Parts Unknown (28 page)

I chewed ferociously on my thumbnail. And he came back and picked up where he’d left off: “So yeah, fantasy novels. I’m playing with this idea about Mars for one of them. Kids who grow up in this biodome on Mars after life on Earth is destroyed in a massive nuclear war. They can never go outside the dome, but they’ve got this whole microcosm of a world there. How they react to living in, like, one square mile of space.”

“I think that’s been done before,” I said coolly. “You can’t compete with Ray Bradbury, anyway. He’s the master of Martian literature.”

“You’ve got a point. The other thing I’m thinking about is a sequel to
Supers
. People are already asking me, what happens when the kids graduate from high school? Arthur and Dana take different paths, I think. Dana’s always wanted to fit in, and she tries to pass as a normal person, go to college, all that. It’s incredibly hard to hide her talents though, and she can’t stop herself from saving people in trouble. But the more people she saves, the harder her talents are to cover up. Meanwhile, Arthur’s always been a loner, and he holes up in this shack in the Santa Cruz mountains. No one can find him, no one knows what he’s up to. Anyhow . . . one of them cracks under the pressure. And one of them turns bad. What do you think?”

I smiled at him. “You bet,” I said.

~ ~ ~

Lucy napped after we returned from our Thursday visit to Madame’s house. I prowled the house restlessly. I didn’t like the way she’d let go of my hand when we got to Madame’s door that afternoon. I didn’t even have to step inside this time; Lucy just marched into the house like a little robot, standing on tiptoe to kiss Madame’s wrinkled cheek as the old woman stooped to receive it—expecting it, as her due. I kept replaying the way Lucy walked through that door, shoulders slumped, not turning around, just accepting her fate.

 Me and Lucy. And then: me and Josh, making love, and Caroline and Josh, making love. Did Caroline’s Jewish star necklace bounce up and down against her collarbone as she reared above him? I thought of him grasping her hand in passion, the diamond on her ring finger cutting into his palm, gouging him. Branding him. How the metal we wear defines us. I’d been taking my wedding and engagement rings off all week—I’d put them on in the morning when I woke up, then remove them as soon as George left the house. My finger feeling so free and naked, a small white defenseless bit of skin surrounded by tan.

Curiously, I pulled open my lingerie drawer and rummaged to the bottom. There it still was: the slip Mom had bought me for my confirmation. I remembered the dress I’d worn well, a garish thing with puffed sleeves, floral rosettes on a dark green ground, and lace around the collar. I’d never felt right in that dress, but the slip was my first grown-up piece of lingerie, and I’d treasured it ever since. It was a silky taupe, with hand-worked lace of the same color in an intricate vee down the bodice. I’d loved adjusting those shoulder straps over and over and smoothing my hands over my nonexistent thirteen-year-old hips, sashaying in front of the mirror like a grown-up girl.

That slip was all that was left of my paltry Methodist upbringing. And that flimsy bit of nylon would never let me keep Josh. He never spoke of his religion; I wasn’t sure he even practiced it. But it suffused him even so, and he’d let me close enough to tell me his most intimate secrets, but not close enough to even let me offer to convert.

Lucy’s video time that afternoon found me moodily glaring past the banisters on the walkway outside our apartment, blowing smoke at the peeling, painted metal and breathing it in again as the wind blew it straight back in my face. I had the front door propped open so I could hear Lucy if there was some television-related emergency. I figured the smoke was probably blowing back through the front door too, curling around Lucy’s beautiful little head, contaminating her. I felt filthy and neglectful, but I didn’t stop.

My mind kept going back to Lucy, walking through Madame’s door as if possessed. I had a horrible feeling about the mural in Madame’s dining room, too. Maybe the ladies in the mural didn’t have faces after all. Maybe that’s what the head coverings were hiding—just nothing, underneath. They’d lost their identities, crushed beneath the weight of love and expectations. Lucy was next in line to be chewed up and spit out of the Anglin mill. The sole heir. The only one left. She was destined to become a perfect little French speaker and a silent, reasonable child. No face. No spark.

Mr. Abramoff strolled up the front walkway, impeccably attired as usual, perhaps walking back from afternoon prayers at the nearby Chabad. I waved my cigarette at him, nearly burning my fingers—I had puffed so hard, it was nearly gone. I wished fervently that I knew the answers too, like he did, like George did.

~ ~ ~

Thursday night George was pretty excited about the History Channel show he was about to watch. It was a history of bricks.

We sat together on the sofa, same as always. We’d been together for so long we barely needed to make small talk anymore. George’s face was so familiar I didn’t even have to look at it to know it exactly—yet it had been a long time since I’d looked, really
looked
at him, or him at me. The longer you were with someone, the more intimately you knew them—and yet the less you knew them really, until years into a marriage, you were sitting on the sofa next to a stranger.

“Bricks might sound boring,” he informed me. “They’re just pieces of clay. But when you think of them as the building blocks of civilization—well. That changes everything. Egyptian pyramids—that’s just the start. Roman acqueducts, The Great Wall of China. And you’re always going on about how beautiful and old London is, not like LA, all brand new. London was built brick by brick. They all were, once upon a time.” His mouth twisted strangely.  He patted the spot next to him on the sofa. “But I’m doing all the talking. Why don’t you tell me what you did today.”

“Um . . .” I settled in next to him, wondering what lie would work best. He put his arm around my shoulders, squeezing me uncomfortably against him. Our bodies never fit together quite right, so whenever he had his arm around me, my head would be squinched against his ribcage, or my neck would be at some odd angle sure to lead to a pinched nerve the next morning. “Um . . . I ran some errands, I guess.” I raked my fingers through my strange, short hair—I had to stop doing that! “It’s so hard to remember. The day just kind of went by, you know. Like they always do. Anyhow—bricks. Wow. Let’s have a look.”

“Well, you’re doing a great job,” he said, clicking on the television, because it was exactly 9 p.m. and that’s what he always did. “You’re a great mom to Lucy. I’m always grateful for everything you do. You know that, right?”

“Of course,” I said, barely audible over the sound of the announcer. “And I didn’t really properly thank you for the flowers. They’re really nice. You didn’t have to do that.”

“I know,” he said, muting the sound for a moment. “But I should do it more often. I want you to know how much I appreciate you, Vivian. And love you. You know that I love you very much, don’t you?”

What about me is even remotely lovable?
I wanted to ask him.
I’m a skanky two-timing adulterer. There’s nothing special about me. I’m just like anybody else, except worse, because I’m not even remorseful. I’m not even considering
not
seeing Josh tomorrow. Basically I’m a horrible person.

“I love you too,” I said.

That night, my eyes blinked wide open at two in the morning. I was sure I heard someone right behind me saying my name. But no one was there. The house was silent, George and Lucy fast asleep. Just a mile away, Josh must be awake and thinking of me too.

I stared into the darkness, willing my mind to connect with his.
I love you
, I vowed fiercely, psychically, across the city blocks.
It’s just us two, alone, together at last. Make love to me
.

I was wide awake now, awash in fantasies of our future together. What I would pack. How Lucy would giggle at Josh’s jokes; how he’d pick her up and swing her around and make her his, too. We’d live under that enormous blue sky, dine on tortillas, and always be happy.

I drifted off to a fractured sleep, only to awaken, feeling strangled, in the early morning light. George was pressed heavily against my body, clutching me. He had pulled me tight against him, in the night.

Chapter 15

Our world consisted of the bed, and the kitchen. It was surprising how inventive two people could be in such a limited space.

Friday morning, as we lay twisted up in the rumpled sheets, Josh told me about Santa Fe. “There’s a mountain right outside the city. Great skiing in the winter. But in the fall, if you go up at just the right time, all the aspen trees on that mountain—they’re bright yellow. Just golden leaves, as far as the eye can see. It’s magical. I’ll drive up there some days, and just sit there for hours, watching the leaves rustling in the trees.” He turned toward me, and added, “Painting groups—they come there sometimes. They set up their easels—like your French easel. And paint the trees.”

“I’d like that,” I murmured.

“Santa Fe is like heaven for artists, anyway. You can’t help but be inspired. Just walking through the galleries on Canyon Road, you’d probably get a million ideas. And the Indians who sell their jewelry on the Plaza downtown—you get to talking to some of them, a whole new bunch of ideas just opens up. It’s like the intersection of worlds, Santa Fe. All different cultures mingling together, and what comes out is like nothing you’ve seen anywhere else.”

“Tell me about the sky,” I requested, snuggling against him.

“It’s so big, baby. It’s so big and open—like this big blue bowl protecting the world. Not like here in LA, where you can only see little bits of it here and there. And it’s never really
dark
, in LA—all the city lights give the sky this scummy yellow tinge, even in the middle of the night. But in Santa Fe—you can see the stars. The sky’s just thick with them. If you came . . .” he hugged me close, “You’d never want to leave.”

He could sweep me off my feet just like that. I was one big puddle of melted chocolate inside. I tried to ignore the tiny voice in my head squeaking warnings. But time was running out. I had to say something.

“Josh.” I leaned up on one elbow. “Why did you stay, really?”

He blinked. “For you, of course.”

“You know what I mean. What did you want, out of this week?” I felt blindingly angry, all at once, all the buried thoughts and questions I’d carefully hidden away suddenly escaping. “Was it like some college reunion for us, or something?” I asked. “You fuck me for a week, then you go back home and we send each other family photo cards at Christmas?”

He scowled. “That’s rude.”

“Well, ’cause here’s the thing. I’m not that person—the person who cheats on her husband. This is something I never would have done unless it was with you. You know that, right?”

“Of course! That’s because we have something amazing! That’s what makes it worth the risk—I totally agree!” he exclaimed. I noticed he didn’t say that he hadn’t cheated before. I noticed that he didn’t say what would happen after he left next week.

Josh was the only person with whom I’d ever felt compelled to lay out all my emotions, bare, in front of him. And I was so circumspect with George—George, who gave me all the security Josh never had. So I said, achingly, each word a struggle to speak: “Josh, you’re my soulmate. And you’re my inspiration. You’re everything to me.”

He kissed the top of my head. “You’re mine too,” he whispered into my hair, and I knew he was telling the truth, but at the same time promising nothing.

“So, now what?” I asked. It seemed perfectly obvious: if two people were meant to be together, then they had to find a way to make it work.

“It’s complicated,” he said slowly, getting up and turning his back to pull on his boxers. I lay there naked, pale, vulnerable, just like always. But it was funny—here I thought I was the weak one, but perhaps I was stronger than him. After all these years, he still wouldn’t stand up to his family, leave his wife, compromise his religion. Did he really have such courage in his convictions? Or was he just a scared kid, still craving his Daddy’s love? I knew him more intimately than anyone, but I knew him only from the inside out—his soul, his body, but not his mind. He was an island, over a sea I could never cross.

“We’ll talk about it Monday,” he said finally. He leaned to kiss me and I realized I was dismissed. I stood, alert, and pulsing. I was starting to understand a few things I’d intentionally forgotten before.

After preschool, Astrid accosted me outside. “Guess what!” she yelled. “I asked Ethel about that guy you were talking about, and good news—he was your brother in a past life!
That’s
the connection!” Ethel was Astrid’s spirit guide. She had died at the age of twelve, in 1914, and she’d chat with Astrid on occasion. Moms picking up their kids gave Astrid a wide berth. This was why there wasn’t much competition to be Astrid’s friend.

“Can you keep it down?” I hissed.

“Why? Oh hey, did you get in touch with him or anything?”

“No!” I exclaimed, too vehemently. “Of course not. Geez—that would be totally unlike me. Not to mention unfair to George.”

“Good,” Astrid said.

“How was San Diego?” I asked her as an afterthought.

“Oh—we didn’t go—didn’t you get my message? Mario got this 24 hour stomach flu on Friday night. I was worried that he might have given it to Lucy, so I called on Saturday, but George said you were out. Anyhow, he was fine by Sunday, but we couldn’t get down to San Diego in time. Too bad.”

“Lucy was fine. Thanks for checking though. I’ve gotta go. Bye, Astrid,” I said abruptly, putting two and two together. The flowers. The drawn looks on George’s face. His distraction. He guessed something was up.

Well, why didn’t he just say something? I suppose, in our little family, just like in my family growing up, if you didn’t say something, it didn’t exist. If you covered it up, if you didn’t speak about it, if you just went about every day as if it were perfectly normal, then maybe it would be. Maybe everything would be just fine.