Sara started to grin, she thought of introducing his mother to Tova.
To be perfectly honest, I feel a bit embarrassed describing myself to someone I have never met. I am used to a personal approach in life. But with busy lifestyles and geographic limitations, maybe this "new" method is better. The old one didn't do so well anyhow.
So, as to leave a little suspense in this undertaking, I am not going to enclose a picture of myself. I trust, however, that when we meet you will find me pleasing. And I feel that somehow I will like you.
Sara took a deep breath. What if he did find her pleasing? What if she liked him too? What about all the other letters sitting there, waiting? What about all the others on their way to her now? Her head started to spin. She suddenly didn't want to finish; Samuel, Andrew, Lou. . . she already felt dizzy, and had at least thirty more to go.
The next email left Sara visibly shaken.
Dear Sunflower 101,
It is hard for me to write this letter. I am not all the things you ask for. I am not handsome, witty or lively. But kind I am. I am very kind.
I was always kind, though no one knew it. I was ashamed to show it for a very long time. I thought a man always had to act like he was strong and brave. But there, I was wrong. I've been wrong a lot in my life, though I don't like to admit it.
Sara felt touched and repelled at the same time. Who was this man?
When you meet me, you probably won't like me. You probably wouldn't notice me if I walked by. I'm a quiet man outwardly, but inside I am KIND! Don't put my note down so fast. I'm really a very good person and I only took the liberty of answering your letter because you said you were looking for somebody you could trust. Now that struck me.
Sara's heart pounded. She wasn't sure she wanted someone so kind, and certainly didn't want to read any further. What was "kind" anyway? A word people attached all kinds of meaning to. Maybe it was better to have someone natural, nasty at times, even uncontrollable. Hadn't she always loved thunderstorms and wild flowers?
When I read you were looking for somebody you could trust, I said to myself, this lady has been badly hurt. Only somebody badly hurt would be looking for somebody she could trust.
Another wave of revulsion hit her. Sure she'd been hurt. Who hadn't? Forget the kindness, Mister. Give me someone strong and tough. All his so-called kindness was making her feel weak in the gut.
"Put this one in the No column," Sara thought, he's too kind.
She got up, walked around, bolted the door and turned to the emails from the adventurers.
Dear Passionate, Loving Woman!
Go no further. I'm yours!
Sara sighed a breath of relief.
My answer to your laundry list:
Handsome: Very
Lively: Absolutely
Honest: I try
LovingYes, Yes, Yes
Interesting: Quite. I know the Pope
and Woody Allen on a personal basis. Jewish: Would you believe it? The perfect son of Morris and Rose. To Share the Adventures of Life:
Let's have a drink first, then go to the airport and jump on the next plane going to any place we can't pronounce. You sound like a terrific "Up" person I would like to meet. Enclosed is a poor quality photo, but it is recent and it was readily available.
Speak to you soon,
Arty (718) 663-8465 P.S.( I am 43 years old, professional, very athletic, blue eyes, brown hair, great hugs...)
Beautiful lady!
What an ad! Before I say another word I want you to know that I was born on Valentine's Day. Now, what does that tell you? I was born just for Love! Your ad captured my heart strings immediately. I am handsome, adventurous and filled with spice. Call me immediately. I'll be waiting.
Victor
Dear Sunflower
I am Married. But, believe me, I have everything in the world except what I need most of all - romance.
Sara put that one in the No column fast.
Dear Sunflower,
Your search for Mr. Right is over, and if he doesn't work out, you can always try me. . .
The universe was turning into a huge candy store with treats in every corner. Who said she had to be alone, even for one minute? As she read the letters, Sara felt her lonely nights melting away. But who would they be replaced with? Arty, Samuel. . . God knows who else?
The thought of God calmed Sara for a moment, made her think of her mother, demanding she come back to the block. He's waiting for you on the block where you came from, she would tell her. But there were endless blocks Sara hadn't yet stepped on. And one letter after another was calling her to a different address.
"Open the door, mom," Abel called, standing outside. "Grandma's on the phone.She says it's an emergency."
"Everything in grandma's life is an emergency," Sara called back, realizing it was a conspiracy to keep her from falling in love with someone she hardly knew.
"MOM!" Abel's voice was grainy. "Grandma wants to talk to you. She says she feels something is wrong. She says you're not being reasonable."
"Tell her life isn't reasonable!" Sara shouted. "It's magic. Tell grandma life is magic, and tell her something else too - I've made up my mind to be happy - despite all the words, ideas, and people who say I can't."
"We told her you're reading the emails, mom," Chloe interrupted. "She said you don't know these people who are writing."
"They're beautiful people," Sara bellowed, "every last one of them. Don't let her tell you otherwise, either. And please, ask grandma to leave me alone for a little while, please - just long enough to fall in love."
CHAPTER 6
WOMAN SEEKING MAN:
WANTED: Traditional, religious, dependable man. Sensitive in all respects. Intelligent and kind.
Over the next few days the emails kept pouring in. By the end of the week Sara had received sixty three, and at that point insisted that Cynthia and Greta come over. There was no way she could handle all these hungry hearts alone.
It was an icy evening. The snow that had been falling all week covered the streets and houses, bringing a sense of calm. The house felt bathed in a new serenity, as though the snow had washed all turbulence away. Cynthia and Greta came over after dinner, dressed in similar, cashmere sweaters and fitted wool pants. They seemed ready for anything.
Cynthia plopped a box of fresh cookies on the table. Greta opened the box, took a few cookies and removed the luxurious scarf she'd wound around her neck. Both women looked all combed and oiled, as if they'd been single their entire life. By now both had been dating a lot, dancing at night in different clubs with men who appeared momentarily and then disappeared as quickly. They seemed to take it all as it came.
Sara was interested in their changes, though she still avoided the clubs. She'd go in for a few minutes, put her foot in to test the water, and take off. It will be better another night, she'd tell herself, recognizing there were high tides and low tides in the strength of the human heart.
Sara brought out the printed emails, arranged in careful piles, each wrapped with a different color ribbon.
Greta laughed. "Ribbons and everything. It looks like we're in sixth grade."
Sara untied each ribbon carefully as she handed over different bunches. Inside each letter she could feel a wish, a promise waiting to be untied.
Cynthia tore one open right away. She began reading voraciously. Greta just sat there, hands in her lap, looking at them quietly.
"Do you want my opinion of this?" Cynthia asked.
"Sure."
"That's all you want, an opinion? Or do you expect me to call some of these guys up and go out with them?"
"Whatever you want."
"You're setting me up?" Cynthia didn't look happy.
"I'm sharing the answers."
"That's a weird way to put it," Cynthia said. "What do I need you to share a guy with me for? I'm out there all the time. Anyway,"
Greta grabbed another letter, skimmed it, threw it to the side.
&nb
sp; Sara reached for the letter, "Don't do that!"
"Open your eyes. There's brutality in this one. It's obvious. You can tell by the way he uses words. He said there's nothing to fear, three times in one paragraph. I learned a long time ago to read between the lines."
Sara was sorry she'd ever called them over, and began wishing they'd leave. "When did you learn that?" she asked skeptically.
"Before I knew you."
"You're so damn skeptical about everything, Greta," Cynthia turned on her.
"I think cautious is a better word," Greta stiffened.
The responses were having an odd effect on them all.
"Well, as for me," Sara said. "I don't dwell on phrases a guy uses, or make them mean something sinister."
"That's why you are where you are," Cynthia said. "Guys give signals right away. They're warnings, honey. Pay attention. This is deep ocean we're swimming in."
Greta sighed and held her palms to her temples after reading another letter.
"Maybe we should call it a night. They feel uncomfortable to me. Look at this one - this guy wants too much right away. It's overwhelming. He's got a huge list of what he wants in a woman, with Slim underlined ten times! He said no matter how many times he writes Slim, only the fat ones answer. How slim is slim for him? As far as I'm concerned, clubs are better. You come, you go. You see for yourself. They talk, you answer. You don't have to read a whole list of demands before they even say hello. Listen to this one:"
Dear Sunflower,
I want a woman who is lively, understanding, sexy, and caring. If she gives to me, I give to her. It's just that simple. Get it?
"He actually wrote that?" Cynthia couldn't believe it.
"I'm tired of having to be everything for everyone," Greta said, putting the letter down and walking to the table to take a few cookies. "I don't know if I can do that anymore, either. One evening at a time is enough for me."
The room had grown stuffy and they were all feeling it, Greta wiped perspiration from her forehead, running her hands slowly through her thick hair.
"Throw these letters away and come back to the parties. You've been hiding long enough," Cynthia growled. "What's the point of wading through mail, making thousands of phone calls and meeting one guy after another at some lousy diner? At the parties it happens fast."
"Never fast enough though, does it?" Greta asked.
Cynthia railed on. "For me it has to be fast, honey. I don't know about you, but my time is running out."
As Cynthia spoke, Sara pictured time running out, drifting away from them like a riptide in an ocean. For a startling moment the three of them seemed no more than sandpipers, momentarily stopping at the edge of the shore.
Cynthia stood up and smoothed her skirt.
"I'm not taking any of these guys, hon."
"Me either." Greta looked strange.Sara was surprised.
"I told you already," Cynthia went on, "if he doesn't look good, if his eyes don't meet mine boldly, well, I just don't have time."
"For now" said Greta, "it's enough for me to look terrific, go to the parties, dance a few dances, and go home alone."
Sara took the letters back. "As you like," she said, feeling the weight of all those wishes inside her arms.
* * * * *
Before long, everyone, including Tova, developed a fascination with the letters - what the men offered, what they wanted in return. Even Selma, Sara's sister started to call. They usually spoke about twice a year, around the Jewish holidays. have been extra; Sara had no idea why. The sound of Selma's voice grated Sara. She lived in
Minneapolis with a traditional husband, four daughters and two sons. She had luminous eyes, a tight hairdo and a discouraging smile. She loved looking for things she could disapprove of, even before Sara put in the ad.
"You'll never guess who this is?"
"Selma?" Sara asked.
"You got it."
"How come? It's not the holidays, there isn't a wedding. No one is having an operation, or about to die."
"I'll get right to the point: are you cracking up?"
Selma always expected the worse from Sara - and got it. But this time it didn't wash. Like sour milk, Sara wouldn't swallow it any longer.
Selma spoke at top speed. "Face it, Sara, you never were stable. You were born with funny ideas. I wasn't even really surprised when I heard Melvin left."
"Is this why you called?"
"It was always a problem, having a sister who didn't fit in."
"Fit into what?"
Selma lived by patterns that had been handed down for generations - rules, injunctions; she kept lists of deeds of merit. She was convinced that all the trouble in Sara's life came because she did not do the same.
"Listen to me, Sara. Is what you do working? Despite your friends and crazy pottery, is there Peace in your world?"
"Sometimes."
"Sometimes's not enough. I'm not calling about that anyway; I'm calling about mother. You're causing her a lot of grief - and in her old age."
"One person doesn't cause another grief," Sara bit her lip hard. It tasted warm and salty.
"According to who?"
"According to me. What would mom do if she didn't have something to worry about?" Sara felt like banging down the phone but was determined to win this bout of nerves.
"I never realized you were this cruel," Selma said.
"I'm not cruel, Selma. In fact, I'm unusually kind. Speaking the truth is real kindness."
"Very cruel. And you're causing me grief too. Every day mother calls and complains about you."
That surprised Sara.
"If you would only come to your senses," Selma continued, "if you would only calm down a little, turn back to God. . ."
Sara bit her lip harder, practically drawing fresh blood.
"I do turn to God," she thundered, "though it's no business of yours. I'm turned to God this very second."
"Really?" The sarcasm over the wire razed like a bolt of electricity.
Sara realized Selma was living in a dream, in which she assigned Sara a particular part. But it was time for Sara to dream her own dream. And her dream was full of wild colors intersecting each other, rich textures, movement that flew all over without regard for time or place. The wilder the better, Sara thought to herself. The crazier, funnier, zanier, the more her spirits soared.
"I can hear it over the phone - you're headed for a downfall," Selma predicted, profound gloom in her tone. "Someone put a curse on our family! You could stop it if you turned to God."
"I do turn to God," Sara repeated, "and you know what he told me? That Love is all that matters. Real Love, Selma! Understand?" Sara's hands were trembling.
"I always knew this would happen one day," Selma continued, "that you would stumble completely. If you don't know by now, what can I tell you? And the way you're upsetting mother - is that real love? If you want to know the truth, I don't care so much about what happens to you; but mother is another story. What about her diabetes? When she gets nervous, her sugar goes up. Is it love to push mother's sugar up?"
"Maybe mom needs some real love."
Sara could feel Selma's whole being recoil. For a second she felt as if she were standing alone on the edge of a craggy precipice, barely in balance, wind smacking her in the face.
Sara couldn't bear to hear any more. She just took the receiver and hung it up gently.
Sara felt so rattled after the conversation she grabbed the phone and called Camella, her psychic, who she hadn't seen in months. Camella was so famous you couldn't get an appointment with her for a year. She lived in a small house hidden in Yonkers. Sara knew she would see her at a moment's notice. They had a special connection and Sara'd been seeing her for years. By now they even looked a little like each other. Anyway, Sara was long overdue for an appointment. Surprisingly, Camella picked up herself at the first ring.
"It's Sara," she breathed.
"I know," Camella said, her voice gravelly. "You're overd
ue."
"I'm sorry."
"Come right now," Camella said.
Sara was taken aback.
"I just got a cancellation. The spot's waiting for you."
"Oh God, thanks."
Sara grabbed her car keys, leaving a quick note for Berta on the kitchen table, Forget the laundry today. The sink is stopped up in the upstairs bathroom. Joe will be in to fix it later on. Leave the kitchen door open for him. She knew Berta would pay no attention to her instructions, probably spend most of the day in the laundry room. She wrote the note anyway, then flew out of the house, got into her car and drove to Yonkers. The day was overcast, and her car wound through the narrow streets, lined with small houses packed close to each other.
Sara parked in front of Camella's narrow, clapboard house and walked up the shaky steps to the front door. A huge wreath from Christmas was still on it. As always, Sara knocked four times, undid the latch behind the screen door and let herself in.
Camella's huge parrot, Horace, awake in his cage, fluttered as she walked in. Camella spent all her free time teaching him to talk. Sara disliked the huge parrot, who always commented miserably on everything. She thought Horace disliked her too.
"What the hell you expect today?" he cawed as she walked in.
"Don't pay any attention, sweetheart," Camella yelled from behind a swinging door. "He's been in a foul mood since last night. Go into the kitchen. I'll be in a second. Happy New Year."
"Happy New Year," Sara called back.
"You think it's that easy, jerk?" Horace bellowed.
Sara walked into Camella's kitchen which was small, cluttered, and painted shiny blue. A round, wrought-iron table sat in the corner surrounded by two, shaky chairs. It was covered with piles of legal pads and stacks of newly sharpened pencils. Over the table hung a glossy portrait of Mother Mary and over the sink were wrought-iron shelves filled with statues of saints, candles and assorted paraphernalia. Except for a big, electric pot of coffee that was always plugged in, Sara could not imagine anyone ever cooking in this kitchen.
Searching for the One Page 6
