“Yeah.” His free hand takes a tendril of my hair. “That’s what scared me. It seemed like maybe you were regretting …” A shrug. “Marrying me, I guess.”
“No.” My heart is aching. “Never that. I regretted not being brave enough to follow through on the rest of it. I could have taken my master’s at UCCS in the Springs. I didn’t.”
“You gave a lot to these kids, though, Trudy. You didn’t have time.”
I nod. “I know.”
“I started thinking, especially after Joe died like that, that I was nothing but an old five-and-dimer.” He smiles in the dark. “From the song?”
It’s a Waylon Jennings song about a man who only aspires to be a friendly old drunk. “You’ve always been so much more than that.”
In the soft blue light, he stares up at me, touches my face. His eyes are suspiciously bright. “God, Trudy, I’ve missed you so bad. Every day. All night, every night. I just didn’t know how to make it right again. How I could even ask you, after all you did give up, to forgive me.”
“All you ever had to do was ask, Rick. That’s all I was waiting for.”
Now there is no doubt there are tears in his eyes. One falls from the corner of his left eye, and I bend down, catch the silver and salt against my lips. He pulls me hard against him, into his chest, his arms around me so tight, I can barely take a breath. “I am so fucking sorry, Trudy. I don’t know how to make it right, make you believe that there is no other woman in my world but you, but I hope you’ll let me try. I hope you can forgive me someday.”
“I forgive you now, my love.” I breathe it into his neck. “I’m not saying we don’t have things to talk out, but I know why, and it’s okay.”
We’re weeping together, kissing, hugging. “Is this all going to go away in the morning?” he asks.
“Not for me. Will it for you?”
“No way.”
I sit up again. “Rick, this wasn’t all your fault, either. I was pulling away from you. I was feeling distance and loss and I didn’t know how to get back to you. I wasn’t a very good wife to you for a while there, and maybe it was the time you most needed for me to be one.”
“No, Trudy—”
Putting my hands on his mouth, I say, “I’m trying to say I’m sorry, too.”
He nods. “Thank you.”
I am bone-weary and fall on his chest again. “Do you need anything? Water, painkillers, anything?”
“No,” he says, stroking my hair. “Just this.”
We lie there, and he says, “Those pictures he took are beautiful, Trudy. They really are. Don’t take this wrong—you’re a gorgeous woman—but he made something more out of them.”
“Do you really feel that way?”
“God, I was pissed at first, and I can’t say I’ll ever want to look at them every day, but I couldn’t stop thinking about the one. It just hit me in the gut, kind of hung there for two days. That’s art.”
I nod. “Good.” We can talk about the fact of that art going out into the world some other time. Maybe in counseling, I think with a smile.
I lie against his chest, dizzy with love and connection and relief. “I love you, Rick Marino.”
He presses his lips against my hair. “You can’t help it.”
February
ISHTAR
Ishtar represents the fullness of womanhood and dares us to dream. Her power is strongest at the full moon, when the essence of womanhood heightens in response to the moon energy that is all-encompassing.
Ishtar’s energy represents love, fertility, passion and sexuality.
She is descended from the goddess of romance, Venus, and her energy encompasses all that is “woman”—nurturing mother, inspired companion, playful bed partner, wise advisor, insightful leader. She is revered especially on days of the full moon, when it is right to engage in joyful acts of lovemaking to celebrate being “woman.”
—www.goddess.com.au
Their sorrow was turned into joy and their mourning into a day of celebration.
ESTHER 9:22
47
ROBERTA
February 7, 20—
Dear Harriet,
I’m ashamed of myself that I didn’t write for so long that you had to waste good money on long distance, and then I wasn’t even here to take the call! So, I’m sitting down right this minute, before things get all crazy again, to write you a good letter and let you know you don’t have to be fretting about me no more.
Sister, we’re about to have a wedding around here!! Valentine’s Day, which has taken some doing, I’ll tell you what. Jade is so excited, I can’t hardly get her to do much of anything, so it falls to me and her mama, and both of us are so happy she’s found herself the right man now that we sure don’t mind. I’m having a ball, to tell you the truth. Been so long since there was a real wedding, with flowers and food and in the church where it means something, I’m having the time of my life.
It’s happened a little bit fast, but Harriet, you know how it was when you met your Elmus, and when I met my Edgar. You just know, don’t you? He is a very good man, and he’s got that look in his eye like he’s just died and gone to heaven when he looks at my granddaughter, which is enough for me. He’s a clean-living man, and he’ll be a fine father. It gives a body faith in the world again to see a wedding like this.
And faith in them, too. They’re trying to work out details for a program for girls—underprivileged girls, mainly, I guess—to get strong. They both have all that social services background, so they’re working out the red tape, and both of them are such athletes, I’m sure they’ll help a lot of young women. Rueben told me there’s a lot in place for troubled boys, trying to save them, but not much for girls.
Listen to me! Ha! I guess you can tell I’m proud of my grandbaby, can’t you? Just bragging away!
I’ve also been watching some children, and it’s funny how it brings back the laughter in you, just being with little ones. I always have loved them. And did I tell you about the young woman across the street? She’s a writer, Harriet, and she sold a book to a big-time New York publisher! Isn’t that something? I never thought I’d know a writer! Ha!
Hoping you can come and visit sometime soon, or maybe I’ll rouse these old bones and come down and see y’all sometime in the spring. It could be an adventure, I reckon.
Love,
Berta
Playing her parchment moon
Precosia comes
along a watery path of laurels and crystal lights.
The starless silence, fleeing
from her rhythmic tambourine,
falls where the sea whips and sings,
his night filled with silvery swarms.
“The Gypsy and the Wind”
FEDERICO GARCÍA LORCA
48
TRUDY
It is a smoky purple dusk. The air is as soft as feathers on my face. It smells of orange blossoms and jasmine, flowers that tumble in profusion from baskets and pots and balconies, their pale colors ghostly against the deep reds and golds of evening brick.
Beneath my feet are ancient stones, worn smooth by unimaginable numbers of feet, and now mine are among them. My own feet, alone, carrying me down this narrow street in Seville. Above me is the sound of supper being cooked, and I smell the exotic spices, cinnamon and something darker. There is no wind.
All around me—in the soft conversation of two youths just ahead, and in the shopkeepers calling out to one another, and in the music of a broken ballad being sung by a woman sweeping her step—is Spanish. I pause for a moment, swept with wonder and a fierce joy, and I close my eyes to listen to it lilting and flowering all around me, seeping into my soul.
“Nothing like it, is there?” says Lucille. “Stepping out by yourself?”
Nothing. All I have brought with me is the backpack Angel gave me. Inside are three pairs of underwear and my camera and spare socks and the first edition of Lorca’s poems.
This, right now, this
evening in Spain, walking on my own feet, by myself, is all I have ever wanted. Life showed me there were other riches—children and a husband and a greenhouse—and I’m grateful. But without this cornerstone, too, my life was unbalanced.
I look at Lucille, but she’s gone.
The lane onto which I turn is narrow. Light, golden from the last rays of the setting sun, pours through it like a river of magic, and I tug a slip of paper from my pocket. Angel’s mother, a glorious redhead with flashing eyes, has written an address on it. Together, we had come up with a plan, and I am here to begin the first steps.
The door I’ve been looking for is set into an ancient Moorish building, shaped in an arch. A young woman with hair the color of butter and a face as smooth as the moon opens the door. There are shadows of sorrow and longing around her eyes, and I smile at her gently. “Juliana?”
She spies the pack over my shoulder and her nostrils flare in annoyance. I hold out my left hand, where I am wearing only a plain gold band, the diamond Rick gave me hidden beneath my shirt. “I have come,” I say, “to speak with you about a young man.”
“Angel?” she breathes with hope.
I smile. “Sí. He loves you very much, you know.”
She begins to weep. “I have broken it.”
Now I am the elder, the wisewoman. “Nothing is ever broken completely as long as there is love. May I come in?”
Juliana opens her door.
~###~
For my brother and his wife, Jim and Michelle Hair. Thanks for making room for me, taking care of me, making me laugh, giving me things to do and a place to hide. Thanks for the beers and the good company and the quiet acceptance. Thanks for April and thanks for Jack, the two best dogs in the universe
And a special kiss to Jessie. It’s so nice to finally have you here on earth.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Every book has its midwives. For this book, they include Sharon Lynn High Williams, for twenty years of solid friendship that’s seen us both through the darkest and brightest times; her mother, Roberta, who was an inspiration in life and death; Katherine Gomez, wise woman and healer; and Jenny Crusie for support and cheer and the best weekend in a long time.
I would also like to acknowledge Anita Ryan, who has a beautiful Web site devoted to goddesses; and The Women Boxing Archive Network, www.womenboxing.com. Thanks!
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LADY LUCK'S MAP OF VEGAS
THE SCENT OF HOURS (excerpt follows)
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THE SCENT
OF
HOURS
(Excerpt)
by
Barbara O'Neal
Excerpted from The Scent of Hours by Barbara O'Neal. Copyright © 2014 by Barbara Samuel. Excerpted by permission. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Base Notes
Base notes are the deepest, most mysterious, and oldest of all perfume ingredients.
—Mandy Aftel
1
NIKKI’S PERFUME JOURNAL ENTRY
SCENT OF HOURS
November 22, 1978
Definition: Chypres
Chypres is a highly original group that is based on contrasts between bergamot-type top notes and mossy base notes. Chypres per fumes tend to be strong, spicy, and powdery. This perfume group was named after the famous perfume from Cyprus of Roman times. It is used primarily for women, and is appropriate for both day and evening wear, especially during winter.
I told the insurance company I was sleeping when the house blew up.
In actual fact, the cold woke me. I stood at the top of the stairs that led to my basement at three A.M. on a morning in late winter, daring myself to go down and find out why the furnace was not working. Puffs of dust-scented air wafted around my ankles. The narrow wooden steps disappeared into yawning darkness, and even when I turned on the light, it wasn’t particularly inviting. I hate basements—spiders and water bugs and the possibility of creepy, supernatural things lurking. Ammie, Come Home scared the holy hell out of me when I was seven, and I’ve hated basements ever since.
Standing there with my arms crossed over my breasts, frozen in every sense of the word, I thought, This was so not in my script.
I made a bargain, to love, honor, and cook all the meals, while he promised to love, honor, and do things like go down into the basement in the middle of the night. This was not strictly gender role stuff—I was a good cook and I liked it. Daniel was not the slightest bit afraid of ghosts or spiders.
Cold air swirled around my ankles. I couldn’t move. Frozen, just as I’d been for the past seven months.
A vivid picture of the house blowing up in a blaze of noise and fire flashed over my imagination (And wouldn’t they all be sorry then!). Experimentally, I stuck my head into the stairwell and took a long, deep sniff. No smell of sulfur, and I have a very good nose. Of course, it wasn’t exactly an airtight basement.
I shuffled forward three inches.
Halted.
A shuddering hitch caught in my throat. I realized that I could not do it. Could not physically force myself to go down into that creepy, cold, spidery cellar and then get down on my hands and knees and look for a pilot light, and maybe even have to put my hands into a place where there were spiderwebs.
No. Way.
In the morning, I’d call someone to check it out. For now, I’d just have a cup of tea and play with my computer. Instantly, my heart stopped fluttering. Decision made. I stepped crisply back from the yawning mouth of doom and closed the door.
From the linen cabinet by the downstairs bathroom, I took a blanket that smelled of the lavender stalks that I tuck into all the drawers and closets. The pale purple scent eased my tension as I carried the blanket into my study, where the computer was breathing steadily, softly, its lights blinking comfortingly in the darkness.
I turned on the small, Art Deco lamp I’d found on eBay and settled into my chair, blanket around my shoulders, and opened a novel I’d checked out of the library. At least some things were reliable.
Unlike the furnace. Which exploded exactly one hour later with a noise you can’t even imagine.
Obviously, I lived.
The house, on the other hand, did not fare quite so well.
* * *
My mother used to say, “When the student is ready, the teacher will appear.” I was pretty sure I was ready after blowing up the house, but no Mary Poppins of the over-forty set magically appeared to rescue me.
Instead, I sat for six more days at the Motel 6, drowning my sorrows in pints of Dove chocolate raspberry ice cream while I played the television for company and pretended I wasn’t panicking.
The day I met Roxanne for the first time, I gave my Visa to the girl in the Albertsons line and she shook her head. “Do you have another one?”
I did, but it was the last one. I’d maxed out all the rest—four of them, if you want to know the truth. As I handed over number five, even I, queen of denial, had to admit it was time for a change. I had to find a place to live and a job to keep me in ice cream until the insurance settlement came through.
Back at my clean, uncluttered room, where I didn’t have to worry about anything at all, not even vacuuming or dishes or whether I’d remembered to buy shampoo, I faced myself in the mirror. Squared my shoulders.
Time to rescue myself.
First, clothes, since I was wearing an ancient skirt that had been in a bag of things I’d collected to go to Goodwill. I drove to Target, which was, once upon a time, one of my
monthly stops. Today, the excessive light and acres of red—on signs and walls and the T-shirts of clerks—dazzled me. Music, modern and unfamiliar, poured out of the loudspeakers.
There were so many jeans. Did I want low-slung or high? Was I too old for acid-washed? Would my expanding butt look stupid in the wide pockets?
How could I choose? In the end, I took the pair that fit, and rushed out of the store because my throat was starting to close. It was an oddity, the hitch I kept getting in my throat. It was as if I couldn’t quite swallow.
Sometimes, I was afraid that what I was holding back was a long banshee scream. As I stood there in those polished aisles, it was way too easy to imagine throwing back my head and letting go, maybe in the men’s department beside the boxer shorts and socks, where I spent so much time and money lovingly picking out underthings for Daniel. He’d liked funny boxers—Tasmanian Devil and Bugs Bunny in particular, said it made him remember the kid he was inside—and sensible white cotton socks for the heavy boots he had to wear on job sites.
When he turned forty, he started wearing silky, black-spotted socks and colored bikinis. Should have been a clue, I guess, but you’re not really thinking your husband is going to fall in love with someone else. That’s what other husbands do.
Yes, I could scream a really long time.
Instead, I grabbed an advertising circular from the racks outside of Target and headed for the Village Inn near my motel, where I ordered a cup of coffee and some eggs and toast, like a normal person.
I opened the flyer. There were a lot of apartments in town. Hundreds and hundreds. Again, I felt that fluttery sensation in my throat. Stirring too much sugar into my coffee, I took a long, soothing sip, and promised myself ice cream if I at least looked at some of them.
The Goddesses of Kitchen Avenue: A Novel Page 33
