Clara at the Edge

by Maryl Jo Fox

  She stares straight ahead. She’s got a splitting headache.

  They are camping in the canyon beside a stream. The hot day has cooled, they bought groceries in Elko, Lenore has fled to the comfort of the bushes. After some good white wine, it’s easy to change the plan a little.

  “Make dinner together?” She smiles. “Just this once?”

  “Why not?” he says with a wink.

  He makes poached salmon, and she makes a salad. They sit outside in the two reclining chairs, talking quietly as they eat, drinking their wine. Other campers are already inside their vehicles. When he asks about her life, her rusty 1963 Brain Room door unaccountably creaks open a little. Her heart pounds. Before she can stop herself, she tells him briefly about her marriage—that Darrell and Samantha both died in 1963, that Frank has wandered the country since 1972, when he graduated from high school.

  “You’ve been alone since then?”

  “Yes.”

  He doesn’t push her to say more, and she is grateful. That she can say anything at all about these things is amazing. Scary. She just met this man. For whatever reason, she finds herself adding to the story, talking fast as if needing to beat the clock—her solitary life after the deaths, raising Frank alone, her failure to understand his needs, her refusal to teach after the accident, instead becoming a crossing guard to prevent other deaths, then teaching again, this time high school, working long hours. She says nothing about who is at fault for the accident that killed Samantha. He listens carefully. Her hands are sweaty. All this talking. Will she pay for this? How can she even do this? Something is changing in her head. Is Lenore doing something?

  Terrified, she stops talking. The wasp stings above her eyebrows just won’t go away. Her head throbs. Sometimes she thinks there’s something growing in her head—that these wasp stings are controlling her somehow. Making her Brain Rooms fall apart. Is that what’s happening?

  They sit, listening to the water. She tries to catch her breath.

  “You put a lot on yourself, Clara,” he says soberly.

  She looks at him.

  He takes the plates inside.

  Lenore is still in the bushes, listening to everything. Now the creature half walks, half flies over to Clara’s reclining chair and begins to bite her—little rodent-like bites on the back of Clara’s neck.

  Clara squirms. “Why torment me now? I’m talking. That’s what you want, isn’t it? In your hundred twenty days, have you ever seen me exchange more than five words with a man? It’s been decades. Ask your siblings. So what’s your problem, Lenore? At the restaurant, you were all excited, jumping around in your bag when Haskell sat down. Now you want to put me in a bag.” Clara pushes her away to stop the needlelike torture of the bites.

  “I’m worried you’ll get totally immersed in this guy and forget about the kids when we hardly have any time left.”

  Clara flares. “But my kids aren’t here, are they? Do you see them? Am I supposed to go dig up Samantha’s grave and haul Frank away from his lover so I can talk to them? You’re making me sick.”

  Her whole body is a phantom itch. She scratches her arm until she can’t stand it. She tries to leave her arm alone but finally surrenders to the delicious intensity of scratching until she draws blood.

  Finally Lenore’s sharp teeth, smaller than a rat’s, stop their torment, and she runs to the bushes. “Pay attention to me, Clara!” Her cry echoes in the night.

  Haskell comes back outside. Seeing Clara trying to compose herself, he decides to say what’s on his mind. “But those deaths were so long ago.” His words frame an unasked question.

  “Better to turn inward, concentrate on my teaching. Easier that way.” She’s breathless.

  “Easier than finding a partner?”

  “So much easier.”

  Puzzled, he looks at her.

  “Rule out rather than rule in. That’s how I operate. Always cautious, always looking for safety.” Except tonight, she thinks. Tonight I’m going to die if I can’t stop talking, if I can’t get Lenore to shut up.

  He slouches in the chair, looking at the stars. “Wow. I had the opposite problem. I was a glutton for almost everything. Safety never occurred to me.”

  “You’re a man,” she says.

  He ignores her. He’s intent on what he wants to tell her. “These stars remind me of something. Promise you won’t laugh?”

  “Shoot.” In her mind she shoots him. Now that he’s changed the subject, she feels all closed up. Oh gosh, she can’t be playing these sudden crazy games with herself. Games are coming out of her head with no warning.

  He continues. “When I was maybe ten, I was shivering in my backyard in Saginaw, Michigan, hugging my skinny knees and watching the stars strewn across the sky. The stars just knocked me out—the random scattering, the sense of beauty without end. I wanted to make something just like those stars, that design—something excessive and arresting. I was jealous of the stars.” He snorts, refilling his wine glass. “Talk about ego. I’ve done nothing of the kind. My life has been one long soap opera.”

  They look at the clear Nevada sky. Dryly she says, “Well, no one could accuse you of lacking ambition.”

  “You said you wouldn’t laugh.”

  “I’m not laughing. I’m impressed.”

  But she does laugh, and he’s glad. He had wanted to cheer her up.

  “OK, so you want to hear my soap opera?”

  “I can hardly wait,” she says, smiling. She can see he’s nervous.

  “I was doing bad pop art in the sixties and getting nowhere in the Village. The coffee houses were full, underground art and theater were everywhere, and there was always a party. The artists shared whatever they had—cigarettes, beer, a pot of spaghetti, a sack of oranges. Everyone stuck together; nobody starved. Sandra was starting out as a clothing designer. She was ambitious and focused. I don’t know why she chose a guy like me. I had no focus then. She moved into my loft. It was a very romantic time.” He clears his throat. She looks at him.

  “Even then, things got a little complicated. It took me a long time to realize I’d never make it as an artist. Meanwhile, Sandra’s clothing business took off like gangbusters. She worked night and day, and that was fine—she was happy. I cooked dinner and sat around trying to get gallery shows, but really just showed my stuff in friends’ lofts. By the time we got around to having a kid, which both of us really wanted, nothing happened.” His laugh is bitter. “This got her really low, so she decided I couldn’t support her in the style she wanted. She started complaining about money when there was no need to. Bottom line, she left me for a sculptor, some hotshot up and comer. Left me for four years. Had a child with him, a boy. I was devastated.” His voice is husky, brusque. “That was a long time ago.” She touches his arm. He struggles for composure.

  “I remember her moving out of the loft as if it was yesterday. Movers had just boxed up her favorite things—Turkish copper trays, Italian pottery, Egyptian rugs. She’d cut off all her hair, and it fell in little waves around her face. She was wearing jeans and a gorgeous shawl from Oaxaca, but it didn’t hide the fact she was pregnant. She looked beautiful. Our good-byes were formal, very restrained. I knew she was upset.

  “Those four years, I went out with a lot of women.” She looks at him. He does not elaborate. “Finally, we got back together. Her sculptor friend had some paternity suits pending. It was Sandra’s turn to be devastated. But I still loved her, and I loved her son—Victor Scalpino. You might have heard of him. He’s a very successful sculptor now, like his dad, lives in Rome. I see him every couple of years. We’re on good terms. I raised him from the time he was four. His real father never had time for him. I know what that’s like. I never had a father either.”

  He drinks his wine. “When Sandra and I separated, the good thing was I finally found something I could do, which was photography, like Arianna, only commercial. I peddled my photography to whoever would take it—catalogues, private commissions, s
ome gigs with Time and Newsweek. It’s a funny life, commercial photography. Everything depends on lighting, angles, surface. You spend half the day lining everything up to shoot an Italian ceramic bowl full of oranges or a diamond hair-clip on a gorgeous model or some necktie for Christmas. It’s a hothouse life. Your focus gets very narrow.”

  He looks again at the sky. “I always wondered if she took me back because I was finally hauling in a lot of cash. Every few years she had to redo the kitchen, the bathroom, the bedroom. She would fly to Istanbul or Marrakech or Paris and bring back these rugs and vases and tables and paintings, beautiful stuff. She was successful, I was successful; the more she spent, the more I had to earn. She had to have these things because I loved her. I had no interest in these things. We tried to have a kid again, but it was no go. Luckily, we had Victor and lavished attention on him. Weekends were special. We took him to museums, special classes, on New England jaunts. I did a photo book of him when he was growing up. I have to say it turned out well. I’ll show you when we get to New York.”

  Abruptly he says, “This trip has convinced me I should’ve been a nature photographer. My life would have been a lot calmer.”

  He looks at her. The light is almost gone. He can hardly see her features.

  She’s absorbed by the moving water in the stream. “I’m sure you have the eye for it. You certainly have the contacts. Do you have any pictures with you?”

  He gestures inside. “Lots.”

  “Let’s see them.” She’s glad to focus on something concrete. She’s overwhelmed by all his talking. Her ears ring. For thirty years she took a vow of silence, and now Haskell has blasted it all to hell.

  He’s frazzled from his story too. “Let’s sleep on it. Show you in the morning.”

  They rise to go in. “Go ahead,” she says. “I’ll be just a second.”

  He disappears inside.

  She hurries over to the small stand of aspen where Lenore lurks. The creature stands up at Clara’s approach. Now she’s six inches tall and all lavender except for some wild purple hair. Clara takes a step back. “Leave me alone,” she says, frightened by Lenore’s sudden growth and color changes. “Just leave me alone. What’s the rush, anyway? I’m tired of living in a box. For once I’m just trying to live my life. For heaven’s sake, let me do one thing at a time. My children are way harder to deal with than this man.”

  “But your children are the crux. And time is short.” Lenore is implacable. “In ten days, we have to be in New York. A few days after that, my hundred twenty days are up, and I’ll be dead. If you haven’t faced your kids, the rest of your days will be hellish.”

  Clara looks at her. “You’re joking.”

  “You already knew this. I’m not joking. Don’t let this man distract you from settling your scores with Frank and Samantha. It’s nice to fall in love but even better to find redemption. Isn’t it? Think, Clara. You were so stuck to your house that you had to drag it with you, cracks and all. It took a messed-up kid to finally burn it down for you. And now you’re free. You’ve been wasting a lot of time. Years and years.”

  “In love? Who says I’m falling in love? We’re just getting acquainted.”

  Completely exasperated, Lenore again grows before Clara’s very eyes—to eight inches—no, ten!

  Astonished, Clara realizes Lenore gets bigger when she’s mad. The creature is starting to look like a real person, an extreme midget.

  “How much bigger are you going to get, for heaven’s sake?”

  Lenore disappears into the bushes, mumbling to herself. “So much effort to bring peace to this crazy woman. Why do we bother? What do we get out of it? She will get the joy of clarity and honest description, of speaking, understanding and connecting instead of hiding and retreat . We are not meant to be blind and alone on this earth . . .” Her voice fades as Clara strains to hear more.

  She flees inside and collapses next to Haskell on the couch.

  “For God’s sake, Clara, what happened out there? You look like you just saw a ghost.”

  “I wouldn’t rule it out.”

  In the morning, he lays out his photos on the breakfast table. Endless shots of graffiti-ridden dead trees felled by insects and drought, bullet-riddled trail markers, overflowing trash cans, trails blocked by avalanche, streams clogged with TV dinner trays and shampoo bottles, oil derricks doing clear-cutting that leaves ugly gashes among the diseased trees. The shots are from all over—the Kansas plains, the Appalachians, Mount Rainier in Washington, Arapaho National Forest in Colorado, the Rocky Mountains.

  He wants to arrange the photos across long walls in Hockney-like collages, the photos printed in different colorations according to time of day and mood, but mostly in this old-looking sepia, the color of tea, some in mauve or muted grey, as if beautiful scenes are fading to memory alone. He would place the human intrusion shots sparingly, so the main feeling is elegiac, for a beautiful land sullied.

  She looks at him. “These are terrific shots. Maybe Arianna can get you a showing.”

  “I need more experience first.”

  “I think you’ve already got a good show. As your first fan, I say go for it.”

  He laughs. “But I’m your fan. Clara Breckenridge, the woman who takes on robbers and old widowed men.”

  She laughs. “Don’t press your luck.”

  He scoops her up in his arms and sets her beside him on the couch. They play and carry on. And she laughs, listening to his barnacled voice that lifts her spirits.

  Later that afternoon, she leaves him nursing a beer at a sports bar in an Elko strip mall as she ambles into a clothing store to buy some necessities—robe, slacks, a jacket. Then she sees this dress, too dressy really, but she keeps looking at it: drapey soft green jersey, three-quarter sleeves, skirt that swishes as she walks in her bare feet. Then she finds these strappy gold sandals with one-and-a-half-inch heels, a freshwater pearl necklace, apricot lipstick, and soft brown eye shadow. Stop, she tells herself, delighted and surprised at herself. She hasn’t done anything like this for over thirty years.

  She changes back to her plain blouse and Levi’s.

  After dinner at a good Italian restaurant with some excellent pinot noir, they return to the canyon, lazy and relaxed. They chat and sit on the couch and she gathers up her nerve. She has him cover his eyes until she comes back to the living area, twirling and sashaying about in her new green dress. The girlishness never leaves, she thinks, starting to tremble. It just goes into hiding. Can she trust him to do this? He rises from his chair and kisses her several times before they walk laughing into the bedroom.

  Quite soon she realizes she can’t do this. Why did she let him think she could do this? Despite his patience and all her efforts to relax, she can’t go through with it. She’s terrified. Maybe I can never do this again in my life. I should have realized, should have known, should have stayed away from this. She hides her face against his chest. He feels his chest getting wet. His eyes fill too.

  Both know her problem lies elsewhere.

  9 days left.

  In the morning, he tells her about Sandra as they sit on the couch after breakfast. Nine months ago, she got pancreatic cancer. It started with back pain. She’d been working out a lot, so they thought it was nothing. But she lost her appetite and was dragging around really bad. By the time they got to the doctor, it had spread. At the end, she was in terrible pain and just wanted to listen to Indian ragas. All they could do was sedate her. In two months, she was dead.

  “So I hit the parties and bars.” He looks at her, then looks away. “I can tell you one thing: It was exhausting.” She laughs, a little uncertain.

  “Go on.”

  “I had regulars, very nice women—one on, say, Saturday afternoons, another on Tuesday evenings. I fixed their toasters and TVs, we talked, we ate. We each got what we needed. It was a mutual rescue squad.”

  He looks over at her. “How are we doing? Less description?”

  “Well, it looks l
ike we’re not in Kansas anymore, Toto.”

  He laughs.

  She murmurs, “I’m sorry about your wife.”

  “In about three months, I was calming down, didn’t go out so much. I took long walks in Central Park. One day, everything just got quiet, as if a buzz saw had stopped.” He takes a deep breath. “I started selling our things on eBay like a madman, trying to empty the loft. I didn’t want all those things around me anymore. I buried myself in work again, but the whole New York scene just seemed pointless. I needed to get away. So my sister rented the Winnebago, and here I am.”

  “Here we are,” she murmurs, “the nun and the sex maniac.” They laugh.

  She is quiet for a long time. “You and I reacted so differently. I became a recluse after my husband died.”

  “I’m not surprised.”

  A slippery thought escapes a crypt. For the first time, she realizes she’s nothing but a common liar. Quickly, she shoves this thought back in her head. She grips his hand. “You have a big soul, Haskell—taking your wife back, raising her son like you did.” She’s thinking, Is your soul big enough for me? Her hands are trembling.

  He sees she’s upset. “At the hotel, I suspected that I’d never get bored with you, Clara, that I could rely on your judgment.” He pauses, groping for words. “You make me feel lighter, like nothing needs to weigh me down, that I don’t have to earn the gross national product of a small Caribbean island. I can live and explore on my own. And so can you. I think we’re onto something good here.”

  Struggling to control herself, she looks out the window.

  He watches her somber profile. They are silent. Whatever has wounded her enters his heart too, like a grave drum roll.

  The sun is stronger now. He makes coffee, brings two steaming mugs to the coffee table.

  “I want to show you the city before the show opens. We need to go east pretty soon.” He blows on his coffee. “We can drop off the Winnebago in Boise and fly from there.”

  “I was wondering about that.” Her voice grows stronger. “Haskell, I need to see my son before we go to New York. I need to talk to him. Who knows when I’ll see him again?” She has a feeling of foreboding.