Long Division (38 page)

“I do love that sound.” My hands are resting in my lap like an obedient child at a dinnertime lecture.

“But you said it wasn't nearly as wonderful as the sound of a mushroom being harvested. Then you mentioned this episode of
Mister Rogers
you once saw where he goes to a mushroom farm and picks them himself. You said that the gentle plucking/popping noise of the mushroom being pulled from the soil was probably your favorite sound of all time.”

“It was amazing. I'll always remember it. They never show that episode.” I'm whispery and serious.

Gus takes a big breath.

“And ever since, every single time I eat a mushroom or clean a mushroom or see one growing in a lawn, I think of you, Annie. And I think of that sound. And how much you love it.” Gus wiggles his chair closer to the table, pulls along the collar of his T-shirt, and looks me straight in the eyes. “And how much I fucking love you.” He lifts his arms to his head and throws them down. “Crap. I shouldn't have said fucking. I meant,
I love you.
”

And before I can even think or process or respond (or smile!), he's standing up and moving toward his shopping bag on the counter. In a very serious voice he asks, “Do you have a VCR?” I nod, still silent. He pulls a VHS cassette from the bag and extends his other hand to me. I take it and stand up. He leads me soundlessly to the living room and I sit on the coffee table. Gus crouches and slides the tape into the machine. He fusses with the buttons. “Nearly every weekday since I got back from Dominica, I've turned on PBS at eight A.M. to check the show. And you're right; they almost never show the episode. But last week they did show it. And I got it. And it's yours to watch and hear and listen to whenever you want forever.” He turns to me and beams with pride and truth and affection. He fast-forwards to the scene and comes to sit beside me on the coffee table.

Mister Rogers is wearing a hard hat with a headlamp.

“Oh my God,” I say. My voice is low, awed. “I totally forgot that the mushroom farm is underground.” Gus takes my right hand between both of his.

“Yes! It's an old mining cave! There are tons of farms like this in rural Pennsylvania!” He is so excited. I am so excited. Mister Rogers is so excited. He's talking to the main farmer about the ideal temperature conditions for mushroom growing. I slide my other arm behind Gus's back, and Mister Rogers is telling the viewer that some kinds of mushrooms are poisonous and one should never eat mushrooms found in the wild. And then it happens. We both stop breathing and watch the kind, sweet man push up the sleeves of his red cardigan and gently tug the mushrooms one by one from a waist-high trough of dirt. The sound is clear and lovely and just how I remember it. I realize that perhaps the acoustics of the cave contribute to the exquisite tones of Mister Rogers's mushroom harvest. He says that it doesn't feel like picking any other vegetable. He says it's such an “interesting sensation.” And he articulates each syllable in “interesting” in a way that has the power to curb the speech impediments of every child on earth. It is so so so beautiful. I love love love it. I love Gus. I'm taking quick, shallow breaths when the program switches back to Mr. Rogers's home. I feel a tear swell in the corner of my left eye and I turn to face him. “Thank you so much.” I lift my hands to his cheeks and pull my face to him and we kiss. And it's a million times better than the ridiculous cotton candy kiss I'd imagined. There are no sad elephants or evil lies in this kiss. It is only pure and genuine and ours. Our arms bump and reposition; the legs of the coffee table wobble slightly. Minutes later I am still kissing Gus, but more comfortably so on the sofa. He is stopping every few moments to open his eyes and smile at me. Mister Rogers is singing now.
Now I'll be back / when the day is new.
I don't have to look to know that he's already changed his shoes and is buttoning the three buttons of his single-breasted sports jacket.
And I'll have more ideas for you / and you'll have things you'll want to talk about.
And it's like Gus and I are both saying it and promising it to each other. I'll be here. Back tomorrow and the next day and the next day. I'll bring questions and ideas and discoveries.

 

T
oday I'm calling my book
Arachne vs. Penelope: Live on Pay-Per-View!
It's early September now. A good month and change since Gus found the mushroom episode and since I owned up to what I really wanted. I just spent about an hour researching on the Internet. I was trying to figure out what this stupid weaving Greek lady was actually doing. It really seemed important to know the real truth about her. So I plugged terms like “greek woman weaving husband mythology” into Google, and it was actually quite easy to find her. But before I did, I was distracted by the story of Arachne from Ovid's
Metamorphosis
.

Arachne was this superstar weaver who claimed to be better than Athena, the patroness of weaving. Athena heard of this, disguised herself as an old lady, and coaxed Arachne into admitting she wanted to take on the goddess in a full-out weaving smackdown. So of course this was arranged. Athena made something marvelous. And Arachne also made something marvelous, but it was an amazingly detailed depiction of all these infidelities the gods had committed against mortals. Athena was enraged at the blatant disrespect and destroyed Arachne's tapestry and her precious loom in a mega display of power. Arachne then realized how horrible it was of her to express such ego and create such an offensive piece of art. She became so overwhelmed with guilt that she eventually hung herself. But then Athena took pity on her and loosened the noose by turning it into a spiderweb and transfiguring Arachne into a spider. This is more of a rivalry story and not the one of romantic loyalty that I was looking for. But as soon as I'm done typing this, I'm totally e-mailing Max Schaffer about it. That is, of course, if he doesn't already know.

But now for Penelope. I'm kind of embarrassed that I didn't figure it out or remember on my own. Yeah, I've never actually read the
Odyssey
, but I feel like it should be implanted in my literary subconscious from hanging out with English majors in college and from playing a fair amount of Trivial Pursuit with my family. Penelope is the wife of Odysseus. He goes off to the Trojan War and doesn't come back for twenty (20!!!!) years. While he's gone Penelope devises a bunch of clever plots to ward off eager suitors who suppose that Odysseus is never coming back. Even a few of the gods meddle and try to lure Penelope into shacking up with someone else. In one of her more ingenious methods of man deterrence, she announces that she will be weaving a burial shroud for her father-in-law, and as soon as she finishes it, she will choose a suitor. She weaves every day, but at night she sneakily unweaves much of the day's work. So she never has to finish. And it works! She remains faithful, and sure enough, eventually, old O. comes hobbling back from the war. She's leery that it's actually him, and they have some adorable battle of wits before she believes him and they lovingly reunite.

After I discovered Penelope's story, everything started to make much more sense. David left for a war and I started weaving. Except I wasn't weaving, I was writing this motherfucking, self-indulgent, wannabestunning memoir confessional. But unlike Penelope, I just kept going and going and going. Never looking back to erase and keep my focus on how great things were before David left. I just couldn't stand still. And without him here, it became obvious that the textile holding us together was one crafted during our relative youth. Not exactly shoddy, but perhaps ill-fitting and definitely not all-weather. So I kept weaving my ugly word web and thinking and changing in his absence. And I've probably failed in Penelope's eyes because I let myself be wooed by someone else. I was unfaithful and impatient and definitely not her. But I like to think I discovered more about myself and launched into a relationship that is laced with more shared curiosities, fervor, and thoughtful inquiry. Blah blah blah. This is a different war, Penelope. And what was my Trojan horse full of? Third graders? Beanie Babies? Ice cubes? Shiny caps of white mushrooms?

 

So school starts tomorrow. I've picked out my outfit for the first day and laid it carefully across the chair in my bedroom. I have a mere twenty-six kids this year: an even thirteen/thirteen boy/girl split. David is returning in one week.

 

Later tonight, hours after sunset and once the temperature has dropped a good fifteen degrees, Gus and I will wash his “Fun in the Sun” paintings off the windows of the Dairy DeLite. When we're done, we will stand quietly—holding hands and drippy squeegees—staring through the clean-ass glass into the dark Tacoma night. I want to say that before we start on the next seasonal cartoonscape, we will first paint a glorious masterpiece. A bold, confident song will play on the restaurant's loudspeakers, and we will dance and flick our brushes and run each other's fingers across the windows with smooth, cool paint. But there are broken shopping carts rolling and feral cats pooping in the parking lot outside. Our universe is not quite fanciful enough for that magnificent love dance. Instead, when we are done staring, and the last drops of moisture on the glass have evaporated, we will start to paint the pumpkins again. Yes, it's a little early for Halloween decor, but the owner of the Dairy DeLite said that it was Gus's best mural last year and that he'd like to have it up for longer this time.

Gus will do most of the work: painting outlines and giving me detailed instructions on how to fill them in. Big strokes here. Small, dotted strokes here. Like this. Great. Perfect. You're perfect. And though it will be just a regular night of regular painting, I will know that it is the end or the beginning of something. A tiny tick on the timeline of Annie Harpers. And therefore, in my sappiness, I will be unable to resist the temptation to foist significance onto the scene.