But that first day with Lexy, I found I had plenty to say. Waiting in line to congratulate the bride and groom, radiant now in their own faces, for they had taken off their masks to kiss after all, I chatted with the other guests, happily introducing Lexy as the one who had made all the day’s magic possible.
By the time we got through the receiving line, it was as if we were already a couple. As word spread that Lexy was the creator of the masks, a crowd formed around us, encircling us with such admiration and excitement that anyone looking on might have thought that we, and not Brittany and Todd, were the newlyweds. With my hand resting on the small of Lexy’s back, I took on the role of proud partner and promoter, bragging about her work and allowing her to play the humble artist, basking shyly in the praise. Flushed and smiling, she answered questions about technique and inspiration and gave her business card to those who asked for it, art collectors and fairy-tale enthusiasts and people who liked to throw elaborate Halloween parties.
As the crowd around us thinned, Lexy squeezed my arm. “Thanks,” she said. “You’re good at that.”
“Thanks,” I said. “But I should tell you, I’m not usually so suave. It must be the mask.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” she said. “You were pretty suave with the square eggs. Those square eggs swept me off my feet.”
“I’ll bet those words have never been spoken before, in all the centuries of human language.”
“Here’s another one: ‘Why don’t you help me get this dog off my face so you can kiss me?’”
“Oh, I’m sure someone must’ve used that line before,” I said. “In fact, I believe it appeared in the first draft of the balcony scene from Romeo and Juliet.”
But she was already kissing me.
“Let’s get out of here,” I said when we pulled apart.
“Very suave,” she said. Hand in hand, we walked through the grass, past the crowds of dragons and princesses holding champagne flutes, of bunny rabbits dancing with demons, back to the real world of the car and the tall grass and the long, dusty road.
“So where to?” I asked Lexy, once we were settled in the car. “Maybe something more first-datey? Dinner, a movie, awkward conversation at a coffeehouse?”
She leaned back against the headrest, seeming to examine the ceiling. “Hmm,” she said. “Let’s see. Have you ever been to Disney World?”
“Disney World,” I repeated. I should mention here that we were somewhere in suburban Virginia. Still, I pretended to consider it. “No, I can’t say that I have.”
Of course I hadn’t been to Disney World. Disney World, the one in Florida, didn’t even exist when I was a kid—I think I was fifteen or sixteen when it opened—and in any case, my parents never had enough money to take us on extravagant vacations. And as an adult, it had never occurred to me. When Maura and I went away, it was to cities—London, Rome, Athens. We both had a taste for ruins. Maura liked vacations that could be meted out into days just full enough and meals just sophisticated enough to leave us tired and sated when we returned to our hotel at night. On our honeymoon, we went to a Caribbean resort, and the sandy, sunny emptiness of each day drove her nearly crazy. We’d settle on the beach with a book for me and a straw bag full of novels, magazines, and crossword puzzles for her, and within twenty minutes, she’d get up to take a walk in the sand, dip herself briefly in the ocean, and retreat into the air-conditioning to have a piña colada in the dark bar, ignoring the man in the flowered shirt who hovered near us on the beach for the very purpose of bringing us frothy drinks. I knew without asking that the idea of spinning around in a giant teacup and shaking hands with a grown-up dressed up as a mouse would not have appealed to her. So, no, I had never been to Disney World.
Lexy turned to me with real excitement in her face. “Really?” she asked. “Well, we have to go. Now, tonight.”
“Tonight it is,” I said, playing along. “But maybe we should get something to eat first.”
“Well, we can stop,” she said, “but we’ll have to leave after the appetizers.”
“Why?”
“Because if we finish dinner, then the date will be over.”
“Why is that?”
“Well, come on. We’ve already gone to a wedding. Once we’ve gone out to dinner, how much more could we reasonably expect to do? It’s only the first date, after all.”
“Okay,” I said. “And if the date were over, then we couldn’t go to Disney World because . . . ?”
She rolled her eyes. “Because that’d just be crazy. We don’t even know each other, and we’re taking off on a trip together? That’s nuts. But if we decide that Disney World is the perfect place to go on our first date—and I believe it is—then we’ll have a story to tell for the rest of our lives.”
“You’re serious, aren’t you?” I asked.
“Of course.” Her face was flushed with excitement. “Look, it’s spring break, right, so you don’t have any classes to teach. What were you planning to do with yourself for the next week?”
“Well, I have some papers to grade. And I was thinking about defrosting my refrigerator.”
“Oh, yeah, you need a trip to Disney World.”
I couldn’t believe I was considering this. “What about your dog?” I asked.
“I have a neighbor I can call.”
“What about clothes?”
She looked me up and down, appraising my khakis and button-down shirt.
“That’ll do until we get there,” she said. “Then we can get you a Mickey Mouse shirt. Or, no, not Mickey—Eeyore. That’s who you remind me of. We’ll find you an Eeyore shirt.”
“Eeyore?” I asked. I scanned my memory of children’s literature. “The sad donkey? That’s who I remind you of?”
“Yup. But in a good way.”
We stopped at an Italian place we saw on our way back to the highway. I guess I still thought she was going to call it off, but when we walked in, she excused herself to use the pay phone. When she came back to the table, she announced that everything was all set with her neighbor; he had agreed to take care of Lorelei while she was gone. I examined the menu. I was starving, and the entrées looked great. “Just appetizers?” I asked.
She nodded. “Doesn’t sound very satisfying, does it?” She looked discouraged. Suddenly, I wanted to make this work for her, this whole crazy plan.
“Well, no one said we can only get one apiece,” I said. I looked at the list of appetizers. “There’s enough here to make a meal from. We can share some bruschetta and that mozzarella salad. And look—it says here that you can get a half order of pasta. I think sharing is the important part. No one ever shares entrées, but everyone shares appetizers.”
She looked at me and smiled. “Now you’re getting into it,” she said. “But I think we’re also going to need some of those mussels. Is that too much?”
I shook my head. “It’s perfect,” I said. “Perfect.”
And an hour later, we were in the car, stuffed and happy, heading south.
“So do you take all your dates to Disney World?” I asked. We’d been in the car a half hour or so and had reached a lull in the conversation. I was feeling strangely calm, given my cautious character and the enormity of this adventure I had agreed to undertake.
“No,” she said. “But I do like to take people where they need to go.”
“And why exactly do I need to go to Disney World?”
“Oh, just a feeling I have. Something about your sad Eeyore eyes and the papers you have to grade. I don’t know what your ex-wife was like—and I’m not asking, that’s just not good date conversation—but I bet she never would have taken you to Disney World.”
“Well, you’re right there.” I was silent for a moment. “But what about you? Why don’t we go someplace you need to go?”
“Oh, I’ve been to most of those places already. Anyway, I never know where I need to be until I get there.”
“Wow,” I said. “That sounds very deep.”
&n
bsp; “Well, then,” she said. “It’s time to play a word game.”
We played games, off and on, all through the night. By four A.M., we were somewhere in South Carolina. We’d been driving for seven hours. I was getting sleepy.
“I don’t think I can go much farther,” I said. “Do you feel awake enough to drive, or should we find someplace to stop?”
“I can drive for a while,” she said. “I’m a night person. Plus, I dozed a little earlier. Let’s just get me some coffee.”
We pulled off at the next exit. We found a gas station with an all-night convenience store, and while Lexy went in for coffee, I climbed over to the passenger side and put the seat back as far as it would go. As I eased myself into the softness of the seat, I thought for a moment, This is exactly where I want to be. I was asleep before she got back to the car.
I awoke to find a small girl peering at me through the window. I stirred a little and found that it was daylight, and we were in a rest stop parking lot. Lexy wasn’t in the seat beside me; I turned and saw that she had crawled into the backseat and curled into a ball.
I looked again at the girl standing by my window. “Mommy, there’s a man sleeping in there,” I heard her say.
Without sitting up, I raised my hand and waved.
“He just waved at me,” she said, her voice filled with horrified delight.
“Get away from there, April,” her mother said. “Come on, this is just a quick potty break.”
“But shouldn’t I wave back?” the girl asked.
“No. Don’t wave at strangers. It’s a bad thing to do.”
I heard Lexy move in the backseat. “Don’t wave at strangers,” she said sleepily. “I love how parents make up the rules as they go along.”
“Yeah,” I said. “She’s going to grow up with some sort of strange waving complex.” I watched as the girl and her mother walked across the parking lot toward the concrete octagon containing the rest rooms. Without turning back toward me, the girl stretched her hand out behind her and gave a small, secret wave, then skipped on ahead toward the building.
I laughed. “I take it back,” I said. “She knows what’s going on.”
I looked at the clock. It was nine A.M. “How long have we been here?” I asked.
She pulled herself into a sitting position and stretched her arms. “Since about seven,” she said. “I needed a break.”
“Any idea where we are?” I asked.
“Somewhere near Savannah, I think. Come on, let’s stretch our legs and then go get some breakfast.”
We went to freshen up in the rest stop bathrooms. I splashed some water on my face and looked at myself in the mirror. I was unshaven and my skin was creased from the fabric of the car seat, but I saw something in my face that I hadn’t seen in a long time. I looked relaxed, and happy. At peace. There was a small, easy smile on my lips. I felt exuberant, I felt the day stretched before me, filled with promise. I couldn’t wait to spend it with Lexy. I straightened my clothes and walked out into the sunshine to take my place among the husbands and boyfriends waiting for their women to come out of the bathroom.
Breakfast, which we ate at a roadside coffee shop, presented some problems. As we slid into the booth, Lexy said, “I think we’re going to need to establish some ground rules here. About eating.”
It took me a minute, but I finally got it. “Oh,” I said. “You mean, so we don’t accidentally end our date somewhere on I-95.”
“Right,” she said. “I’d hate to see it end here at the Waffle House.”
I scanned the menu. “Well,” I said, “there aren’t exactly any appetizers, but there’s a whole list of side dishes.”
“That’s good,” she said. “It’s kind of a paradox, isn’t it? What is a side dish if it’s not served on the side of anything? Does it become something else?”
“It’s a regular Zen koan,” I said. “I think I need some coffee before I can tackle that one.”
We had a crazy meal, grapefruit sections and sausages, bananas sliced in cream and pieces of rye toast. On our way out, we bought a map; we were about two hundred eighty miles from Orlando. I was amazed to see how far we had already come.
All through that day with Lexy, that sleepy, sunny day, I couldn’t seem to stop talking. The miracle of it is still so fresh in my mind, the strangeness she brought into my life almost from the moment we met. I felt as if, after a lifetime of listening, of parsing sentences and analyzing word choices without ever opening my mouth, I was having a conversation for the first time. When the day grew hotter and Lexy closed her eyes and slept in the light of the sun coming through the windshield, my mind was quick with questions I wanted to ask and stories I wanted to tell, and when we switched places and I slept for a while, I awoke with new words on my lips. By the time we reached Orlando, she knew most of what I had to say. She knew that I had grown up in New Hampshire, where my father worked in a slaughterhouse and came home smelling of blood. She knew that I spent a summer working in a mattress factory, where I once saw a man jump down the elevator shaft looking for a lost pencil, catch an elevator on his back, and live. I told her the name of the first girl I ever kissed. I told her things I hadn’t thought about in years.
Somehow, the subject of dreams came up. Lexy told me that she had kept a book of her dreams by her bed since she was a child and that she wrote each new one down as soon as she awoke. She sometimes thought, she said, that to read this book was to know everything about her, all of her fears and strange wishes, all of the places she could not go when she was awake. One night, when she was no more than four or five, she told me, she met a king who yelled at her for hiding behind his throne. Another night, when she was twelve, she found herself naked at one of her mother’s dinner parties. She told me her dreams, the most vivid ones, the ones that still came back on occasion and made her catch her breath, in a list, offering me her life in small pieces. She crawled through a basement on her hands and knees. She saw a horse cut apart until it was no more than a pile of bloody pieces, but still it lived and breathed and looked at her with one wide eye. She gave birth to a baby, but there had been no father. She fell from a great height. Her name changed from day to day. She planted a garden in her bed and awoke to find lush roses and daisies and ivy tendrils wrapped snug around her body. She wandered through a mansion, and her mouth was filled with broken glass. She swam underwater all the way to England without having to take a breath. Her arms grew long and her legs grew short. She visited an ice cream shop and ordered a flavor called Fury. The ice cream was greenish-red, cold and strong and meaty; even now, she could remember its taste. She told me how, once, her teeth had fallen out one by one, and how, another time, she had had the strength to lift a man over her head. She got married in a cathedral whose walls collapsed before she could meet her groom. Wild dogs chased her through a field. A horrible rash covered her from head to toe. She walked barefoot through the streets and grass sprang up before her. She was being chased but could not move. A swarm of butterflies landed all over her body.
The day was warm, and we drove with the windows open. Breeze on my arms as I drove. Savor it now, the day, the breeze. Run the memory of it over your tongue. Speak it aloud; there’s no one listening. Say “sun” and “hot” and “day.” Close your eyes and remember the moment, the warm pink life of it. Lexy’s body in the seat next to mine. Her voice filling the car. Let it wash over you. It ends soon enough.
EIGHT
I have heard that sometimes when a person has an operation to transplant someone else’s heart or liver or kidney into his body, his tastes in foods change, or his favorite colors, as if the organ has brought with it some memory of its life before, as if it holds within it a whole past that must find a place within its new host. This is the way I carry Lexy inside me. Since the moment she took up residency within me, she has lent her own color to the way I see and hear and taste, so that by now I can barely distinguish between the world as it seemed before and the way it seems now. I cannot sa
y what air tasted like before I knew her or how the city smelled as I walked its streets at night. I have only one tongue in my head and one pair of eyes, and I stopped being able to trust them a long time ago. There’s nothing new I can say about Disney World, nothing you haven’t already heard or seen for yourself. All I can tell you is that I was there with Lexy.
We pulled into the parking lot of the Magic Kingdom about four-thirty that afternoon. I had suggested we find a hotel before making our way to the park—this was a popular vacation week, and I was a little worried about finding a place that had vacancies—but Lexy insisted.
“This is the best time,” she said. “All the kids who have been here all day are getting cranky and leaving to take naps and have dinner. The lines are much shorter, and it’s starting to get cooler.”
“You’re the expert,” I said.
The closer we got to the park, the more excited she got. She talked in a rush, filling me in on all the unwritten rules she’d learned from a lifetime of Disney entertainment. “But the big rides, like Space Mountain, the ones with the really long lines, we don’t go on those until the Electric Light Parade starts.”
“Don’t we want to see the parade?” I asked.
“Not when there’s no one in line at Space Mountain.”
We parked in the Goofy lot, took the tram to the ticket gate and the monorail from the ticket gate to the park. I have to admit, I was getting excited, too.
“So where to?” I asked when we finally reached the park proper.
“It’s a Small World,” she said. “You’ll love it. It’s naive but well intentioned.”
The Dogs of Babel Page 4
