I hadn’t realized how much I wanted him to stay until he was confronted with the opportunity to go straight back to Greengage. These past weeks I’d lived in a sort of in-between place. The bottle of pills ever present in my purse, a reminder of my longing and intention to set him free.
I opened the trunk of my car and pulled out a canvas bag.
“You can get dressed in there,” I said, pointing to the bathroom.
He peered in the bag and frowned.
“You can’t go around looking like that,” I said.
Joseph wore his typical daily uniform—wool trousers, suspenders, boots. And today, it being a special occasion and all, a bowler hat.
I’d bought clothes for him: a pair of Levi’s, a white T-shirt, and a blue cotton sweater. When he emerged from the bathroom, the change was stunning; he’d been transformed into a modern man. My stomach fluttered. I tried not to stare as he sat down in the passenger seat of my Camry.
I pulled out slowly and he gaped at the dashboard. I’d seen the Model T Ford rusting away in Greengage. All it had was a gearshift and odometer.
I wanted to impress him. “Hot?” I asked, and turned on the air conditioning.
A minute later he put on his hat. Something from home to ground him.
I’d been new to his world once. I remembered well how this went. The disorientation. The embarrassment that you didn’t know what something was or how it was used. I could easily put myself in his place, imagine all his questions. So I just started talking.
“That’s a Pontiac Grand Am. That’s a Chevrolet Caprice. This is Highway 101. The price of gas is one dollar and thirty-two cents a gallon. The speed limit is fifty-five, but you can safely go sixty-five without getting stopped by a cop. This is the Golden Gate Bridge. Don’t ask me why it’s painted red and not gold—I have no idea. That pointy skyscraper? The Transamerica Building. Those skates are called Rollerblades. That woman is wearing a cowl-necked sweater. That’s what’s called a yuppie. Macy’s. Amazing windows at Christmas. McDonald’s—Benno practically lives there.”
Finally we pulled up to 428 Elizabeth Street. My apartment would be empty; Benno was sleeping over at a friend’s house this weekend.
Joseph hadn’t said a word since we left the Valley of the Moon. We climbed up the stairs and I blabbered on.
“Rhonda and Ginger used to live in the basement apartment, but they moved because it was too small once they had Sophie. The Patels live there.” I pointed down at the first floor. “Top floor is Doro and Rose, and this is me.”
I unlocked the door and we walked through the living room into the kitchen. He stared at me as if to say What now?
“Let’s take that off,” I said, putting his bowler hat on top of the fridge. “How about some tea?”
I put the kettle on. Then, because I couldn’t think of what else to do, I went around naming and explaining more things.
“Microwave, garbage disposal, VCR, answering machine. Häagen-Dazs, Hamburger Helper, eggs—about ninety cents a dozen. Nylons—I have to wear them for work; a Rubik’s Cube—try it, Benno can do it in six moves. FM radio—KFOG is the best station; phone; Lip Smacker; junk drawer—if you need anything, just take it (what’s a tampon doing in there, Jesus!); futon couch—folds out into a bed; afghan my mother made me. Benno’s room. Let’s just leave the door open and air it out a bit, shall we? My room. Guest room—you’ll be sleeping in there. Albums. Cassettes. Stereo. Tape player. Help yourself to anything. I want you to feel at home.”
The teakettle whistled. I sounded like I was on speed. Maybe I should take a beta blocker.
Joseph sat down and rubbed his temples.
“What’s wrong?”
“I have a headache.”
I gave him two Tylenol and tried not to panic. It’s just a headache. He’s fine. Don’t make a big deal of this. I plunked teabags into mugs and poured boiling water over them. I brought the mugs to the table. Having him here, sitting in my kitchen, felt unreal. I had to fight to stay in my body, to not reject this reality. I could see he was doing the same.
He took a small sip of the tea.
“This is not a mistake,” I said. “You being here.”
He rubbed the back of his neck.
“Are you sorry you came?”
His eyes drifted to the window as an ambulance went by, filling the room with the wailing of its alarm.
“An ambulance. You want me to shut the window?”
He closed his eyes.
“It’s overwhelming, isn’t it? All that you saw on the ride?”
“Yes.”
“Was it terrible? Was it ugly?”
“It was just—different.”
Joseph was usually so precise in his language. That he defaulted to an adjective like different told me how overstimulated he was.
“Look. We can take it slow. We can stay right here until you feel safe. We don’t even have to leave the apartment for the rest of the day. Benno won’t be home until Sunday. We can order in Chinese.”
He nodded wearily. “Does Benno know about the beta blockers?”
“I didn’t tell him. I didn’t want to get his hopes up. But he’ll be happy. My God, the kid will be beside himself.”
This man adored my son. He knew him intimately. His weaknesses, his foibles, his quirks, and he loved him anyway.
“I’m so happy you’re here,” I said to him. “I’m beside myself, too, in case you were wondering.”
Something happened to Joseph’s face then. The worry slid away and was replaced with something involuntary and true.
Hope.
“The clothes suit you. You look good,” I added with a grin.
He glanced down at his sweater, his jeans.
“Handsome,” I said.
He blushed. I blushed.
I looked at the clock. It was 3:00 P.M. What the hell. Screw the tea—I grabbed two beers out of the fridge.
We got a little drunk. And why not? How else to blunt the shock? Fog lag, she called it.
I drifted and she continually pulled me back with her words. She talked endlessly and I was grateful to her for filling the space, for naming things and telling me their proper uses. She anticipated every question I had. She didn’t require me to ask anything.
Seeing her in her proper time was edifying. In Greengage it had taken her many visits to find her footing and her voice. Here, in San Francisco in 1984, she was firmly stitched in.
But as bedtime approached, we became more formal with each other. We retreated to opposite sides of the couch.
“Well, it’s been a long day,” she said.
“It’s late,” I agreed, suddenly perfectly sober.
“The sheets are clean in the guest room. There’s a towel and facecloth on the dresser. An extra blanket in the closet.”
I stood. “What time do you wake in the morning?”
She’d asked me the same question on the first night she’d stayed in Greengage.
“It’s Saturday, we can sleep in. Nine or ten. Or however late you want to sleep is fine.”
She looked up at me, her feet tucked beneath her, her face unguarded.
The moment billowed, as if caught by a sudden wind. I found myself bending toward her. What was my intention? Touch her lightly on the shoulder? Kiss her cheek?
I gave a little bow. “Sleep well.”
A tide of color rose from her chest to her neck to her cheeks.
“You too,” she said.
The next morning I handed him a beta blocker and poured him a cup of coffee. “How did you sleep?”
“Fine, thank you.”
He’d showered; he smelled of my Pantene shampoo.
“Are you hungry?”
“Not yet.”
He stared at the coffee like he didn’t know what to do with it.
“Cream? Milk?” How many times had I uttered those words when I was a waitress?
“Neither.”
“I can put the kettle on for tea.”
> “No, coffee is fine.” He took a sip of the coffee and gave a small groan of pleasure.
“How long has it been since you’ve had coffee?”
“I can’t remember,” he said, taking another sip.
I wiped down surfaces, emptied the dish rack. I felt his eyes on me. Every gesture I made felt exaggerated.
“What should we do today?” he finally asked.
“What are you up for? Do you want to take it easy? Have a lazy morning? I can get the newspaper.”
He considered my suggestion for a moment. “Let’s go out.”
“You’re sure? We’ve got plenty of time. We can take it slowly.”
“I’m sure. Do I pass muster?”
He was wearing the jeans and blue sweater again.
“Yes, but we’re going to have to get you some more clothes.”
“I can make do with what I have.”
“You can’t wear the same thing every day. We’ll go to Macy’s and get you a few things.”
—
As we walked down the street he kept accidentally bumping into me and apologizing.
“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” he said. “My balance feels off.”
“It’s going to be fine. You just have to get used to being here.”
I knew what he was wondering: Was he experiencing this disequilibrium because he didn’t belong here? Had he broken some law of physics by leaving Greengage?
I reached for his hand. His palm was cool and dry, callused from hard work.
“Just until you get your balance back,” I said.
Liar. I saw an opportunity to get physically close to him and I took advantage of it. I felt ashamed.
“Lux,” he said.
I dropped his hand. “Sorry.”
He gave me a sad look.
“I’m fine. It’s nothing,” I said, embarrassed.
“Lux,” he whispered urgently.
I’d never heard anybody say my name like that. In that Lux was everything. An entire vocabulary of longing. Of things desired. Things unspoken. Things about to happen.
“It’s not nothing. We are not nothing, damn it,” he said.
He entwined my fingers in his.
—
The world contracted. We waded through a sea of people on Market Street, but it felt like we were the only ones there. My hand brushed the side of his thigh. He walked a pace in front of me, protectively.
A group of giggling Filipino schoolgirls in plaid skirts surged around us.
“Are we really doing this?” I asked.
“Doing what?”
“Going—to Macy’s,” I stammered. “Now.”
“Are we almost there?”
“Yes.”
“Then yes, we are going to Macy’s.”
“Then what?”
Abruptly he turned right and led us out of the flow of pedestrian traffic. The air smelled of sandalwood incense and popcorn. He backed me up against the concrete wall.
“Then this,” he said, staring intently at me. He ran his thumb over my lower lip.
“Joseph.”
Then he kissed me.
—
I, of all people, knew that life could change in a split second. You could walk through a fogbank and find yourself in the past. Or you could be strolling down the street with a man you’d considered nothing more than a friend until that man kissed you. And then you could find yourself on a cable car, him standing behind you. A Macy’s bag filled with his new clothes pinned between your knees.
It felt impossible. It felt—inevitable.
“Stop thinking,” he said.
I leaned back into him as the cable car jostled from side to side. I let myself be supported. I let myself feel what it was like to not be alone.
There was before. There was after. And there was the seam separating before and after. She sat on her bed. I knelt in front of her.
The sky just before it begins to rain. The smell of condensation, grass, and lightning in the air. The parlor just before dusk, before the lamps are lit. The kitchen, clean and quiet, just before dawn.
Her breath, ragged.
“Are you sure?” she whispered.
I unbuttoned her shirt.
It was fast. Urgent. We couldn’t get to each other’s bodies quickly enough. A button flew off my blouse. We wriggled out of our pants.
This was metamorphosis. In a matter of minutes, we went from being friends to being strangers.
We were gentle. We were rough. We said dirty things to each other. We whispered tender words of love. And when he finally slid inside me, there was only this. The swelling and need. Building and thrusting. Hip bones rising up to meet hip bones. Backs arching. Fists clenched and unclenched.
Afterwards, like astronauts, we floated back down through the atmosphere to earth. Our beacons? The faint sound of traffic through the open window. A garlic-scented breeze from the pizzeria on Douglass.
—
“Did you expect this?” I asked.
He drew me under his arm. “Expected, no. Hoped, yes.”
“You hoped?”
My heart, saturated with joy, fastened me to this moment forever.
He nodded. “I did, but it was still a surprise. You were the surprise, I suppose. That you wanted this, too.” He frowned. “But why do you look so forlorn?”
“I’m afraid that I’ve taken something that I shouldn’t have,” I whispered.
What would Martha have thought of Joseph and me? Had we betrayed her in some way? I couldn’t bear to ask the question. Surely Joseph must be thinking of that, too?
“You’ve taken nothing that wasn’t freely offered,” he said carefully.
“You don’t feel guilty?”
“I feel—possibility. You, Lux, are possibility.”
“I am?”
“You are. How can you not know that?”
He tipped my chin up, forcing me to look at him.
“You are all the doors opening at once,” he said.
My insides felt liquefied, spreading, like warm yellow yolk, like sun.
I put my finger on his lips, silencing him. “Stop talking. It’s too much. I can’t take it in.”
“You’re going to have to.”
“I can’t.”
His face blurred. I couldn’t hold his gaze.
“How long has it been?” he asked.
“Since when?”
“Since somebody has cherished you the way I do.”
Never.
—
Time slipped through my fingers. A common expression, so often and casually said it was almost trite. The truth—it was an incomprehensible sentiment that was so profound all we could do was let it wash over us. Watching our child play in the sandbox at the park. Lighting the candles on the birthday cake. The smell of waffles. The first day of school. Pumpkins on stoops. “Oh my God, it’s snowing.” The unexpected gift of a warm March afternoon.
In the most literal sense, this was what I’d been experiencing with Joseph since the day I met him. Every time I left Greengage, the moment I stepped back into my present, the hands began flying around the clock. This wasn’t an ephemeral, fleeting feeling, it was reality—my life moved quicker than his; I aged faster than he did. We never knew how long it would be, or how old I’d be when we’d see each other again.
And it made what was happening between us now almost impossible to bear.
—
“Joseph’s here,” I told Rhonda late the next morning, on the phone. “He made it through.”
“What?” she said. “Where here?”
“Here, standing-right-in-front-of-me here. In the kitchen. Currently eating a bologna sandwich and making a face. There’s no such thing as bologna in 1909. I don’t think he’s a fan.”
“Don’t fool around with me, Lux.”
“I’m not. Joseph, say something.” I held the phone out to him.
“Um—hallo.”
I put the phone back to my ear and
heard the sound of something slamming. Rhonda’s fist on the table. “For fuck’s sake!” she cried.
“Yes, exactly,” I said.
“How is he?”
“I don’t know. Let me ask him. How are you, Joseph?”
He gave me a lazy, post-sex look. Heavy lidded, content. Again I was struck by the foreignness of him.
“I’m very well, thank you,” he said.
“Are you giving him the beta blockers? Have you taken his pulse? Forget it, I’m coming over right now.”
“There’s no need—”
“There is a need and I am coming. I love you. I am coming and you can’t stop me.”
With that, Rhonda hung up.
—
“Your pulse is a little high. I think you should bump the dose up. Take one in the morning, one in the evening, okay? As long as you do that, you should be okay. Don’t do anything that would overexert you. No running, no exercise. Don’t let Lux drag you to aerobics class,” said Rhonda.
I could just imagine the look on Joseph’s face seeing all those women in striped leotards doing the grapevine. If anything would send him straight back to Greengage, that would. But what about sex? Did that count as exercise? Is that why his pulse was raised? I studied Joseph’s face. There was no sign of any stress; in fact it was the opposite. He looked stoned. I probably looked stoned, too. Our eyes kept meeting and then quickly we’d look away. We were too new.
Rhonda unpacked a bag of McDonald’s. French fries. Big Macs and apple pies. She slid a plate over to Joseph. “Dig in.”
The two of us watched Joseph take his first bite of a Big Mac. In Greengage he ate nothing but the freshest produce and meat. Would the burger taste like cardboard to him?
“Mmm,” he said.
“You like it?” I asked.
He nodded and took another big bite.
“It’s the secret sauce,” said Rhonda, biting into her Big Mac.
“Well, now that you’ve eaten McDonald’s, you are truly one of us,” I said, stuffing a handful of fries into my mouth.
—
Later I walked Rhonda down the stairs.
“You realize that man is in love with you,” she said.
Valley of the Moon Page 29
