Daniel rushed out of the house with Ollie on his hip. “Is everything okay?” He put Ollie down and held Simone, who was shaking.
“I almost hit that puppy. These brakes are shit.” She looked like she was about to cry.
Daniel wrapped his arms around her. “It’s okay, it’s okay,” he whispered.
Ollie tugged at the leg of Simone’s jeans. “That was a big noise, Mommy.”
“Nobody got hurt, big guy,” Daniel said, and kissed Simone before he released her.
When Simone returned to the car, I patted her knee awkwardly. She said little during our drive along the coast. I stared out at the horizon, daydreaming about Daniel telling me that I was who I was. I didn’t know what that meant exactly, but whoever I was seemed to be okay with him and Simone.
Her mood shifted. “You’re going to love Old Town,” she said enthusiastically. “It’s so kitschy.”
“I’ve loved every place you’ve taken me.”
We drove toward the white, red-roofed, Spanish-style buildings. She parked far away from the other cars and reached into her big cloth purse for a cigarette that looked like it had been made by hand. “You up for trying something new?”
The odd cigarette made me nervous, but Simone was a nurse, and if she was going to smoke it, then I could. “I guess.”
“Every once in a while, you know, I get the urge for a joint.” Simone flicked a lighter in the shape of a banana and took a deep puff, eyes half closed, lips pursed as she held her breath. “You’ve got to wait until it goes down your lungs,” she croaked.
I took the joint from Simone and pinched it between my fingers just as I’d seen her do. It burned my lips a little, and the smoke twirled down my esophagus like a lit match. I coughed and coughed until my eyes watered.
Simone pulled a thermos from the back seat. “Here.” She unscrewed the cap and handed it to me. “It’s a little stale from sitting in the car for two days.”
The old coffee tasted bitter, but it cooled my throat.
“Small puffs this time.” She demonstrated another hit.
I was determined not to disappoint her, so I took the joint back and inhaled briefly. Although I still coughed, I didn’t feel like my insides were on fire.
“There you go.” Simone clapped her hands as she did when Ollie figured out a puzzle. “Come on, I’ll show you Old Town.”
I felt like I was Meg Murry, the space traveler from my favorite teen novel, and I’d been catapulted back to a mission in a far part of the world. The fact that I knew nothing about Christianity didn’t faze me.
Simone took me to a gallery where brightly colored blankets hung on the walls. I fingered a striped blanket woven with blue, purple, and green yarns. “This is the most beautiful blanket I’ve ever seen.”
Simone laughed. “You’re stoned. We could buy that in Tijuana for about a dollar.”
“A dollar?” I found this fact fascinating.
“Let’s go.” She led me to an old Mexican restaurant where we ate on the veranda under a big umbrella. A plump waiter with an accent and wavy black hair placed a basket of chips in front of us. Simone spoke to him in perfect Spanish, and he returned a few minutes later with a bowl of guacamole. I wanted to take a picture of the lush waves of green with little red onion bits sticking out of each crest. When I spooned half the bowl onto my plate and began eating it with a fork, Simone started laughing uncontrollably.
“It’s Passover, Simone,” I said in my practiced Tzippy Schine let-me-enlighten-you-about-Judaism voice. “No chips, no corn products.”
“I have a lot to learn,” she said earnestly.
“I’m going to take Spanish when I go to college. And then I’m going to become a teacher.”
“You should apply to San Diego State. You can’t go back to the cold.”
“No, I can’t go back, but not because of the cold.”
“Why can’t you go back?”
“My mother is having an affair with the Shabbos goy.” What had I just said? And so casually?
“Huh?” Simone jerked her head up and stared at me.
I should have stopped talking, but I had her attention, and her interest in my story enticed me to talk more. “The Shabbos goy. The person who turns on the lights and does all the things you’re not allowed to do on the Sabbath.”
She waved her chip at me to continue.
“Use the oven, use the phone, use electricity, drive.” I took a spoonful of salsa. “Rip toilet paper.”
“Are you serious?”
“But he’s not the Shabbos goy anymore. He’s still seeing my mom, though.”
“Where does he live?”
“Who knows? Pewaukee or someplace.”
“Pewaukee?” Simone repeated, exaggerating my accent.
We started giggling so hard that she almost choked on her chip.
“Do I talk like that?” I asked.
“Sure you do,” she replied, mimicking me.
She flagged the waiter and asked for something else in Spanish, and a minute later he returned with two glasses the size of Frisbees, rims salted and filled to the brim with a yellowish slush.
Simone raised her glass. “To Pewaukee!”
We both took a big gulp. “What am I drinking?”
“A margarita. A day of firsts.” She took another sip. “So tell me more about the Shabbos goy. I’m way into this.”
The room was starting to spin a little, and I couldn’t stop talking about my fascinating self. By the second margarita, I was telling Simone every detail about the mikveh, Tzippy, my mother, and the Shabbos goy. I left nothing out. After I told her what happened before Tzippy’s wedding, she drained her third margarita and shook her head.
“That’s heavy shit,” she said.
Why we thought that was so funny, I couldn’t say, but we laughed so hard I almost wet my pants.
Simone pounded her fist on the table. “We need to eat something without corn.”
“Or yeast, or legumes,” I added.
She spoke to the waiter, who returned to the table with another bowl of guacamole, two more margaritas, and a large slab of beef.
After a few bites, I asked, “What am I eating besides more non-kosher meat?”
“Carne asada,” Simone said.
Everything was funny. We burst into another fit of laughter.
“Okay, so let me get this straight.” Simone took a bite of her carne asada. “The Robertson knew about your mom?”
“Rebbetzin,” I corrected, suddenly feeling defensive about the Schines. It was one thing for me to question or criticize them, but I wasn’t so sure how I felt about an outsider attacking them.
“That’s bull,” Simone declared.
“It’s complicated,” I said, knowing that was true and that I didn’t fully understand why. But hearing Simone’s assessment also confirmed my own anger, and the half of me that wasn’t defending the Schines and their rules was dying to echo her outrage. I got up and went to the bathroom.
When I returned, Simone had paid the bill and she left a big tip. She stood up. “I need to see Marci. She lives near here.”
I opened my eyes wide. “Marci?”
“I want her to reread my cards.”
“Why?”
“I want her to tell me that I’m going to have more babies.” Simone took my hand. “She can confirm what I saw on your palm too.” She traced my heart line, pausing for a second where it split into two. Her touch was light but firm, like my mother’s. I wanted her to find some kind of reassurance from Marci, and I wanted to believe in her version of my heart line.
We walked out past the mariachi band to Simone’s car. I dozed off, feeling lighter from telling her my story and also vaguely aware that sometimes it was easiest to reveal a secret to a person who didn’t know you very well.
I woke up when Simone stopped the car.
“Come on,” she said. “Let’s go.”
I’d never been in this part of town, with street after street o
f Spanish-style homes like the ones I’d seen in Old Town. I followed Simone up the driveway and around the back of one of the houses to a small cottage.
A woman with big eyes and curly light brown hair greeted us. “I’m Marci,” she said to me.
“The psychic,” I said. My mouth felt like I’d eaten one of the long cotton tubes my father stuck in his patients’ mouths to keep them from salivating while he braced their teeth. Marci and Simone disappeared behind a curtain, and I wondered if she read cards with a wizard cap on her head. The thought almost made me laugh, but then I burped up margarita and onions and carne asada.
“Oh, God. Where’s the bathroom?”
Marci appeared and guided me to her bathroom, and I sat on the floor with my head over the toilet bowl, breathing in the harsh scent of antiseptic cleaner and the fresh mint that Marci must have been growing in her garden. “I’ll give you some privacy, honey,” she said, and returned to Simone.
I could hear them arguing in the next room. “Simone. You’re putting too much weight on these cards.”
“So you’re not going to give me another read?” Simone sounded anxious.
“Relax, go away with Daniel alone. Eat good food and walk on the beach and make love,” Marci said.
I got it. Marci was Simone’s rebbetzin.
“How about my palm?”
“All right, Simone. I’ll take a quick peek, and you can come back for a full read soon.”
I didn’t hear anything for a few minutes, and then Simone said, “What is it?”
“Nothing, Simone.”
“No, you’re seeing something, I can tell.”
Marci paused. “This has nothing to do with a baby.”
“What is it?”
“Just be very careful. There’s danger in your midst.” Her tone scared me.
A few minutes later, I felt a hand on my back. I looked up to see Marci, the light creating a halo around her gauzy lavender dress. Now she looked like the Happy Medium, another one of my favorite characters from A Wrinkle in Time. Yes, Simone had taken me to her cavern on Orion’s Belt.
“You okay?” she asked.
I shuddered involuntarily, and Marci massaged my back in circles. “Call me if you need me.” She handed me her card, which I stuffed into my pocket. Why would I need her?
“Let’s go,” Simone murmured, helping me up. She ushered me through the garden back to Daniel’s car.
I was sad that our outing had ended so abruptly and that Simone was having such a hard time having a baby.
I didn’t wake up until after ten the next morning. My head ached, and I felt like I was wearing cardigans on my teeth. I flung myself out of bed, worried that I might be sick again. I needed water. Fast. I brushed my teeth, gulping the water down and then regretting my haste as it floated back up my esophagus.
Daniel was sitting at the kitchen table reading the newspaper when I emerged from my room. I’d fallen asleep in the car, and I worried that I might have said something stupid in my half slumber.
“You’ll feel better soon,” he promised.
Ollie trailed Simone into the kitchen. “Are you sick?”
“I’m going to nurse you today. No Ollie duty.” Simone rubbed my shoulder. “Go back to bed.” I felt too ill to argue, and I returned to my bedroom, changed the sheets, drew the blinds, and slept until I heard a knock on the door. It was almost four o’clock.
“Barbara, your father is on the phone,” Simone said.
Since my last conversation with my mother, I’d had two brief, strained phone calls with my parents, both initiated by them. My mother and I chatted about the weather and little else, and after a few moments of this unbearable exchange, she put my dad on the phone. My ear was permanently trained to pick up her mood. If she sounded happy, then she was likely still with the Shabbos goy. If she sounded sad, he’d left her again, which as much as I liked living with the Coxes, would have put me on the first plane back home to take care of her. My chest started to close as I picked up the phone on my night stand.
“Everything okay, Dad?” I could hear the panic in my voice.
“Can’t a father check in on his little girl?”
Had he found out that I got drunk and smoked pot? Maybe Sari saw me in Old Town and called Rabbi Schine. You never know.
“I’m doing great,” I said.
He sighed. “Those beatniks treating you okay?”
“Yes, they treat me like I’m part of the family, Dad.”
“Don’t forget your real family, Bunny.”
“Is Mom okay?”
“She’s just fine.”
I prattled on about my applications to San Diego State, UCLA, and, of course, Madison as a backup. I told my father how much I loved Ollie and how I could stay with Simone and Daniel while I went to school.
“Live in a dorm,” my father urged. “Have a normal college experience.”
His resistance made me dig in my heels. “What about my life has been normal lately?”
He wasn’t caving in. “You know I’ll support whatever decision you make, but I worry about this arrangement. I want you to get back on track with your life.”
My head still throbbed, and I didn’t have the energy for this conversation, but inside I knew that I was getting too involved in Simone and Daniel’s business. I wanted to wave a magic wand and give them a baby, and then I wanted them to keep me around and adore me for the rest of our lives.
“Don’t forget who you are,” my father said.
Since my mother’s affair, I’d had no idea who I was, I wanted to say. Instead, I changed the subject by inquiring about their seder. When the conversation lagged, I told him that he was going to own the phone company, our family joke to end a call that went on too long.
“Dinner’s almost ready, Shel,” I heard my mother call.
I hadn’t heard her use his nickname in ages. Had she dumped the Shabbos goy and rekindled her feelings toward my father? After we hung up, I rolled over and went back to sleep.
18
Simone got her period exactly a month after my seder with Daniel, and its arrival set us all on edge. She was subdued and only smiled at Ollie. She told me she was going to take Marci’s advice and get away for a few days with Daniel, and that I could take a vacation too because her parents had been dying to spend some time with Ollie. She also said she was going to start taking hormone drugs and that she might get a little “bitchy.”
On a sunny May morning, a few days before her body-temperature chart indicated that she’d start ovulating, Simone drove Ollie to Laguna. They’d spend a few days with her folks, and then she’d come home solo and take off for a week in Ensenada with Daniel. I wasn’t sure what I would do with myself, so before she left I’d asked her to make a list of spring-cleaning chores.
“You’re not the maid, Barbara,” she’d said. “Daniel will leave you his car. Go explore. Drive up the coast or something. This is a break for you. You deserve it.”
After she and Ollie left, I did two loads of laundry, sprayed Windex on sheets of newspaper to wipe Ollie’s fingerprints from the glass in the living-room windows, vacuumed the floors, and cleaned out the fridge. While scouring Simone and Daniel’s bathroom sink, I found a bottle of Simone’s nail polish, a soft purple that looked good on her. I sat on the edge of the tub and painted my toenails. Unskilled in such matters, I did a sloppy job, but the polish made my toes look long and sexy anyway.
I’d once heard that dogs act funny before earthquakes, as if they can sense that something big is going to happen. I’d been feeling that way since my seder and my Old Town adventures with Simone. She and I hadn’t discussed the conversation we’d shared over margaritas. She’d been working extra shifts at the hospital, which made it easy to keep things light. Her moods were also unpredictable, so I tried to stay out of her way. With Daniel it was different. We’d started a conversation that I wanted to continue. Badly.
At noon, I changed into my bathing suit—well, actually Simone’s ha
nd-me-down red bikini—laid a towel on a small patch of grass in back of the house, and began reading My Name Is Asher Lev, which I’d found in the living room. My mother and I had loved Chaim Potok’s The Chosen and The Promise, and now I was devouring his story about the little Orthodox Jewish boy who draws crucifixes and has a depressed mother everyone dotes on. I loved this little boy. I was this little boy.
I barely heard the back door open. Daniel stood over my towel, and I sat up, flustered, adjusting my bathing suit top.
“I didn’t know what you’d think of it,” Daniel said, glancing at the book.
I wasn’t sure how much Simone had told him about my life with the Schines. “I’d have been drawing crucifixes if I had any artistic talent.” I laughed and put the book down. “Can I finish it?”
“Absolutely. I want to hear your thoughts when you’re done.” He slid his Ray-Bans down his nose and touched my shoulder with his index finger. “You better get out of the sun. You’re looking pretty red.”
My skin felt crinkly. “Too late, this is going to hurt.” I patted the book. “It was worth it, though.” I stood and faced Daniel. I came up to his chin.
“Let me take you to dinner,” he said. “You know, to thank you for buffing out our house.”
I folded up my towel, my heart beating so loudly I wondered if Daniel could hear it. I showered and took extra care with my hair, now past my shoulders, the auburn blending with more new strands of gold. I wore it loose instead of up in my usual ponytail, and when I turned my head, I could smell Flex shampoo.
I picked out the white jeans I’d worn the night I met Brian, a milk-chocolate scoop-neck shirt with white trim, and my brown sandals. My toes looked good. My cheeks were flushed from the sun, and I put a little Vaseline on my lips to make them shine. There was no harm in pretending that I was on a date.
Daniel was waiting for me in the living room. He’d changed his shirt, and he smelled like soap. Was this a date? That was ridiculous. He was just being charitable because I’d “buffed out” his house.
“Do you like Chinese food?” he asked.
Washing the Dead Page 24
