by Maryl Jo Fox
The only place she can call home right now is her teeming, unreliable brain, its networks housed in fragile bone, easily cracked open and reduced to smithereens. She looks at her hollowed-out face in the mirror. Strains of Mahmoud’s mournful Middle Eastern music echo in her head. She tries to hum the tune, not succeeding. She had recognized the instrument—an oud—and two singers in some kind of dialogue. The sad sound had brought tears to her eyes as his cab careened down Manhattan streets. She had wondered then if Mahmoud was homesick too.
Needing comfort in her new predicament, she thinks of the small glasses of sugared tea offered to strangers and friends in Middle Eastern countries. She’s seen these scenes on CNN and the Discovery Channel. She’s always wanted to travel there. She’s heard about the code of desert hospitality, where it’s a point of family and tribal honor to care for the stranger. Right now, this very instant, thank you, she would like some hot sugared tea and some little cakes please, offered by unknown but kindly hands.
She shakes her head. She’s got to sleep.
2 days left.
chapter 27
It’s strange to wake in a workplace and not strictly a sleep place. No rugs soften the scarred floor, no dresser or family photos: This is a room for work. From the Spartan bed, she gazes at the welter of photos clipped to clotheslines crisscrossing the room—images of rushing water, decaying streets, bodies not wholly in the frame, architectural details, dead bodies beside the road, their arms flung over each other. Walls are covered with abstract compositions of light and dark—blurred bodies kneeling near walls of flame, hands clasped or raised high; elaborate clusters of burning candles; rough incisions in ancient stone walls—the photos mysterious and pure. She stares, thinks of kneeling, praying, doesn’t.
Arianna rattles things in the kitchen. She bought fresh bagels and is making strong coffee, by the smell of it. Clara puts on her green robe and slippers, washes up, and greets her. “This is terrific—someone making my breakfast. I don’t often have the pleasure.” Except that Haskell did it all the time in Lamoille. She winces. But still, her spirits are higher this morning.
“I checked on you before I went out. You were sleeping like a baby. You didn’t even wake up when Haskell called a half hour ago. He drove to Boise last night. His flight arrives at five. He’ll take a cab here.”
She’s grateful Arianna didn’t ask why she came to New York alone. “This is all wonderful,” she says, gesturing at the bare bone rooms.
The bagels, with fresh cream cheese and fresh orange juice, taste scrumptious. The coffee, fragrant and strong, could raise the dead. They eat, chat, and read the New York Times. The rickety kitchen table for two is around the corner in the living room. She’s grateful to be at Arianna’s. The idea of eating breakfast alone in some café near the Bridgeport Hotel is not pleasant, when she would’ve been in full shock over her rash journey. After they straighten the kitchen, Arianna works in the studio while Clara bathes in the kitchen bathtub. And it’s not so strange to bathe in the kitchen, except that it is strange, just like everything else here.
Lenore sits tiredly on the lowered soap dish, stretches to kick her red boots in the water. She splashes Clara, indicates she wants to take a bath too. Clara towels off, drains the tub, and refills it as she dresses. Lenore pushes aside the Indian fabric on the lower window. No modesty for her, apparently.
As Lenore undresses, Clara surreptitiously looks at her ashy purple skin, naked in the window light. She’s never seen her naked before.
She’s got some kind of sores all over her—a rash festering with pus. And the slit in her arm is inflamed. The tattered lavender wing still protrudes but looks wilted now. She looks like an old woman with a bad skin problem. Her head is more swollen than ever, inexplicably causing Clara’s head to hurt too. She’s shocked.
“Lenore, what on earth is the matter with you? What’s that rash? You should’ve told me. Here, let me put some baking soda in your bath water. Give yourself a good soak.” She looks for baking soda in the cupboard, finds none, opens the refrigerator, finds a box of it. She pours some into the bath water, trying to act calm.
Lenore meekly accepts her fussing for a change. Maybe she’s just got jet lag.
Their relationship is so fraught that Clara won’t even consider that Lenore might be dying. She hardly moves this morning. Sitting listlessly in the water, she refuses a piece of bagel, waves away a teaspoon of orange juice. Even so, Clara is afraid to talk with her. In the dead of night, she calls herself a coward. She would take Lenore to the doctor, but there is no doctor on earth for a creature like Lenore.
The creature controls something in Clara, something she fears and recognizes. A reckoning of some sort. All this time, Lenore has been trying to force open Clara’s rustiest Brain Room, the one crammed with Samantha’s last days—the day she died and the day before. Before Lenore dies, she wants Clara to just say it, splay it, roll in it—all of it—to gain the peace that comes from full disclosure. To make amends.
But Clara would still rather die than open that rotting dungeon in her brain.
She and Arianna decide to go to Central Park. Clara needs an easy day, but she’s worried about Lenore. She’s not eating. Maybe fresh air will help. She takes her along in her ventilated bag. They walk to the Fourteenth Street subway entrance. At the end of the platform in the muggy heat, a homeless man has passed out, lying face down. One filthy tennis shoe is off. A ring of grime circles his ankle where the shoe ended. A rank smell of urine, filth, and sweat curdles the air around him. His hair is matted, his unshaven face blurred with sweat, his clothes wilted into blurred colors.
Clara has no defenses this morning after seeing Lenore’s suffering. Raw to the pain of the world, she steps toward the man and rummages in her purse. Normally she would never do this. The other people studiously avoid looking at him or Clara, who now kneels beside him.
Arianna gently touches Clara’s shoulder, whispers, “That just encourages them in public places.”
Clara’s tone is brusque. “We all have to eat.” She deposits a five-dollar bill in the man’s limp hand and returns stone-faced to Arianna, who has moved down the platform.
“He won’t use it to eat. You know that. The city’s tried to clean up stuff like this. It’s sad, of course, but this is life in the big city.”
“We have homeless people in Eugene too. It’s not like I’ve never seen one. It always bothers me, you know, to see someone like this. I don’t care if he won’t use it to eat. He needs a gesture. Everyone needs a gesture.”
Arianna’s face is tight. “Well, you get mugged once or twice, and you forget about gestures. You want sterner measures. You just want to be safe and live in peace.”
“You’ve been mugged?”
Just then, a tall man with baggy pants and a red Afro darts from the crowd. He snatches the five-dollar bill from the drunk’s hand and runs up the stairs.
Incensed, Clara takes out running after him. “Just a minute, young man,” she shouts. “This man can’t defend himself right now. You can’t take his money.”
The small crowd turns to look, their faces blank with disbelief. Arianna runs after her, grabs her arm. “Clara, stop! He’s already up the stairs. You’ll never catch him. Chalk it up—five bucks down the drain.”
“I will do no such thing.” Clara angrily rummages in her purse again, this time pulls out a ten. Panting, she’s beyond reason now. “The world’s going to collapse one day. So will we just beat each other over the head with clubs?”
Arianna looks blankly at Clara. “I would say so. Yes. Definitely.”
Crouching on her haunches, Clara stuffs the bill into the man’s front pants pocket—hard to reach since he’s lying on his stomach. To do so, she has to get closer to his private parts than she would like. The man stirs, groans. She murmurs, “I’m not going to hurt you, young man. Just look in your pocket when you sober up. Surprise yourself by doing something good for yourself. You don’t have to be this way fo
rever.”
Appalled, Arianna hears this and shakes her head.
Clara stands as the train rumbles into the station. Head throbbing, she knows very well this man will use the ten for drugs. She’s acting stupid. It’s Lenore. The creature will push her until she breaks. Lenore squirms in her bag just then. Clara puts a protective hand over her. The creature quiets.
The packed train drones and sways to the transfer point. The two women disembark and walk down a long, dirty-tiled hallway to another train, get off at the Central Park exit, and hurry into the park. Willing her strong morning emotions to pass, Clara is relieved to be amidst greenery again, though she soon starts sneezing. Lenore is limp in her bag.
Mothers and nannies stroll by, chatting amiably, their well-dressed babies in buggies bristling with levers and hinges. Tough-looking teenagers swagger four and five abreast, parading their baggy clothes, tattoos, and body piercings with a syncopated walk that features a recurring hitch. Speedo-clad cyclists crouch over their water bottles; glassy-eyed joggers are wired to arm radios with earphones. Business people with brown bag or takeout food lounge on benches; sirens roar in the distance. Everything interests her, despite whatever is making her nose run. They amble toward the pond, where they sit and quietly watch the ducks gliding through the water.
Relieved that Clara’s enjoying the scene, Arianna says, “I should do this more often. Outside the city, I’m in countryside all the time. Here, my world shrinks to concrete and work. I never see the sun.” She rubs her temples, takes off her glasses. “I’ve got a glitch with my Santa Monica show. Some photos haven’t shown up, some of my best shots, and the show has already opened. I’ve got a tracer on them. In the meantime, yesterday I did reprints and FedExed them. The gallery owner is having a cow. He’s a real diva. It’s good you came, Clara. With you and Haskell here, I’ll be distracted and we’ll just enjoy the Met opening. But I’m a perfectionist, so let me apologize in advance if I get irritable. Frankly, I’m not sure the reprints are as good as the originals.” She pushes her glasses up.
Clara says, “Sometimes I wish Haskell was more of a perfectionist.”
“But he is. He’s a very successful commercial photographer. He spends hours lining up a shot. He has loyal clients, is always booked. He drives himself crazy. Why do you say that?”
“Oh, it’s just that he got some great nature shots from his trip. I think he has a real talent for this type of photography. But he’s so casual about it. He doesn’t think it could lead anywhere. I think it could, if he’d just work at it.”
Arianna winks. “Give him some rope. He’ll work it out.”
Clara sighs. “So tell me about your favorite uncle.”
“He’s a great guy.” She smiles. “Used to take me to Broadway shows after he started making it—Threepenny Opera, The Fantasticks, Cats, The Wiz, a lot of foreign movies—Truffaut, Fellini, Renoir—especially after Sandra left him. My father left the family when I was ten; my mother died three years ago. I’m the only child. So it was rough, but Haskell’s always been around, ready to whip up killer lasagna or a batch of sushi.”
Clara looks at her with vague foreboding. “You think he’s wedded to the city?”
She’s thinking of Frank and Stella—Frank wouldn’t live here.
“I hope so, for my sake. He’s certainly a true New Yorker, knows it like the back of his hand.” She claps her hand on Clara’s knee. “I can just see you zipping around Manhattan, taking it by storm, doing wonderful and outrageous things.”
“The noise, the crowds. I’m not sure the climate agrees with me.” She sneezes, as if for emphasis.
“I don’t believe a word of it. Manhattan thrives on people like you.”
They walk out of the park onto Fifth Avenue. Soon her mood lifts, buoyed by Arianna’s brisk dismissal of her misgivings. She’s getting energized by the crowds as they walk down Fifth toward Bergdorf’s. The sidewalks are crammed with stylish people hurrying, talking, laughing, arguing. Horns blare, drivers shout, sirens wail in the background roar of a city furiously awake and on the move. A man in a well-cut suit winks at her. A young woman gives her a thumbs-up. She marvels. Strangers on the street—so nice! She and Arianna walk past Tiffany’s, the Plaza, other names she’s only read about or seen in the movies. The romance and energy of the place entrances her. She’s like a schoolgirl seeing something wonderful for the first time. “This is fabulous!” she exclaims. “I can’t believe it.”
Arianna squeezes her hand. “I knew you’d like it.”
Back at the loft, she falls into a deep sleep as if drugged. She doesn’t wake until the commotion of Haskell’s arrival makes her think she’s in a bus station. She sits on the edge of the bed rubbing her temples. He comes into the studio. Wordlessly they embrace. Arianna discretely steps into the kitchen, rattles pans.
He closes the door. “How’s my girl?” he murmurs, burying his face in her hair. His clothes are rumpled, his hair mussed.
“How many days do you have to listen?” she says lightly.
“Try me.” He strokes her hair. “Let’s blow this joint.”
“My thoughts precisely.”
They thank Arianna profusely for her help, gather their bags, and take a cab to his loft near Sixteenth and Madison. He buzzes them inside a blue door. The elevator opens onto a large, sparsely furnished living/dining/kitchen area with enormous floor to ceiling windows and natural maple cabinets. Down a hallway, a huge photography studio, big master bedroom, small study, second bedroom, large bathroom, more high ceilings. He has the whole third floor. She’s never been in a living space this large.
“It’s beautiful,” she says simply.
He shrugs. “I’ve dumped a lot of stuff. I never needed anything this big.”
They need to talk, but this is not a night for talking. He’s exhausted; she’s unmoored. Against her will, the dungeons in her brain are bulging with events from long ago. Lenore stays in the cloth bag, mired in her own deterioration. She nibbles the corner of a Saltine and barely moves. Clara can hardly look at her.
Haskell orders up a lovely pistou soup, a ravioli salad, and a white bordeaux. They are in bed by nine. With a strong headache returning, she lies close to him.
“Hello,” she says, lightly nuzzling him.
“Hi, you.”
In the night, she wakes with a start. She was trapped in a stuffy closet, the air running out.
“Bad dream?”
“Yes.”
“You’re OK?”
“Yes.” She is awake the rest of the night, waiting for her son.
1 day left.
The cab double-parks in front of the Met, horns blaring as Haskell pays the driver. She couldn’t rouse Lenore this morning, so she brought her along in her cloth bag. She seems much lighter than before, more shrunken. Clara’s hands sweat as she sees the big banner hung across the entrance: “Hidden America: Photography in the New Millennium. July 1–August 10.” She nervously grips Haskell’s arm to steady herself. Where’s Frank? He was supposed to meet them here on the steps. The stately museum with its grand entry steps looks like a European capital building to her. They take in the crowded scene. On the sidewalk, a saxophonist is playing “Summertime,” one of their favorite songs. The notes echo in the communal outdoor space. Lenore briefly stirs; Clara’s heart flutters.
Her cell phone rings. It’s Frank. “I’m about six blocks away. The red-eye was late. I’ll meet you inside the exhibition.”
“Yes,” she says. “Good.” Her heartbeat quickens.
A motley crowd lounges on the steps, sunning themselves—camera-toting tourists in Bermuda shorts and T-shirts; a couple of nursing mothers, their babies wrapped like burritos; people in business suits talking fast on cell phones; people buying pretzels and hot dogs from sidewalk venders. Women of a certain age saunter up the steps with their impeccable hairdos, tasteful jackets, and elegant dresses. Clara looks down at her red Keds, cornflower-blue blouse, and old Levi’s. She feels like a hick
, but only for a moment. She and Haskell deliberately wore their Nevada duds in the spirit of her entry. He’s in Levi’s, a denim shirt, and old cowboy boots. He refers to the exhibition as “your show” and “your opening.” She smiles at his gallantry. Her head still throbs. A few people murmur discretely to each other as they come back down the steps, possibly having already seen the show. A corridor of quiet expands on either side of her. They study Clara silently, as if they recognize her. The outsider from Eugene gradually notices this. Her nervousness grows.
Arianna stands on the top step, grinning down at them, glasses sliding down her nose. They reach the top, hug, and stand there a minute, taking in the thick crowds. The air is still. “Are you ready, Clara?”
“Ready as I’ll ever be.” Her hands are like ice.
Arianna leads the way. They pass through the vast lobby thronged with people, a hubbub of voices echoing in the large chamber, and make their way to the room where Arianna’s photos hang.
Her pictures cover one long wall and the adjacent shorter wall. Set in seven framed sections, separate video screens fill most of each wall. Each section has a speaker above it with its own soundtrack. In the first section, pine and broadleaf forests sweep past the viewer. The sound of a husky motor drones in the background, as if someone is driving through these forests. The trees are life-size, in many shades of green, some still wet with dew.
Clara’s chest thumps as if someone has struck her. “Haskell—she used some of your photos!”
He exclaims to Arianna, “My God, they’re huge. And you’ve made them into videos!”
