The Real Mother

by Judith Michael

  “You want to be a doctor! You’ve always wanted that!”

  “Almost always. When I was in high school I wanted more than anything to write long books filled with people who were beautiful and rich and smart and romantic—all the things I didn’t feel I was—and with villains who were exactly like the people who didn’t like me. Later I discovered I loved medicine even more.”

  “But I don’t love anything more! And I do know about the world! I understand things!”

  “Yes, you do. Just not enough. Sweetheart, even if you understood the whole world perfectly, you aren’t ready to be published because you haven’t learned the craft of writing. You can have terrific ideas and be a real artist inside yourself, but you have to know the mechanics of writing.”

  “You mean like grammar,” Carrie said in disgust.

  Sara smiled. “Partly, but mostly a kind of magic that turns your ideas and feelings into words and sentences that bring your readers into the worlds you create, move them to feel the emotions of your characters and understand their predicaments and decisions.”

  Carrie frowned. “Don’t I do that now?”

  “You try. You don’t succeed yet because you haven’t written enough. You have to write thousands of pages of stories and character sketches to learn to transform what’s inside you into stories and books your readers will treasure.”

  “How do you know all that? You’re not a writer.”

  “I tried to be, but I found out I was better studying the human body than I was writing about human beings. I think you’ll find out you’re better at writing than anything else. Then you’ll get help from teachers and other writers and from reading books, but mainly, the more you write, the sooner you’ll find your own style, your own special skills. And then you’ll find a publisher. Lots of them, probably.”

  There was a long silence. Sara knew she was overloading Carrie with too much information, but she could not stop. “Please, sweetheart, don’t build your hopes on fantasies. Enjoy these years of learning and soaking up experience and skills; be open to everything, and then you’ll be ready to be what great writers are: people who help readers understand the world better, and deal with it, and get the most out of it. You’ll do all that, but it takes time and maturity. Observation and understanding. We’ve talked about this.”

  “Endlessly.” Carrie sighed dramatically. “You say the same things to Doug.”

  “They’re just as true for him.”

  “But Mack got him a gallery.”

  “Have you seen a Douglas Hayden show?”

  “No, but…they’re working out details. Mack said.”

  “When it happens I’ll believe it.”

  Carrie snatched the story from Sara’s hand. “You don’t like it.”

  “I didn’t say that. I said it was different.”

  “You didn’t say you like it. You always say you like it. You say it’s wonderful or funny or… whatever. You always say you like it.”

  Because, Sara thought ruefully, it seemed like a good idea to be encouraging. Look where it’s gotten me.

  She searched for the right words. “It’s hard to like something so sad. You made me care about Aurelia Rose, and that’s essential in a story, but it didn’t make me feel happy.”

  “You could be impressed,” Carrie said angrily.

  “I am,” Sara said swiftly, grateful for the word. “I’m impressed with the writing, and the mood you created. You made me tense and worried and unhappy.” She studied Carrie’s face. “Is that how you felt when you wrote it?”

  “I don’t know! I told you, it was inside me and it just came out!” Carrie sprang up and was out the door before Sara could stop her.

  She sat still for a long time. I need a break from all this. There’s too much emotional turmoil in this house.

  And, as if in response, by afternoon the house was empty. Sara walked through the rooms as if newly discovering them. Nothing had changed, but everything was different: hushed and still, in abeyance, as if waiting for the next burst of people and emotion. The rooms were cool, protected from the blistering heat of the first day of August by thick stone walls, and windows shaded by towering trees. My house, Sara thought. She loved it, loved being rooted in it, loved sharing it with her family. She had never felt so certain of that, walking through its strangely still rooms, knowing that, as precious as was the silence, the house was truly alive only when filled with the voices and emotional tremors of their intersecting lives. Savoring her solitariness, she still anticipated the time when Abby and Carrie and Doug would return and take their places in these rooms.

  And Mack? Where did he fit in?

  I wish he would leave, she thought. Everything seems to be changing, moving faster, spinning past…

  But how do you tell a member of your family to get out of the house?

  At her desk upstairs, she worked on papers she had brought home from her City Hall office, and, at five o’clock, called Reuben. “Everyone is safely ensconced with friends. I have no responsibilities until tomorrow afternoon.”

  “You have one. To spend those hours with me. I thought we’d have dinner here, instead of going out. Would that please you?”

  “Yes, if we can cook together.”

  “A fine idea. When can you be here?”

  “What time would you like?”

  “An hour ago. A day ago. Now.”

  “Half an hour?”

  “I’ll be waiting.”

  He had never been inside her house. Neither of them mentioned it; they seemed to shun the idea, as if aware that the moment Reuben walked among the rooms she had made her own, with the family she had made her own, he would be more than friend and companion and lover. He would be… what? Having no idea of the answer, they were not ready to confront the question. But Sara thought about it (and wondered if he did), imagining the time when he would walk through the front door and fit himself into their space, sitting on their couches and chairs, eating at the kitchen table or in the dining room, sleeping in the …well, no, she never got that far. But even without that, she could imagine that he would look as if he belonged. And by then perhaps he would.

  He opened the side door as she drove up his driveway and into the double garage, beside his car. Two dark blue sedans, almost identical. Paired, she thought, at the same time telling herself she was thinking that way far too often.

  “Welcome,” said Reuben as she walked through the glaring heat, and they kissed in his doorway, the ease and rightness of it making them smile as they walked into the house.

  But they had been apart for almost a week, and the ease of their greeting was swept away by the urgency freed with touching, and so they did not stop but kept walking, up the stairs and into Reuben’s bedroom. In the shadowy coolness, Sara’s sundress slipped off as easily as his khakis and shirt, and then they were on his bed, the long line of Sara’s body like an ivory crescent on the blue-and-black madras spread.

  “So beautiful,” Reuben murmured, his hands moving over her, remembering the curves and hollows and textures he knew but still, each time they were together, learned anew. Sara pulled him to her, and involuntarily sighed as he fit himself to her, separate bodies transformed, like the final two pieces in a puzzle, each in its perfect place, clarifying, in a burst of illumination, an entire image. Away from the turmoil of recent days, she felt a deep letting go, only then realizing how tense she had been through the news of Pussy’s death, the memorial service, Donna’s encampment in her house, Abby’s distress, Carrie’s strange story…

  But in Reuben’s bedroom, beneath his solid weight, his hand on her breast, his lips moving over hers, teasing her, teasing himself, she opened to feeling, to desire, to the two of them. In that hushed space, there was room for no one else, no problems or questions or demands. Just Reuben and Sara, hands moving over and around each other in arousal and possession, bodies meeting and merging in a language theirs alone, discovering a oneness and a wonder they had never known, and, not knowing
, could not have guessed they had been missing.

  “You are an extraordinary woman,” Reuben said when they were quiet again. He lay beside her, leaning on an elbow, his left hand lightly caressing her face. “When you’re not here the silence in this house can be smothering, and when you’re here, it sings.”

  Sara smiled. “Thank you. What a lovely thing to say. You give me so many reasons to be grateful.”

  “For what, exactly?”

  She laughed. “There speaks a man who builds whole towns to scale and needs exactitude. Well, then, exactly for companionship, friendship, generous praise, good conversation, good advice—”

  “Do I give advice? I try not to, unless asked.”

  “You advised me to listen to Abby about Donna. I think Abby was right, and so were you. But I don’t want to talk about that tonight. Or even think about it.”

  “No, tonight is just for us. Let’s go back to gratitude.”

  “You want more?”

  “If there is more.”

  His eyes were serious—this was not a game to him—and so, seriously, she said, “For gentleness and understanding, for really listening without using half your attention to think of clever responses, for having so much to say and talking without ever talking down, for being interested in the world, for liking people, for loving books and music and art and theater, for knowing good food and taking it seriously, for being adventurous.”

  “And?”

  “Oh, what a greedy man.”

  “Or perhaps anxious.”

  She brought his face to hers and kissed him. “For being patient and sensitive with my family. For wonderful sex, more wonderful than I ever imagined.”

  Reuben smiled. “Last but not least. Thank you for all that. If it had been my turn, I would have listed the same things, plus your courage and commitment to your family. And one more. I hope you would be as grateful for it as I am. For love.”

  Sara let the word settle within her. It had not been used hastily or cheaply; there was nothing about Reuben Lister that was hasty or cheap. Nor was there pretense in it, to gain some kind of prize. There was no place in Reuben Lister for pretense.

  “Yes,” she said. “I am most grateful for that, given and received.”

  As if the weather had shifted slightly, announced only by a breeze picking up, or the faint smell of ozone in the air, Sara and Reuben felt their private climate change, a subtle difference in the way they looked at each other and to each other, the way they spoke, the way they thought. Something had been settled, though not settled at all, only established as the foundation for a new step, new decisions, a new direction.

  Dinner was late, but time, too, had shifted, at least for this night, freed from the schedules of work, the needs of family, the demands of acquaintances. Beyond the tree-shaded windows of Reuben’s bedroom, the street was silent, a short distance away (but in fact a world away) from the Saturday-night sprees of Rush Street, where young people lined up outside bars and nightclubs; open convertibles crawled by, radios beating with basses and drums; couples and singles looking to be couples packed outdoor cafés and bars nursing one or two drinks and escalating to feverish excitement from the contagion of the crowds. Later they would pair off in various combinations of sex, age, race, height, and religion, and go to the Saturday beds where they would awaken around noon the next day, regretting or happy in their choice of partners. But now it was not quite ten o’clock at night, and Rush Street was jumping, and, in a quiet neighborhood, Sara and Reuben were preparing dinner, and everyone was convinced they were in exactly the right place.

  Sara had slipped on her sundress, Reuben his khakis and shirt, and they had taken from the refrigerator the foods he had prepared earlier. Reuben poured two glasses of Meursault and handed Sara a salad bowl. “You didn’t leave much for me to do,” she said, emptying greens into the bowl.

  “I thought you might be too exhausted to do more than a few simple things.”

  “From the past few days or the past few hours?”

  “Exhausted from the past few days; energized for simple things by the past few hours.”

  Sara smiled. “What good planning.”

  She sliced avocado and hearts of palm into the salad, watching Reuben slide a platter of salmon into the oven and stir-fry asparagus tips and snow peas. His movements were smooth and practiced; he was accustomed to cooking alone, and clearly enjoyed it. She liked watching his economical movements, his absorption in his tasks, his ease with implements and ingredients. She recognized herself in the small creative steps he took, deciding which spice to add, and how much, and at what point. He was having a good time, as she did in her own kitchen, however rushed she was at the end of a day. The kitchen was an oasis for both of them.

  Reuben looked up and met her smile, and took a few steps to kiss her. “It’s a much better kitchen with you in it.”

  “It’s a fine kitchen.” Sara chose from a basket of tomatoes, one red, one yellow. “I like kitchens.”

  “And you have a good one at home?”

  “It’s quite wonderful. You’d enjoy it.”

  “Will you give me a tour sometime?”

  “As soon as you’d like.”

  Another step; they both knew it. Now it seemed perfectly natural for Reuben to fit himself into her house, into her life.

  A little flustered by the speed at which they were being confronted with change, she changed the subject. “Tell me how you’re roasting the salmon.”

  “At two-fifty for fifteen minutes.” They talked about roasting and grilling, fish and salads and spices, until the vegetables were crisply stir-fried, the salmon perfectly roasted with warm sorrel sauce ladled on top, and the salad set on the sideboard, with olive oil and sherry vinegar beside it. And they ate, casually, in the small sunroom off the kitchen, where Reuben had set a small fig tree and bougainvillea in decorative Mexican pots beside a café table and two chairs in a corner overlooking the fenced backyard. Against the darkness outside, they saw their reflections against the lighted windows of the houses and apartments beyond the backyard and the alley.

  They carried espresso and cookies to his study, and sat on the corduroy couch. “I have a great deal to tell you,” Reuben said, setting down his empty cup. “I’ve put it off, ridiculously, as if by not talking about it I could make it vanish from my life. But what we have now is too important for make-believe; I want you to know what’s real in my life, and what I have to deal with.”

  Another step, Sara thought, perhaps the biggest of all. The one she had been waiting for. She put down her cup. “Yes,” she said.

  But it was too late for unforced honesty. Because, in the next moment, the doorbell rang, and when Reuben answered it, Ardis was there, with her luggage.

  TEN

  It was like being conductor of a huge orchestra, Mack thought, pointing here, waving there, bringing everyone to heel. Each time he organized the increasingly boisterous demonstrations by NoMoGaRB (No Monstrous Growth at River Bend, coined by Mack and picked up in a Chicago Tribune headline), he reveled in the sound that rolled across masses of demonstrators to engulf him with confirmation of his power. It did not matter (not much, anyway) that Lew had ordered him to remain invisible, and therefore it was always some surrogate who started the march or stopped it, began the shouting or cut it off, increased or diminished it or sent it roaring to the skies. It did not matter (not really), because Mack Hayden was the mastermind behind every move, and he knew it, and Lew Corcoran knew it. Master masterfully mastering, he exulted from his post in a clump of trees a discreet distance away, looking out over two or three thousand pairs of eyes turned toward the leader he had chosen, waiting for orders. My people.

  No sarcasm there. He was dead serious.

  He’d attended most of the citizens’ meetings, listening from an adjacent room when outsiders were present. At no point, decreed Lew Corcoran, could the demonstrations be seen as planned or directed by anyone but the neighbors. So Mack had not met the Carr
ano Village honchos, but he’d seen them: Isaiah Carrano, the deep pockets, burly and flamboyant, with a deep laugh that made everyone (except Mack) smile, and his partner, Reuben Lister. Sara’s big flame. (Though maybe not; she hadn’t gone out at night for almost two weeks, and there hadn’t been any long phone calls; maybe they’d broken up, which Mack didn’t appreciate, since he liked having the kids to himself.) He didn’t know what she’d ever seen in the guy, anyway. He wasn’t impressive: thin face, beard, glasses, narrow shoulders, tall and lanky, no bulk, no brawn, needed a haircut. His eyes were hard, but the rest of him was nothing you’d ever notice, walking down the street. Looked like a professor, not an opponent you’d take seriously. Except… one thing that was fucking annoying: no matter what anybody was talking about, Lister didn’t change his expression or raise his voice. Fucking hard to deal with; you never knew what the guy was thinking. But he was manageable; Mack knew that for sure. Listen, he told an imaginary doubter: if I can manage Lew Corcoran, I can manage a wimp like Lister.

  It was time to start the march. One last time, he surveyed the scene. TV cameras ready to roll, network helicopters hovering overhead, police lined up along the sides of the route, newspaper reporters strung out, with a few posted at the speakers’ platform. Mack nodded to Ted Waszenski, his right-hand man, who stepped forward in view of the lead marchers, raised his arm, and dropped it sharply. Placards shot up, a forest of signs slashed with exclamation marks; banners were strung across the road between marchers; and the line began to move, sluggishly at first, those at the rear waiting for the forward movement to reach them, then more briskly as handpicked demonstrators began to chant, and marchers picked up their feet to the rhythm.