by Anna Shapiro
LIVING on AIR
ALSO BY THE AUTHOR
FICTION
The Right Bitch
Life and Love, Such as They Are
NON-FICTION
A Feast of Words
LIVING on AIR
a novel
ANNA
SHAPIRO
Copyright © 2006 by Anna Shapiro
All rights reserved
Published by
Soho Press, Inc.
853 Broadway
New York, N.Y. 10003
Lyrics of “Somebody’s Gonna Miss Me” by Mark Spoelstra
used by permission of Markstra Music, copyright © 2005.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Shapiro, Anna.
Living on air : a novel / Anna Shapiro.
p. cm.
ISBN 1-56947-431-1
1. Teenage girls—Fiction. 2. Levittown (N.Y.)—Fiction.
3. Identity (psychology)—Fiction.
I. Title.
PS3569.H3383L58 2006
813'.54—dc22
2005056240
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 21
Designed by India Amos
Table of Contents
Author’s Note
Part I
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Part II
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Part III
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Part IV
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Acknowledgements
AUTHOR’S NOTE
My father was an artist, but my father is not Milt. I understand why people who didn’t know my father would be tempted to think so, but no one who knew him could: the character and the man are as different as they could be, both in their aesthetic and childrearing practices. Neither is Nina my mother (though I wished my own had long braids), nor Maude me. Or they’re all me. Of my friends, none is Weesie. Of boyfriends, none was Danny. I have no brother. If, however, people I’ve never met feel that they recognize something of themselves in my characters, then fiction is doing its job.
PART I
1.
ONLY ONCE, WHEN she was very little, he asked her to pose for him—asked her to be part of that endless source of their pride and distinction, his art. She stayed in the specified spot on the studio floor, where she sat listening to the scratching of his brush against the canvas and watching his legs in a color-splotched chinoed dance as he leaned to this or that part of the easel, stepped to the side for a more piercing look at her, stepped forward, back.
The rough plywood of the floor made her shiver with aversion. Through the plain sheet of glass that formed the north wall, she could see the neighborhood children below—her best friend wheeling on a tricycle; a toddler in dumb amazement watching two boys in striped tee shirts tussling on the grass—and hear their faint calls and taunts. Then the twelve o’clock whistle blew and they threw down their bikes and toys and disappeared, the toddler dragged off by his puffy fist. The scritch-scratching of the brush went on, as did Maude’s high sense of mission. A symphony began playing dimly on the classical music station.
“Can I look?”
“Just a minute. Just another minute. Sit still.”
It was more than a minute before she was allowed to stand to see herself revealed.
But the image on the canvas was indecipherable, as in all his pictures—not an image at all. A bunch of bristly black lines.
Seeing the disorder of her face, he pulled out of his customary dreamy, helpless self-absorption. Years later, he would recognize this expression of hers when he stopped on a country road and called to some cattle grazing by its side: rolling their heads away to look at him as if the sight were too horrible to bear head-on. It was a look of pure distrust. He should have explained to her he just needed her perpendiculars; he just needed a human proportion: she was simply the one available. She should have known, he felt. She knew his work.
Even if she were capable of knowing, however, there was a picture he had done in art school that looked exactly like him, and there were shaded renderings of naked ladies carefully referred to as models or nudes, as if it made them less naked, tossed on the dustheap of history under the studio eaves, where she played. “It doesn’t look like me, Daddy.”
“It’s an abstraction, sweetie.”
She was three.
That look. It was the end of something. Neither of them knew what. Within a year, she had decided she would be an artist; she would deliver what Milt so rejectingly refused. In the meantime, they stood, the half-irascible, half indifferent 1950s daddy, the mollusklike little girl—not in being happy as a clam but in her self-protectiveness and knowledge that whatever she felt, short of cheerful acquiescence, was unwelcome where Daddy was concerned—as, she felt, was she. Her big dark eyes fixed on him as some kind of danger to herself, as if he canceled her out. If she moved just as carefully as she’d stayed still to pose, she’d be okay.
2.
YOU’RE SO LUCKY. That’s so cool. An artist!”
Everything was different at her paradise of a new school except this attitude, it seemed: whether the urchins of plumbers and line workers of her elementary school or these bright, cosseted teenagers, people were either awestricken or spitefully jealous about the artist in the family— though here the balance shifted, and both the awe and spite were tempered by sophistication and privilege. Not in Weesie’s case, however. All the fathers Weesie knew were lawyers or businessmen or didn’t bother having jobs, they had so much money. For both girls, being able to make art seemed more valuable than making money, though to each, it was the other who came from an exotic, unknown world.
“It’s not such a big deal. He’s just your typical failure,” said Maude, who knew nothing about it but was at the age where it felt important to seem to. She felt all the danger of disloyalty and a strange relief. She had never said it, dared it to its face before: failure.
“But he’s a professional. He’s had shows and stuff.”
“Oh, yeah,” said Maude, flipping some hair back over her shoulder. Family pride took over, and she named his gallery, which was a good one, if not the best— Madison Avenue, not 57th Street. But the gallery had closed a few years before. It was the family outrage, recited in set form like Homeric epithets, that his single one-man show there had not drawn a review in The New York Times. “But it’s not as if he, you know, makes his living by it. He teaches.”
“Where?”
There were universities where an artist could teach and feel good about it.
“Out of his studio,” said Maude. In the afternoons, children from their subdivision trooped in for lessons; in the evening, housewives.
But Weesie said, “I’d really like to see his, you know, ‘work.’” She had a way of putting words into aural quotes that Maude greatly admired. She seemed always to be implying a great, high distance between herself and anything ordinary, including, in this case, her own
well-meaning curiosity or the conventions governing art terminology.
Maude, aping the ironic style, said, “‘It can be arranged.’”
The way it was arranged was that, instead of their taking the school van that delivered children who weren’t picked up or didn’t yet have their own cars, they both went in the car that came for Weesie every day, but which this time offered its suave tinted presence to the strip development along Hempstead Avenue and delivered itself to the astounded precincts of the Pughs’ development, nosing among the Fords and Chevys.
“I’ve never been in a chauffeured car.”
“Ernie’s not a chauffeur,” said Weesie, trying to minimize her family’s humiliating wealth. “It’s just a livery car.”
Not that Maude knew what that was. Weesie, for her part, was embarrassed that anyone would attribute to her family so much side.
“I have to warn you,” said Maude as they purred along.
Weesie, who knew from the name, Levittown, that this was not the Long Island she had grown up in— not the estates of the North Shore but the ugly rash of new houses that her mother moaned about but that her father said were good for labor— thought Maude was going to make an excuse for where she lived, an unnecessary apology, and was set to forestall it. So she was surprised.
“The whole house is black.”
“Black?”
“The walls are black. It ‘brings out the colors.’ In the pictures.” Maude rolled her eyes. It was as if Milt’s art were like Weesie’s own father’s piles of money— gross. But Maude intended to be an artist too, whereas Weesie intended to be poor, if at all possible. Maude’s eyes were dark as Niçoise olives, dark like the hair in a straight bang above them and dangling in back over her belt.
“Not your room.” Even Weesie thought a black bedroom a bit much.
“Oh yeah. I used to beg, beg them to paint it yellow. They promised . . .”
“What?”
“If I would keep it neat for a month, they’d paint it.” Maude looked away, out the tinted window that mercifully subdued the Dunkin’ Donuts, the modeled figures of a ship-shaped restaurant called The Jolly Roger, the car dealerships, the garish colors, the Esso station, and dimmed as well the lovely red Pegasus, inside a circle, of the Flying A.
“But you couldn’t?”
Maude turned back. “It’s been completely neat for about the last eleven years.” She seemed to remember the gift and relief of Weesie’s distancing abilities: “Wait till you see. Even the floor! There’s gray carpeting in the living room, but everywhere else, it’s this black, I’m not kidding. Even the kitchen. We even have a black couch.”
“Maude, you just don’t appreciate how lucky you are.” This would always be Weesie’s note.
The house, when they pulled up to it, not only did not look like anything special; it looked exactly like all the houses that stretched away down the calculatedly curved street in one direction and up it in the other and at precisely equal intervals across the street. Boxy little houses with peaked roofs, each with the same apple tree in front and the same reddish pricker bush, as the neighborhood children called them, at the side of the walk. It was, famously, the town where children coming home from school went into the wrong house, indistinguishable by them from their own. One of the first explosions of mass-produced housing after the war and the biggest such ever. To Milton Pugh, it represented a realization, or at least a stab at the realization, of Bauhaus principles— perhaps not better living through design, exactly, but rationalization of the distribution of the world’s goods through the intelligent application of technologies created for other purposes. To most adults with his kind of knowledge or discernment, it represented an aesthetic abomination.
As they left the car, Weesie took in this effect of patterned sameness, which was softened by trees that had had fifteen or twenty years by this time to grow, and also by years of owner diversification— the closed-in stoop next door, dark ugly siding on the other side, the Pughs’ distinctive half-story, where the slope of the roof had been cut by the vertical glass of Milton’s studio. He was visible in the picture window, like a mannequin on display, doing the dance of art in front of his easel, stopping to frown with a hand on his hip; noticing them coming up the cracking cement walk, smiling down with a little wave.
Weesie thought he must be the handsomest father she’d ever seen. Or if not the handsomest, the sexiest. The most romantic.
What Maude had said was true, she saw: the pink front door opened into a black kitchen with the black living room beyond. A cramped black kitchen, in which a tiny, timorous mother hovered behind the strict blond table and strict, square, bright-red chairs. The mother quavered greetings and offerings while trying to peer to see the fancy car her daughter had warned her would be coming.
Milton boomed down the stairs into the living room. Maude dutifully advanced to introduce her friend, passing the white brick chimney that stood like a column, containing the modernistic fireplace that was the centerpiece of all these houses; the rooms were otherwise open space, defined only by where the gray carpeting ended. Milton was silhouetted against the other glass wall, of the living room at the back of the house, which faced an undeveloped field, and into which redwinged blackbirds regularly pitched themselves and died.
Weesie didn’t know if she was more dazzled by the artist, so tall, so stalky, with his leonine white mane and prominent Adam’s apple, or by the small, square canvases pulsating off walls whose darkness made their distance or even palpability strangely hard to gauge. Even the furniture seemed to float in this space—an amoeba-shaped armchair in chartreuse, square pillows in yellow, electric blue, purple, magenta; and big glass ashtrays, one in clear, thick slabs, another that looked like hard candies pressed together, into which the artist dripped ash.
Milton was responding to Weesie’s stammering compliments. The house was like being inside a picture, she said. “Nah. I’d like to junk it all, build everything in. Not a stick of movable furniture, not an inch of waste. All builtins. And you’d have storage.” He put his hands on his belt, looking around with a satisfaction that suggested his vision had already been accomplished, as if the acts of imagining and creating were one and the same.
Though her father’s plan appealed to her in its utopian efficiency and cleanness, Maude said, “Sounds cozy, doesn’t it?” Because wouldn’t he, if he could, obliterate any aspect of her inconvenient to him? All that was about her; all but the straight lines.
Milton smiled. A thin, angry smile. “Where does she get this? Not from her mother. She’s so caustic! And she was such a sweet little girl.” He squeezed Maude’s cheeks between two flat, green-splotched palms. She deliberately let her lips go slack to look like a fish.
“Ach.” He waved a hand in disgust. “You girls go off and share your secrets. Come up to the studio later if you have time for an old man.” Milton was forty-five. He picked up a copy of Life from the coffee table, which was like a long shutter with rattley dowels where slats would be, and moodily leafed through pictures of mutilated Vietnamese civilians, ash dangling from the butt on his lip like the phantom of a cigarette.
“Ta-dah,” said Maude at the end of the dark hall off the kitchen, throwing wide the door.
Her bedroom really was black—but, again, it reminded Weesie of Mr. Pugh’s strict, bright paintings. There were two square little dressers, side by side, vivid yellow. Curtains of thick orange cotton, though the windows were squinty things high up in a corner, as if trying to huddle out of sight. The bedcover was turquoise corduroy. The floor was black linoleum tile, seafoam patterned, as in the rest of the house. Cheap looking, but she had to admire the discipline of the whole thing, the Josef Albers ishness of it. Weesie had heard of Josef Albers. She had seen his endless reworkings of color-within-color like square targets.
“Do you really hate it so much? Living inside a painting.”
“That’s really funny.” Maude told her about posing for her father. “I’m inside the
painting, but I’m the one thing that isn’t there. Where do I fit inside this painting? Look.” Maude dramatically swept open the gray louvered sliding door of the closet that covered one wall. Inside was a different world. A miniature world. Clearly, Maude had saved every toy and doll she’d ever had, and there they all were, on gray shelves that reached the bar meant for clothes. Eyeless teddy bears with the fuzz worn off, a dented tin train, its curved segments of track in a neat pile; dozens of Golden Books, along with Madeline, Eloise, and dilapidated editions of Pooh books that turned out to have been Mrs. Pugh’s in the twenties. Not only were there a repellently cheerful hard-bodied rubber baby doll, with outstretched arms and molded hair, and a kind of older sister, like Chatty Cathy, adapted from a bride doll, but they had both been dressed in clothes that must have been home made for them: genteel pin-afores and long skirts and satin bows, as if they were Victorian porcelain dolls in the Museum of the City of New York. Even the Barbies wore long calico dresses, like extras on Wagon Train, or the latest thing in mod that could also be seen in the current Life. For the Barbies there was a carved canopy bed and teensy cast-iron woodstove. Weesie opened its oven door: twigs had been broken up to simulate firewood. Maude had piled a handful of gravel into a tiny coal bucket.
“There’s this line in Emily Dickinson,” said Maude. “ ‘Life is over there—Behind the Shelf.’ ” She shook her head. Her face looked the same, but something disappeared inside it, as though she felt she must retract what she had revealed; as if she could slide a door over herself the way she could close the closet.
Almost too impressed, and too enviously impressed, with this new acquaintance’s casually rich cultivation and precocity, precisely because it was like her own, Weesie nevertheless felt a wave of depression that she recognized as being not hers. She felt it like a contagion. She knew this kind of private desolation, though her circumstances were so different. They were sitting on the chilly black seafoam floor, leaning on two baby-size stools knocked together out of boards by Maude’s father and painted shiny red, long since scratched and chipped.
