some in her hand, thinking that Gary might like this place, the bigness of it. She munched a few raisins, skeptically, chewing them carefully and approving of the taste, and thinking it was unlikely that she would ever have contact with him again. After all, she was the artist now. Not Gary. He was full-blown business and what he might have to teach she didn’t want to learn. He’d been a guru of sorts in her early life; but he’d been a different Gary. Now, she thought, she had more to teach. Gary might sit at her feet and take in a thing or two. Business had much to learn from art. The inherent problem, of course, is that business thought art couldn’t exist without it. The fact of the matter was that art would mysteriously spring to life with or without business. The better without it. But could they exist without each other anymore? Was there an art of business? The art of prostitution, perhaps, the oldest game in town. Sell what you don’t have for what you might get if you had it. Shuck and jive. No longer alive. Surely. But what about genuine art? Vision? What about the art of living? How do we learn that art? Maggie had become the artist of her own life, revising the image until it suited her more appropriately. But did she stand alone? Did she want to? What audience would her work appeal to? Was it important, that audience? Yes. She thought so, but why? Where was that audience? How did she find it? By doing what she had to do, day after day, one revision after another. To be an artist is an inside job, if you look hard enough, and long enough, and deep enough; she’d find what she needed. Did she believe that? Yes. With all her heart. She believed it all the way to her toes wiggling inside her Converse All Stars.
What Maggie didn’t know was that the artist Gary had buried so many years ago was digging himself out of the grave. There was a ghost in Gary’s head that kept haunting him, in spite of his success and his money. That ghost that was once his art sat now in judgment of his other success and accomplishments, questioning each and every one, demanding Gary prove to himself that his choice was worth the ruin; Gary argued against the idea of art, saying it had never served him properly, and the idea of art argued back saying that it had been his job to serve art, that his thinking had been wrong and if it had been right he would have encountered less resistance, less anxiety. He would have worked through the frustration to the other side. Gary always pointed then to the food on the table, the food that reached other tables, but the idea stood against even that, nodding, in a dignified way to the concern, yet leaving questions unsaid and unanswered.
Just as Maggie threw the pizza box away the doorbell rang and she wondered as she went to the door who might be calling at this late hour. She flipped on the porch light, the night having come suddenly, and opened the door to see a familiar man standing there, but did she know him? Yes. She thought so.
“May I help you?” she asked then recognizing another shape coming from the shadows, Patrick, and throwing herself in his big warm arms hugging, and hugging, and smiling, and happy to have Patrick for a minute, then standing back and looking, wondering what had brought him.
“We were in the area,” he smiled his warm smile. “You remember Charlie Fishman, don’t you?”
“Berkeley?”
“Yeah, we met in Berkeley,” Charlie answered, knowing of course, that she remembered exactly when they had met and how. He knew this because he had not forgotten her.
“Of course, yes, we met at the park, didn’t we?” she asked, remembering the meeting, the very brief meeting that had lasted so very long, and knowing, exactly who stood on her porch, inviting them both inside, motioning with her hands.
“You’ll have to excuse the mess,” she said as they negotiated the obstacles in the hallway, thinking how nice to have company in this new house, even if she wasn’t yet settled, showing them to the living room, and pulling three metal chairs out of the closet and unfolding them.
“They look familiar,” said Patrick thinking the rusted ranch chairs looked out of place in Maggie’s new place. He liked the high ceilings and the roominess of the place.
“I’m glad you stopped, I would have been furious if you hadn’t,” meaning she would have been hurt. “I hope you don’t need a place to crash, things are still sort of a mess here.”
“We’re gonna spend a few days with mom and dad, then go on to San Diego.”
“You want some tea? I think I might be able to find tea,” she said, thinking she knew the box where the tea was packed. The orange honey was in the fridge so she knew the location of that; yes, she could at least manage tea.
“I don’t think so,” said Patrick, “but I want to wander a bit and take a look at the house. We can’t stay.” He always felt he should look in on Maggie, not that she needed it, but he did. He liked staying in touch. It gave him a feeling of continuity, even though their lives had all changed drastically. All the experience of it made him a better teacher. He was certain of that. He liked the excitement of learning and teaching; he even liked the safety of it, having felt lucky for escaping the drug thing without getting busted. Graced. He thought he’d been graced in a way, not having to pay, not that he felt he owed so much for that, not anymore, but he owed to a certain degree by the grace of being on the planet. Shouldn’t it be more than survival? More than hand to mouth. More like heart to mind. Mind to heart. Think beautiful thoughts. The life of the mind colors life. How do you paint it? What colors to you use? The ones you can imagine! If you can’t imagine it, how can it be? If you can imagine it, think yourself into it. Light that. Smoke it. Pass that around. He could imagine how great the house migh
t be when the work was done. Was the work ever done? He thought not, good houses need lots of work. Was this the five-year plan? Ten? Twenty? Hard to say, he thought, moving into the kitchen noticing the large windows; they would let plenty of sun inside. He opened the screen door leaning outside to see what he could of the yard. There were several citrusy looking trees to the back of the lot, the outlines blurred against the horizon.
Charlie maneuvered through the boxes in the front room and picked a bowl from one of the boxes, examining it. “Nice.”
“Thanks,” she said, liking that he’d noticed the pottery.
“Did you make it?” Recognizing it to be hand thrown and admiring the form, thinking it a rather unusual size, bigger than for cereal but not quite large enough for mixing. The cobalt glaze was spattered with flecks of iron, seeming substantial and practical, combining a sense of order on the deepest level, mixed with the random colors in the glaze. He knew something of pottery, how the placing of the pot in the kiln, the complexity and temperature of the fire, mixed with the specific weather of the day, mingled to fuse clay and organic pigment into a semitransparent glass.
“Yeah,” she answered watching the way he handled the bowl, noticing, a certain discernment in the way he held it to the light, and turned it slowly, taking in the entire shape of the rounded container, holding it close and then far, mysteriously captured in the moment.
He looked up, almost blushing, and set the bowl back in the box, saying it was indeed a lovely bowl, but Maggie took it back out, insisting he take with him, and that she had other bowls, and please, please, take it along, she said, it is a gift. She was delighted when he accepted, knowing, that not everyone appreciated art work, and so to have it in a good place, she thought, was as much as she might ask, ever, and it was settled he would take the bowl. And she liked the feeling of giving, she thought, seeming to her at that moment that it had been a while since she had had the luxury, that certainly, it felt luxurious to her, the opportunity of sharing, giving, and finding the thought of that curious, that somehow, she had thought that sharing in this life might come easier, but surely it had not, as if she receded somehow to an island, and that this man had given her something by accepting her gift, and for that instant, at least, she had had more than the moment before. So for the second time he brought her to the moment mysteriously engaging her interest, her heart and her mind, and could not help but make an instant comparison, how her pottery had annoyed Hank, how Patrick all but ignored it, and how this Fishman fellow took a delighted interest, valuing what she had created out of the formless clay, and it seemed she valued as much the effect of the bowl on his consciousness as he valued the art form, the mingling of the two mysteriously fused like a glaze over her own consciousness, forming a bond below the surface of things, deeper than the conventions of gift giving and accepting, something lingering in the gentle glow of light shining from the antique chandelier.
What was this form now forming itself? It seemed to her that it might be, certainly, could be the form of love. The form that love takes in the consciousness. Or unconsciousness. Wherever it happens to be taking it, this thing forming itself. As if he had led her to a precipice, a great canyon, a crevasse, and would she leap now, plunge over the abyss, risking all that Maggie had become, herself, her own, and reform herself somewhere between? And why had she failed before? Had she not been able then to form a perception of love? Or had love simply taken the wrong form? Isn’t the wrong form simply a part of making it right? So what form does love take, she wondered, knowing intuitively that it takes form in the perception, and that perception highly values the object of it. Yet it’s so particular, she thought, her love. So specific. Expansive. A clear morning moment. Definitive. It was their moment alone. This seemed to her a more grown love to the one she had had with Hank, but perhaps she only imagined it that way. And if her love had grown had she?
Charlie put the bowl down on the chair, rather than back in the box, glad to be taking it with him. Not only was the bowl lovely, but she had made it. Did that cloud his thinking about the bowl? Would he have seen the same thing if the bowl were less? Would he have seen it differently if his perception of her from the beginning had not been elevated? He supposed right then it hardly mattered. The bowl and the woman were both lovely. He thought of all the things the bowl might hold, how it might brim abundantly, how this bowl might hold his future if he let it. And would he? Could he? Hadn’t he wanted a future like this. Exactly. But had he ever gotten what he wanted? You don’t always get what you want, he thought, you get what you need.
Maggie needed this moment, she thought, now that she was having it. The recognition of having it made her highly aware of its absence, how the moment seemed to blur everything a little, making it fuzzy, something that had suddenly appealed to her. Yet the man was directed and forceful. She felt strength in his manner. A decidedness. The surety of intellect and the contradiction that that bred because of the strength of heart below fueling the rest, even hidden, somewhat, she thought, watching him move away from her, to the window, and look away, absently, yet fully present, while she watched him intently.
“I approve of the house,” said Patrick as he came back in the living room.
“I’m so glad,” said Maggie, her interest still in Charlie Fishman, even as he moved away from her. This annoyed her a bit his moving away, and she instantly filled the absence with the form of Maggie, knowing herself to be substantial enough to fill any absence.
Patrick thought that Maggie seemed happier now than he had ever seen her. They’d been through a lot over the years, the two friends, making Patrick mull over the form that friendship took, how it had changed for him, with Maggie. From sexual attraction, to the warmth of lasting friendship, eons, light years full of weight and change, and how it would last until they were octogenarian aquarians, how he could not imagine the loss of her friendship and hoped he wouldn’t have to bear it. How real friendship was expansive, full of need, perhaps, but not neediness. That was the difference, he thought, with Maggie, was that she did not exhibit neediness. Perhaps, too self-sufficient for her own good. Yes, he thought, that might be the case with Maggie. Her content spoke of the self-sufficiency she believed in.
Charlie Fishman had noticed her propensity for self: much the artist he thought of her self-absorbedness. Yet she had been there the moment before Patrick had joined them, fully; he had felt it without doubt. He certainly knew she was capable of full presence with him; that was as much as he could ask of any woman, the few moments that two could share from time to time in that manner, surely, the daily grind of existence didn’t permit it always. A gift. Yes she had given him a gift, not realizing, how much a gift he had given her by accepting the bowl.
She wondered to what use would the bowl be designated? We each, she thought, do enormously different things with the gifts we are given. It is to each of us to determine to what use they might be best put. And her bowl? To what best use did she think it? Hmmm. She pondered, thinking, she could only put her own creations to her own use, that he, must surely decide only for himself. That would be the tellingness of its usefulness. That she had given it, fully present, was as much as she could do. The choice was really his now. It seemed to her rather simple, but most simplicity betrays itself by the complexity of life itself. All choice is loaded.
Negative choice, to chose not to do, out of fear, or need, or simple mistrust, was certainly valid as moving to action, for those who chose not to do. And active choice, to move ahead, regardless, to take the chance of choosing, was defining in quite another context. Both result in action, in decidedly different ways.
Lucy’s choices, thought Maggie, of late had been definitive. Her choice of going ahead with a business, as a single parent, caring for three young children, was certainly a risky choice. Yet the business was flourishing, as was Lucy. It seemed she had made the right choice for herself and her children. Was not the proof in the pudding? The children loved the trendy little store in Capito
la, where Lucy lugged them along some days, and on the days of her busier schedules, she had found a little school, Montessori wasn’t it? that the children had grown to love. And they were old enough now so Lucy might pursue a long-standing relationship with Patrick. So the choices that Lucy had made gave birth to a new Lucy, one more fulfilled than the Lucy that had defined herself by Gary.
Gary himself had moved into business in a decided way. A choice that had changed the old Gary forever. The national business he commanded had pretty much lost him to his old friends, and even a great deal to his children; yet this Gary was working in the way of new business. Idealistic in a businessy way. They all needed idealistic Garys in the world of business. Maggie was certain of it. Garys that could join humanistic thought and the necessity of action. His thinking about business had to do with nourishment in a way that joined Gary’s philosophy of wholesome food with a decided way to be in the world. Serving a community by enriching it. Gary did that. Maggie believed that that was why he had enjoyed some success. So many businesses, she knew, revolved around a poverty of thought, the tight adherence to the dollar, no matter the ramifications of the product. Yes, the dollar had its place. But thought and action have to meet. They have to pair themselves in lives. The business of commerce is so often the business of poverty. True poverty lives in the mind of those who believe others should serve their idea of business. The life of the dollar is not the life of enrichment; it cannot stand alone. Yet the life of the mind can enrich all life. Which ways? You know the ways. When the idea of business serves the people who make it, thought Maggie. That is the beginning of it, the beginning we keep forgetting, but must re-member. Gary had become inventor of his own life, and his vision had done more for the good of the world, than the bad of it. So she had to applaud him for that. And while he had moved away from beauty for the sake of beauty, he had created something. Yes. He had failed, too, in many ways, but hadn’t they all.
The Orange Blossom Express Page 34
