I pull them out, spread them over the bed, look at them. At myself, but not me, a being of light and shadow, luminous promise. He is such a genius with light, I think again, seeing the way the bars of sunlight caught in my hair, making small bursts of stars seem to glitter there. In another, the half-moon shape of my small breast is the only curve of light in heavier shadows, echoed by the curve of a cheekbone.
Who is this woman?
I’m drawn to my window, lift the curtain to Angel’s kitchen window. The light is on. I press my forehead against the cold glass, and my breath condenses in a circle. It draws my attention, and I draw in it as I have not done in many many years. I draw a heart. I don’t know what initials to put in there, so I just put my own, GOM, Gertrude O’Neal Marino.
Angel moves into the window. He stands there, looking up at me, then leans into the glass and presses his lips against it. I laugh, and put my palm against my own window. He is so beautiful. I loved his making love to me. But I don’t feel any rush to go down there and throw myself at him. This creeping sadness has nothing to do with ending a brief love affair with a man who healed a lot of fissures in my soul, my psyche, my ego.
I look back to the photographs and wonder what Rick would see in them. I can’t imagine hiding them forever, but what man would like such sensual pictures of his wife taken in postcoital glow by another man? I laugh to myself. But I have given Angel permission to sell them, display them, whatever he wants. They’re artful and not at all lewd, and truth be told, I’m fairly delighted to look so hot at forty-six.
The door slams below and Colin calls out, “Mom?”
“Damn.” I dive for the pictures, gather them up, a dozen eight-by-tens, trying to do it carefully and quickly. “Up here!” I say when I’ve got them safely in a stack. There isn’t time to get them in the envelope, so I dash to my dresser, put them down, and pull the scarf over them.
He shows up at the door with a Mountain Dew in his hand. “Whatcha doing?”
“Just straightening up. How was your night?”
He plops down in the chair where Lucille sat that first night I broke my arm. “Kinda weird, to tell you the truth. We don’t really have a lot in common anymore.”
“That happens, I’m afraid.” I settle on the bed, prop my head on my elbow. “There might be one or two of them that you’ll want to know twenty years from now, but not many.”
“Do you know anyone from high school?”
I snort. “Not hardly. I couldn’t get out of there fast enough. Like you and Pueblo.”
“I don’t see how Pueblo is that much better than Clovis, frankly.”
“It is, though. A lot different.”
He leans on his knees. “But, Mom, this wasn’t exactly what you had in mind when you left, was it?”
“No,” I say honestly. “Sometimes life can turn out okay anyway, though.”
“Why haven’t you ever gone back to finish your master’s?”
“Haven’t really had time. Kids, you know.” I smile.
He meets my eyes. “It’s time, Mom.”
I sit up. “Is it? Three days ago, you and your sister plotted to get me and your dad back together. Tonight you’re telling me to go back and get my master’s, even though—” I cut it off. Clamp my mouth down. Inappropriate.
“Even though going back to school caused trouble between you and him?”
“I don’t want to talk about this, Colin. A marriage is a very personal thing.”
Stung, he leans back. “Sorry. I was just trying to help.” Mutinously, he raises those extraordinary eyes. “Where there’s a will, there’s a way, you know. I think it’s sad that you left all that behind.”
The easy tears of earlier come back before I can stop them, and it’s aggravating. It must be PMS or something. I lower my eyes, but Colin sees.
“You really want to, don’t you?”
I nod. I think of my ticket to Seville, propped up by the computer, waiting for me to cancel it. Quietly, I recite, “ ‘Chove en Santiago, na noite escura. Herbas de prata e de sono cobren a valeira lúa.’ ”
“That’s beautiful. What does it mean?”
“ ‘It rains in Santiago in the dark night. Grasses of silver and of sleep cover the empty moon.’ ” I open my eyes. “Isn’t it beautiful?
“Mom, you always told us to do what we love. You told us, so many times, that you have to spend so much of your life working that it’s the one big thing you can do for yourself.” He leans forward, so young and idealistic. “Why aren’t you doing it?”
I blink. “I don’t know.”
January
SPIDER WOMAN
According to mythology, Spider Woman spun two silver strands, one connecting east to west, the other north to south. This connected the four corners of the earth, with Spider Woman as the centre. (The strands created the Road of Life in the Hopi tradition, which has as its symbol the equal-armed cross.)
In her aspect as Creator and Mother, Spider Woman affirms that women are essential and central to the life process. She reminds us that people of all races were created from the same source, with equal rights and responsibilities.
—www.goddess.com.au
I am my beloved’s, and his desire is toward me. Come, my beloved, let us go forth into the field; let us lodge in the villages. Let us get up early to the vineyards; let us see if the vine flourish, whether the tender grape appear, and the pomegranates bud forth: there will I give thee my loves.
SONG OF SOLOMON 7:10–12
40
ROBERTA
January 2, 20—
Dear Harriet,
Just a quick note this morning to thank you properly for the beautiful scarf and gloves you sent me for Christmas. They’re beautiful, and I’ll enjoy wearing them.
Love,
Berta
WOMEN IN BOXING
Matches between male and female were approved in November of 1982—After the legality of boxing matches between women and men was argued by the American Civil Liberties Union, the California Athletic Commission voted to approve professional boxing matches between the sexes effective immediately. DON FRASER, the commission’s executive officer said that they had no recourse but to approve it.
41
JADE
Sunday morning after New Year’s, Rueben calls very early. “good morning,” he says in a hearty voice. “Y’all going to church?”
“Yes.” I make the word short as my temper. I have not seen him or talked to him in a week.
“Mind if I come along?”
“I guess not.” I glance over my shoulder at my grandmother, and her weary face gives me pause. “Why don’t you come to lunch here afterward, too.” I lower the receiver a little, so Rueben can hear why I’m asking him. Grandmama needs this man to cook for. “G’mama, that be okay? Rueben can come to lunch?”
“I ain’t got nothing to cook right,” she says.
“I’ll cook. You can just sit back and relax.”
“That’d be okay, I reckon.”
On the other end of the line, Rueben says, “Not doing too good, huh?”
“No.”
“I’m ready. I’ll come over and we can get her cheered up.”
My exasperation comes back. “Rueben, what do …”
“What?”
“Nothing. Never mind.”
“You want to know where I been.”
“Bingo.”
A small quiet. “Trying to be good.”
“Whatever.”
“We’ll talk later, Jade. I do have a surprise for you. I’ll be there in a little while.”
I was going to wear a plain Sunday school dress, but now I rush back to my room and change into a long black sweaterdress. It has a turtleneck and comes to the middle of my calves, but with a silver belt, it looks hot. I put on some swinging silver earrings to go with it, and a big African bracelet. When I go back to the living room, Grandmama is still just sitting there, doing nothing, not even drinking her coffee. She
’s dressed except for her shoes and hair, which is sticking up nine ways to Sunday.
“C’mon, Gram, let me do your hair.” I have to put my hands on her shoulders and nudge her to a standing position. She comes along, limping because her knee is swollen. “Here you go. Sit down on the toilet and let me do this pretty for you.”
I plug in the hot comb and the curling iron she likes. While they heat, I use the long-bristle brush that feels so good on the scalp. She hasn’t had a perm in a while, and the new growth at her scalp is tight and nappy, silvered. I put a small bit of oil in my hands and rub it in—really rubbing her scalp to help her wake up and feel tended. She smells like soap and tea, and I can remember ten thousand times I’ve brushed her hair or she’s brushed mine. We were so tight when I was a little girl. “You know how much I love you, Grandma?” I say now, rubbing away.
“That’s sweet, baby.”
Real easy, I hot-comb the nap into gentle waves. “You know what?”
“What, baby?”
“When I was a little girl, I used to think that if you were a hundred when you died, I’d be into my fifties and might be able to stand it.”
“Did you?” There’s a hint of a smile in her voice.
I keep combing, slowly and gently. Her hair starts to shine. “I sure did.”
There’s a knock at the door. “That’s Rueben. Don’t move. I’ll go let him in.”
I dash to the door, pull it open. I’m about to let him just follow me in, but he opens the screen and he looks and smells so good that I stop, every cell in my body swelling up. He’s so damned tall and solid-looking, and his face is freshly shaved, his mustache trimmed and combed, the suit sitting just right on his shoulders. He’s carrying a bouquet of sunflowers.
Very quietly, I say, “Am I allowed to kiss you, just once?”
He bends in and does it, and in the hurry, I can tell it’s taking everything he’s got to do just that much. His tongue touches mine.
We pull back. “C’mon in. I have to finish doing her hair.” He follows me into the alcove outside the bathroom door.
“Good morning, Rueben!” she says in her sweet voice.
“Morning, Ms. Williams. I brought you some Texas sunflowers.”
“Oh, now, that was a nice thing to do. Look how pretty they are!”
Already she sounds better. I smile over her head at him, so grateful. “This won’t take long. You can find a vase in the cupboard next to the sink.”
He meets my eyes as I twist a lock of her hair around the curling iron, and there’s an expression of breathlessness there that I don’t get.
* * *
He holds my hand through church. I can see the old folks eyeing us with approval, can feel the waves of heat from some of the women. I am achingly proud to be seen with him. In church. This beautiful, strong, healthy, good man who is holding my hand. It makes me feel emotional, and I start daydreaming.
First I see us saying our vows, me in a white dress because it’s for real this time. I see us sitting in these pews, year after year. We bring our babies with us and they go to the nursery. Oh, they would be such beautiful babies! We’d have monster-sized babies, little girls who can stand up to anybody, sturdy boys.
I look up at him, and he’s looking back at me. There’s a soberness in his eyes, so sober that I think he might be thinking the same thing. Not hot sex. Long love. I can see my children in his eyes, our children. Babies that I’ve been wanting for so long, babies to love and take care of and continue the lines.
His hand tightens around mine.
Foolish fantasies, I think suddenly. I bend my head, away from his gaze. He tugs my hand and I look up. He mouths, I love you.
And I don’t know what to do, except pick up his hand and kiss it.
Outside in the brutally cold sunshine, we’re waiting for my grandmother to finish talking to one of her friends. I say, “You said you had a surprise for me.”
“So I did.” He gets a secret smile on his face. “I got you a fight.”
My heart leaps so hard, it bangs on my ribs. “Oh, Rueben, really?”
“Yep. It’s right here in town, three weeks. Think you’re ready?”
“You know I do.”
He clears his throat. “You’re boxing Chantall.”
I widen my eyes. “Ah!”
“That’s the reason you got it. She’s on the ticket and she wants you.”
“Cool.” I raise my eyebrows. “I can handle her.”
“I know you can.”
“Thank you, Rueben. It means a lot to me.”
He nods.
Three young bullfighters have passed,
their waists are slender,
their suits orange-colored
their swords of antique silver.
“Come to Seville, lass.”
… The girl of beautiful face
still goes on gathering olives,
with the gray arm of the wind
encircling her waist …
“Tree, Tree”
FEDERICO GARCÍA LORCA,
Translated by STEPHEN SPENDER AND J. L. GILI
42
TRUDY
One of the pleasures of a university position is the long breaks, and the week after New Year’s, I’m enjoying the process of a little winter cleaning and rearranging. I’ve divided the plants from the greenhouse into two groups, and have moved half of them into the house. Once a week, I’ll trade them—putting the houseplants back in the greenhouse and vice versa.
I’m painting the kitchen on a Thursday afternoon when Rick calls. “Hi,” I say into the receiver.
“Hi. I can’t believe you answered the phone.”
“Feeling chipper, I guess. How are you?”
“Not bad. How come you’re chipper?”
“Because,” I say, dipping the roller into the tray, “I am finally painting this kitchen.”
“Hmmm. What is it? Turquoise? Red?”
I chuckle. “It’s somewhere between butter and ocher.”
“And that’s what?”
“Kind of a warm, deep yellow.”
“That sounds nice.”
“It is.”
“Well, um, I was just going to leave you a message, and this is a little harder to do in person, but um …”
I’m smiling in curiosity and put down the brush to listen. “What?”
“I was wondering if you, um, would want to go on a date with me. Out to dinner or something. Whatever you’d like.”
“A date?”
“If you don’t want to or whatever, it’s okay, I understand.”
I start laughing. “Okay, who is this and what did you do with Rick Marino?”
He laughs, too, a little shyly. Then he says, “So will you go out with me, Trudy?”
“I think I might enjoy that, Rick. When did you have in mind?”
“Well, as soon as possible. Tonight?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “A man who calls a woman at the last minute probably had some plans fall through. And a woman who says yes just looks desperate.”
“Oh.”
“Rick,” I say, laughing again. “It’s a joke. Tonight would be fine. What should I wear?”
“A jean skirt with nothing under it?”
“Ah, now there’s the man I know.”
“Worth a try. How about if we go over to The Pub and have some of their good ales and some supper, maybe listen to the open mike for a while?”
It’s my favorite bar and he knows it. “That would be great, Rick. I’ll look forward to it.”
“I’ll pick you up about seven.”
“I’ll be ready.”
* * *
Annie says, suspiciously, when I come out wearing my wild red sweater and a jean skirt that comes to midthigh and my best knee-high boots, “Where are you going? Out with Jade again? That skirt is too young for you.”
I lean into the mirror in the living room to put on my lipstick. “I have good legs and my generation invent
ed miniskirts, so we get to wear them as long as we want.”
“Sorry. You’re right.” She inclines her head, comes over, and brushes my hair smooth. “You really are very pretty. It’s nice to see you seeing that. You were just such a mom for so long.”
I turn. “Was I? Have I changed?”
“Uh … duh!” She rolls her eyes. “You always had those dowdy skirts and put your hair up in a bun and never wore much makeup. I mean,” she hastens to add, “not that you were ugly or anything. You just looked like a mom. It’s better this way.”
“Thank you.”
The doorbell rings once and Annie is flying across the room to open it when Rick steps in the door. He’s wearing a red corduroy shirt that makes his hair look black as wings, and his goatee is freshly trimmed, and there’s a look of excitement or expectancy on his face that goes right through me. He sees me and lifts one eyebrow. “Jean skirt,” he says.
“Mmm-hmmm.” I meet his eyes wickedly.
He takes a breath, puts a hand on his heart. Then he looks at Annie. “Hey, kiddo. You don’t mind if I steal your mom for the evening, do you?”
“You guys are going out?”
I drop my lipstick in my purse. “You don’t mind, do you?”
“None of my business,” she says, shaking her head. Then she pauses. “I have very weird parents.”
Rick laughs. “How’d you think you got to be so weird?”
“Very funny.” But she’s smiling. “Don’t be too late!”
Outside, he pauses to look back at the house. When it’s clear there are no observers, he puts a hand up my skirt. I’ve worn a thong, so he gets the rush of a little bare flesh. He says in a raw voice, “Jesus, Trudy. How am I supposed to think?”
The Goddesses of Kitchen Avenue: A Novel Page 29
