On the Divinity of Second Chances (10 page)

“Where do you shower?” I ask. I’m always looking for good shower spots so I can be presentable before I see Jade. My last annual shower coated Jade’s tub with a film Comet couldn’t remove.

“I just run through the sprinklers of that alfalfa field down the road. Feels extra good after waking up in a hot tent. Once the sun hits it, whew, it’s a sauna.”

If he was smart, he’d ditch the tent and sleep up on that hill over there. Good breezes up there. The breezes would help keep the mosquitoes away. Slap, slap, slap. He keeps slapping at mosquitoes. I can smell him from here. I don’t know if it’s deodorant or cologne or what, but it burns my nose, and I have no doubt that it’s attracting the mosquitoes.

I start to walk away. “Where do you live?” he calls after me. It’s none of his business, so I just keep walking.

Jade on Checking In
(June 10)

I drive to the parents’ house with another load of Olive’s stuff. Aretha runs to the backyard while I walk up the stairs and set the boxes in the guest room. Then I go downstairs and look for Mom. I don’t find her, so I slip out the front door and walk around the house. I find her sitting on a bench under a blossoming cherry tree. Aretha sits upright on the bench beside her. Both Mom and Aretha watch as I approach and sit on the other side of Aretha.

“Are you doing okay, Mom?”

“Oh, you know, lots of changes.”

“What’s with sleeping in a lawn chair?”

“Just feels good to be outside is all.”

I realize Mom doesn’t want to tell me anything. “Everything is temporary, Mom.” I try to be reassuring.

“Everything is temporary,” she repeats like a sigh.

I get up and kiss her forehead. “I love you, Mom.”

“I love you, too.”

I drive home and then skate through Mont Soleil with Aretha, repeating my daily affirmation, “I am asexual. I reproduce by budding. I am asexual. I reproduce by budding.” I visualize strawberry plants that send out runners with new little strawberry plants on them to take root. I turn off the trail before reaching the lifts, into the parking lot for my condo complex.

When I see Nisa-Josh carrying his laundry to the laundry room, I no longer visualize strawberry plant runners. No, in my mind’s eye, I see strawberry blossoms, and a very handsome bee. Aretha runs over to greet him. He puts down his basket and pets her with those delicious arms. Then he looks up at me. I can feel my face begin to burn.

“How’s the superhero business today?” he asks.

“What? You think it’s easy getting these type A stockbrokers to lighten up? It’s a full-time job!”

“Watch it,” he says with mock warning. “I manage mutual funds.”

“My sympathies. If it gets to be a little much, let me know and I’ll make you your own superhero cape.”

“That’s really nice of you,” he replies. God, he has a sexy voice.

“I’m a nice person,” I tell him and continue on toward my home before I begin drooling.

He smiles. After I pass him, I turn back to watch him go. Okay, I turned back to check out his ass. And let me tell you, that was rewarding. Unfortunately, he caught me looking.

I unlock my door, skate through the threshold, close the door, take a deep breath, and begin to pant like a dog. I can’t get the smile off my face. “Nisa is so hunky in this lifetime,” I tell Aretha.

As I skate toward the answering machine, Grace appears. “Oh, yeah, girl, you’re going to have good times with that one,” she says. “Now, who are we working on this week?” I just smile and hit the play button.

“Hello, Jade? It’s Garth.” Alien Guy. “I’m in town for two weeks. I would like a massage every night at seven thirty, except Friday. I have plans on Friday.”

I nod, smile, and roll my eyes, but Grace looks suspicious and shakes her head. “I don’t like that one,” she says.

“Oh, he’s harmless,” I reply.

“Who’s the guardian here?” Grace asks me. “You think I don’t know some things you don’t?” She keeps shaking her head as the next message begins.

“Um, hello. This is Peter Lemonjello, and I would like a four-hour butt massage.” Brother Forrest. What a freak. I laugh. “Why don’t you bring me breakfast tomorrow?”

“Been awhile since I got a call from Peter Lemonjello,” I comment to Grace.

“He’s ready for a new direction,” she informs me.

“Jade. Thomas here.” Rodeo Guy. “Got any time? Give me a call.”

“He had a rough ride this weekend,” Grace tells me.

“Um, hello. My trainer at the athletic club says you’re good. I’d like a massage every Tuesday and Thursday following my workout, say three o’clock, from this Thursday until the end of the month. My name is Fannie,” and Fannie leaves her phone number.

“Hey, Jade.” I recognize that voice. Barry White Guy. “If you’ve got time, the wife and I would like some of your brilliant work.”

“It’s nice to have fans,” I tell Grace.

“He’s in more pain than he’s telling you” is all Grace says about that.

“Do you have any time today? It’s Martin.” Martin—whatever he wants, he wants now.

Grace disappears and I begin to return my long list of calls.

While I’m on the phone, Aretha brings me toy after toy, hoping one will be more interesting to me than talking on the phone. I look at her lovingly, and pat her head as I receive each gift.

Phil on Lesson Two
(June 10)

“Good morning, Phil,” Al says. “How’s the marriage?” He takes a sip of scotch.

I sort of laugh, look at the floor, and rub my brow.

“That good, huh? Phil, I must warn you, learning to play the pipes is the kiss of death for your relations. It is an appropriate instrument for hermits. If you have relations you value, learning to play the bagpipes is akin to suicide. Okay now, assemble your chanter. Let’s see if you’ve practiced this week.”

I assemble my chanter, placing the reed between the two parts of the pipe—carefully but firmly. He assembles his as well.

“If you have practiced well, today you will experience the euphoric power of playing with a fellow piper.” He takes another sip of scotch and opens my book to page four. “You may begin.”

I hold my chanter with perfect form and blow. My fingers are flat. My fingering is perfect. Al approves and joins me. He is correct. There’s nothing I’ve ever experienced like playing with a fellow piper. Thirty dollars very well spent. Thirty dollars is less than the cost of one of Anna’s haircuts. I pay Al and leave.

Anna . . . I’d really rather not see Anna right now. I mean, I’m actually happy—happy for the first time since my heart attack. I’d like it to last longer than an hour and a quarter. I consider how to avoid Anna and decide to drive downtown in order to look at the possibilities for prolonging this rare happiness I’m feeling. The bookstore, no, been over that; the bar, no. If I wanted to drink, I could have just stayed and drunk with Al; Juan’s Burritos, only if I want another heart attack; the thrift store, no; the hair salon, definitely not; the grocery store, don’t need anything; the hot dog stand, that would be suicide; the art gallery, no. That’s hardly my domain.

I look up, above the town skyline to the giant ridge behind. I wonder what it would be like to play my chanter on a mountaintop. I turn right and drive toward the chairlift. I park, get out with my chanter, and start to walk straight up under the chairlift. Jesus, I’m out of breath already. To my left, I notice a cat track. That’s a better plan. Give me never-ending but gradual switchbacks over a short, steep incline any day. After all, it’s a well-known fact that if you’re above your target rate, you’re not burning fat.

I almost catch my breath as I slowly walk. I imagine I’m marching with other pipers. I try out my march to see how it would feel. I lose my breath; it feels tiring. I go back to walking.

Finally, after an hour and forty minutes, I reach the top. I’d give anything for some water right now. Wow . . . what a view . . . my house looks small from here. That means Anna’s even smaller. For some reason, that comforts me. Yes, all my problems seem very small from up here.

Well, all except one: my missing, runaway, fugitive son. Still haven’t made peace with that one yet. How do you make peace with something like that? I hired detectives to try to find him, you know. Five. I gave up after the fifth. These weren’t some yellow pages schlubs; these guys came highly recommended by my colleagues back at the Chicago Mercantile Exchange. Maybe he’s dead, I don’t even know. It’s not right. I’d like to know what happened to my son.

I take the chanter out of my mouth. My heart’s not in it. Instead of playing “Amazing Grace,” I try to play something close to taps, but it’s not working. Ah, screw it. With my chanter in hand, I start down. I try to focus on the two daughters I still have. That usually makes me feel a little better.

Jade on Alien Guy, Part One
(June 10)

“You’re done,” I tell Alien Guy. Since his bathroom has no soap, I wash my hands in the kitchen. Aretha follows me there and sniffs his garbage. “Don’t even think about it,” I whisper to her. I eye the contents of his kitchen: two bags of Lay’s potato chips, a package of plastic disposable cups, and a package of plastic disposable plates. Each night when I throw away my paper towel, I notice there are more disposable dishes in his garbage, but other than that, nothing changes.

I give all my massage clients my own names. Of course, I may call them by the names they call themselves to their faces, but when I think about them, I use the name I gave them. Alien Guy, for instance, got his name because the first time I saw him he had walked into the Mont Soleil Massage Center in a big black cowboy hat, a long black duster, and moon boots. Remember moon boots? That’s when I knew he was an alien. Yes, the moon boots gave him away. He talked to me in a monotone voice about explorations to the North and South Poles, supporting my theory by revealing his fascination with planet Earth. The next time Alien Guy showed up, he was wearing the same hat, a wool sports coat with fringed leather sewn onto the shoulders—and again, moon boots. That time he told me how he had built a place up here inspired by the Ponderosa on
Bonanza
, and he described his extensive art collection. The fumes from the beauty parlor across from the massage center irritated his asthma, so he asked me if I would make house calls, and as a result, I got to see his extensive art collection. It went something like this: painting of a mountain man, painting of a naked lady, painting of Native Americans camped near a river, painting of a naked lady, painting of the Grand Tetons, painting of a naked lady, painting of pioneers coming west, painting of a naked lady . . . you get the idea. I wondered when the last time was that I was in a room with this many naked women . . . high school P.E.? Alien Guy being an alien didn’t bother me. I felt compassion for him. Clearly he is very lonely on this planet. I get that. It didn’t even really bother me that I suspected his massages were less about relieving sore muscles after a day of skiing than about getting a woman to talk to him for an hour every night for the duration of his vacation. Another rich banker from New York coming out to what he believed to be the Wild West. It was cute, really. I just picture all these lonely guys as children who really wanted to be cowboys.

I pack my table and take my seventy-five bucks plus good tip. Aretha follows me to the door. I say good night, load up my table, and drive home.

Anna on Cold Cars
(June 10)

I lie wrapped in two blankets on the patio lounger, looking at stars and contemplating how I got here.

What men don’t realize is that women are kind of like cold cars. You can’t just hop in and drive. Starting them can be tricky, and then you need to give them time to idle. You can try to drive a cold car, but it will lurch and sputter. It might even die at the first stoplight. It’s not good to drive your car before it’s warmed up; it takes life off the car. Women are the same.

If you leave a car sitting in the driveway too long in the middle of winter, it won’t start when you want it to. The battery will be dead. You need to take your car for a little drive every couple days to let the alternator charge up the battery.

For so many years, all Phil could think about was work, leaving me in the driveway for weeks at a time in the winter, so to speak. And then he would just hop in and expect me to run smoothly. I always felt like he had just penciled me in for a half hour at the beginning of a random day, at an hour in which I didn’t really want to be awake. I imagined one of his “daily goals” lists I used to pull out of his shirt pockets before I threw them into the washing machine, with the first entry being “Make love to wife.” Make love—what a funny expression for my experiences of the last twenty-five years or so. Sex had, in fact, done the opposite. Every time I felt like just a vagina lying in bed next to him instead of a whole woman, I loved him less. Each time I felt like he was just relieving himself, like sex wasn’t so different for him than having a bowel movement—just something his body needed to do, I loved him less. And every time I felt like nothing more than another duty on his daily goals list, I loved him less. We weren’t making love at all; we were destroying it.

Can I put all the responsibility on him? I have, after all, only tried once to talk to him about it. That was such a disaster, though—can you blame me for not trying again? I might as well have been speaking Portuguese.

I think back to when we were newlyweds. I had thought he would be my shelter, and I would be his sanctuary. I put so much effort into making our home beautiful and clean. I worked hard to make his meals delicious and ready at just the right time. I went out of my way to be welcoming when he came home, to offer him a different world than the world of bonds and futures, to offer him a world where it was safe to let his guard down and relax. He didn’t seem to notice. I offered him this sanctuary, but he didn’t take it. He didn’t treat me like his sanctuary; he treated me like his employee.