On the Divinity of Second Chances (7 page)

I paint more yellow into the tips of the flames around the raisin and bristle as I watch Phil take bags of food out of the cupboards and trim them down with scissors. Phil apparently doesn’t like to reach down into bags. He trims the bag of corn chips, the bag of sugar, and the bag of flour, for starters. I wonder when he has ever reached down into a bag of flour. I like the long bags. I like having lots of bag to roll up several times so that they don’t come open in between uses. So help me God if he starts implementing the use of those annoying clips. I don’t want to mess with clips. I don’t want to keep track of clips. I don’t want clips. Period. I want my kitchen the way it’s been for fourteen years, functioning just fine.

“Don’t you have anything else to do?” I ask with my hackles up. I’m trying to be compassionate. I really am. I know this is the sum total of his entertainment these days.

His silence is all I need to know that he is crushed by what I just said. He puts the bags back in the cupboard and walks out of the kitchen.

I exhale. I blew it. I resent the fact that if no one had been around, I wouldn’t have blown it. His mere presence set me up for a failure I really didn’t need. I read somewhere that in some Asian country, when women turn sixty, they go live in a convent. Oh, that would be heaven. I would have only six more years to tolerate, and then—finally—I would be no one’s mother and no one’s wife. As it is, there is no end in sight. There is no retirement for women who have taken care of others their whole life.

Phil on Finding a New Pastime
(May 27)

What? Don’t I have anything else to do? No. No, I don’t. I was just trying to make things nicer for her. I don’t know how Anna ever found the spice she wanted, and the bags were out of control—before I took care of it for her, she probably got flour all over her arm when she reached down into that bag.

I retreat to the den and begin reading the phone book in hopes of finding something worthwhile of my time. Aircraft, no. Ballet, no. Boats, no. I never admired people who threw their money away on expensive toys like aircraft or boats. They were people who worked for the good life, instead of working because they loved work and success. There is a difference. I continue to finger through the yellow pages. Books, no. That’s what libraries are for. Churches, no. Coffee, no. Cruises, not a permanent solution. Dance Schools, sure can’t picture that. Dog Training, no dog. Embroidery, now that would be sad. Fishing. Hm, fishing, maybe. I hate to be that stereotypical, though. Fishing and golf, what every man in America is reduced to every Father’s Day. When I pass that fishing and golf crap in shop windows every June, I always think I’m either the only man in America who does neither, or there are a lot of people out there who don’t have a clue who their father really is.

Do my kids have a clue who I really am? I’m not even sure I do. I used to know. I used to work all the time. I guess my kids knew I worked all the time, so maybe they did know all there really was to know about me. What is there to know about a person anyway? What they desire? What they enjoy? I enjoyed success. I desire more success. Yes, that’s probably evident. They probably do know me.

Fishing and golf. Well, with fishing, once you have your equipment, it’s free. Golf, on the other hand, continues to waste your money. I can’t think of why wasting money would be fun. Between the two, I’d have to go with fishing. Though, with catch and release, what exactly is the point? How exactly is that productive? If you actually kept the fish you caught, well, then, over time you could recover the cost of your fishing equipment and actually come out ahead.

I keep flipping through the yellow pages. Garden, probably not. Golf, went over that. Gymnastics, God, no. Horse-back Riding, no. Ice Hockey, too old. Investment Advisers. I ache. Karaoke, no. Kayaks, no. Libraries, already doing that. Lingerie, hee hee. Massage, hey, there’s Jade’s ad. Meditation, don’t think so. Motorcycle, worthless suicide toys. Music, Music Instruction listed alphabetically according to the instructor’s name. Guitar, guitar (different instructor), piano, flute, bagpipes—bagpipes! Now that’s interesting. I pick up the phone.

Pearl on Life
(May 29)

My back and forearms ache from putting in all those strawberries, but I don’t have time to indulge in the pain. I walk to my modest orchard to check on things. My honeybees are active; it appears they’re pollinating clover today. I talk to them, asking them how they’re doing and thanking them for all their hard work and all the ways they make my farm a nicer place. They are busy little OB-GYNs doing in vitro fertilization everywhere.

I push my little mower through the first couple rows of trees, having figured out that if I mow two rows of the orchard every day, the grass never gets long enough to be difficult to mow, and by breaking up the task, it’s never a large job.

I survey my trees for pests, but find none. I do find birds, and thank them for eating the bugs in my orchard. I carefully examine a few more trees, and when I see the trees have begun to set fruit, I feel the same anticipation I used to feel as a child.

On the walk back to the house, I hear a rattle. I take out my Ruger and stop in my tracks. I can’t see the snake through the grass, but I listen carefully, then aim and fire at what I hope is the source of the sound. The rattling stops. I wish I had a rifle so I could use the barrel for a stick. I slowly take a few steps forward and that’s when I see it. I blow its head off just to be sure it’s dead. Then I pick it up and carry it back home. What a beauty. At home, I skin it, stretch the skin out on the side of the barn, and tack it up to dry. I figure if I present Wallace, the cobbler, with a lot of snake skins, maybe he’ll trade me for some red cowboy boots.

Up on the hill, I see Dean burning a chunk of old carpet in his burn barrel. Amazingly, the breeze is blowing it west. I could have sworn he only burned on days when the wind blew the smell of burning plastic right into my house.

Beatrice walks by when I’m almost done. “God, Pearl, do you have to shoot everything? What did this one ever do to you? ”

“We can eat it,” I suggest.

“No. No more snake. My life is too short to eat any more snake. My meals are numbered and I’m not wasting any of them on snake. No more taking snake casseroles to church potlucks either. I think that’s poor taste.”

“Be a shame to waste it.”

“Well, then, stop killing them.”

“Okay,” I say in an attempt to save our friendship, but what I really mean is that I’ll skin them and tan them somewhere else.

“Don’t you think this gun fetish of yours is kind of Freudian?” Beatrice suggests.

“That was a low blow, Beatrice.”

“If the shoe fits . . .” she replies as she turns and swishes off. I want to be mad, but I’m struck by her beauty and it softens me.

Anna on Phil’s Problem-Solving Strategies
(May 31)

Today Phil asked me if I wanted to go on a cruise. Inspired, I take a pencil and outline a few things in what will be the background to this raisin painting. Behind the raisin is a beach, filled with beautiful young girls in bikinis. Should I paint a bathing suit on the raisin? Maybe one of those with the little skirt attached? I have observed enough women older than I am to know that I will reach a place where I won’t care, where I’ll accept this new era of my life and wear a bathing suit to the beach without being critical of myself. There comes a time where you are simply happy for good health, and not worried about packaging so much. But I’m not there yet. Call it vanity if you want, but it’s deeper than that. It’s grief for a woman I’ll never be again.

It’s easier to be considered good-looking if you are an older man than if you are an older woman. This is compounded by the fact that women are valued for their appearance, whereas men are valued for their intellect, strength, or income. It’s sad, but undeniable. You know, men don’t get dimples all over their legs. Look at an old man’s legs. Can you really tell he’s old just by his legs? Not really. Okay, there is the hair loss thing, but frankly, I don’t think hair loss makes a man any less sexy. Now, trying to cover up hair loss with a bad comb-over makes a man less sexy, but hair loss by itself does not. It’s masculine, in fact. Now, how many men out there are thinking the same things about women’s dimply legs—that they don’t make a woman any less sexy—on the contrary, because they are feminine? Not many.

The other factor I struggle with at this time in my life is that Phil is retired. He had a clear job description, and now he has a clear retirement. I never had a clear job description, and now it’s obvious I’ll never have a clear retirement. Phil will never hand me a plaque thanking me for decades of good service and wishing me a great rest of my life. I have a life sentence where I will never come first.

The phone rings. I answer, “Hello?”

“Mom?” It’s Olive. “Can I come over and talk to you about something?”

Crap. I know that tone of voice and it fills me with dread. I want to run to my car and drive far, far away. Any place will do. “Sure,” I say instead. “Now?”

“If that’s okay,” Olive answers.

“Sure.”

I hang up the phone and grab another canvas. I sketch out another raisin, this time sitting at a family dinner.

Within fifteen minutes, Olive lets herself in and finds me in the kitchen, where I steep a pot of jasmine tea.

“Hi,” she says, and hugs me.

“Hi.” I hug her back. “Nice to see you. What’s on your mind?” Better to just get it over with than wait any longer for the bad news.

“Matt moved out a couple weeks ago,” Olive announces. She’s always stoic when she’s really upset about something.

“Oh?”

“We had a big fight about how to go from being renters to being owners.”

“You know, it sounds like your father would be a good person to talk to about this. I’m sure he could help you both come up with a plan.”

“Hey, maybe you’re right. I don’t know why I never think of talking to Dad.”

“He really needs something to do these days. You’d be doing him a favor,” I tell her, happy that my plan to deflect someone else’s problem is working. “He’s in his office,” I add, driving my suggestion home. She starts to go, but turns back and looks at me for a long minute. Her mouth opens as if she is about to say something, but she changes her mind and shuts it. “What?” I ask her.

“Nothing,” she replies. Her eyes gloss over as she goes to that place in herself where I’ve never been able to reach her.

After an hour, Phil and Olive emerge from the office and enter the kitchen with Phil’s 24” × 36” tablet. I cringe. I hate that tablet. The tablet generally means one thing and one thing only: graphs. He never makes his case without graphs.

“Hey, Anna,” he says, “as you may know, Olive has been struggling with how to become a homeowner instead of continually throwing her money away on rent. Now that Matt’s left her apartment, she won’t break even every month and doesn’t stand a chance of accumulating a down payment.”

I look at him with dread. I suspect that he has become so focused on the bottom line, once again, that he has failed to truly examine the consequences of whatever decision he’s about to pitch.

He flips his tablet open to show a bar graph in alternating blue and red bars. “Here we have Olive’s income in blue, compared to her expenses in red. You can see that there wasn’t much of a buffer before, but this month, without Matt’s financial contribution to their household, her expenses exceeded her income. You can see she’s headed toward a financial crisis. Now look at this one.” He turns the page. “Here we have her income, minus some minimal expenses, in savings over the next six months. You can see that if she finds a home loan where five percent is required down, she could afford to get into a nice home in five to six months and have some money left over for unexpected expenses associated with purchasing a new home.”

Olive looks down at the floor, distracted, as if she’s still trying to think of other solutions.

Phil flips the page. “Now we all know, there is no such thing as a free lunch, so here is a list of jobs Olive is willing to commit to in payment for renting her old room.”

His choice of words rubs me the wrong way.

Olive nods and glances up distantly. I see my solitude slipping even more, but still, there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for my children, nothing I wouldn’t give them if they needed it. I just wish that Olive didn’t need it. Maybe I’m looking at it the wrong way. At least I still have Olive, which is more than I can say about my youngest.

“Olive, home is your soft place to fall. I don’t like the idea of you ‘renting’ your old room back. That’s not what home is to me. I prefer the idea of everyone contributing to the household.”

Olive gives me a little smile. In it, I see gratitude, but I can tell she’s still upset. “Good job on the graphs, Dad,” she says. Phil beams. He doesn’t seem to notice she’s still upset. I wonder if referring Olive to Phil was really the right thing to do.

“Okay, I’m going to start packing the things I won’t need this month.” Olive’s attempt to smile and sound excited about the plan doesn’t fool me.

“It’s going to work out, Olive,” Phil says as he walks her to the door. Olive bites her lip and slips out the door.

Phil on Communication
(May 31)

“Phil, maybe you didn’t notice, but Olive was still upset when she left. Why didn’t you just give her the money for the down payment? At this point in my life, I would like to not worry about everyone else. If Olive is here, I’m going to stew over her problems. That’s what mothers do. It’s like there’s always this psychic umbilical cord that connects mothers to children. We’re not happy if they’re not happy. If she’s not right in front of me, I can forget about her frustrations sometimes, but having her here will mean having her frustrations in my face all the time. Do you know how exhausting that will be for me? Lately, I feel the need for a lot of solitude to figure out this new era of my life,” Anna tries to explain.