Surviving Valencia (17 page)

I will always associate eighth grade with pottery. I had signed up for ceramics for no reason other than it seemed like it would be easy. By luck, I had a study hall immediately following it, which allowed me to spend almost three hours straight working on my pots and vases. The teacher, not unlike most art teachers, was one of those ladies whose only ambition in life was to seem wacky. We called her Nancy and as far as I recall, we never did learn her last name. She wore huge, dangly earrings made of polished gems she’d mined on trips in her rusty Airstream. She and her partner Willie once sold oranges they picked in Florida and distributed across the continent, going door-to-door and making thousands of dollars that they used to start a shelter for ferrets.

Nancy and her over-the-top stories made eighth grade bearable. She had a bottomless bag of adventures from her cross-country citrus selling days. Who could resist the one about her three-legged cat named Jesus Christ? Or the side-splitter about her dentures falling into the Grand Canyon? 

While all the other kids tired of her stories, I wanted to hear more. She told me about her life in a way that I could imagine perfectly. Her stories took root in my brain like old Polaroid pictures, and never left. They became the bedrock of my own dreams and fantasies, redefining what I thought I needed out of life. I realized I wanted to have adventures like she’d had. And I wanted someone to be adventurous with me. Before hearing Nancy’s enthusiasm for Willie, I hadn’t been sure if people might not be better off alone, but she made me doublethink that.

Maybe one day, like her, I would walk down a dusty road, carrying a gas can, with the man I loved beside me, whistling a little song. Perhaps it would start to rain. Maybe, if we were lucky, we’d run through a field and hide in an old barn. If the stars were aligned, just right, the gas can would have a little bit of gas left inside of it and it would spill, and then later when we lit up some cigarettes we’d start the barn on fire. We’d get out of there before anyone caught us and we’d laugh about it forever.

Just like Nancy and Willie.

She didn’t tell this story to everyone. But when she told it, she cackled and cackled, and then always got very serious at the end adding, “No animals were harmed.”

If Nancy could have a life like this, filled with one fun surprise after another, so could I. Heck, if Nancy could do it, anybody could. 

She showed us kids that there were different ways to go about life than the formula all our parents seemed to be following. Nancy was living proof that being a loser was not a recipe for a sad, lonely life. Willie, whose photo was tacked to her bulletin board, may not have been much to look at it, but he loved her. And her job did not pay well, or carry with it much respect or prestige, but it seemed to make her happy. And she was well traveled! I admired that. Now along with Valencia and Kennedy’s mom Sharon, I had Nancy as a role model.

Day after day my vases and pots became taller, rounder, and lighter. I painted them with elaborate scenes, my favorites being farm life, spaceships, and cute little monkeys swinging from trees. She did not object as I went through blocks of clay. I began skipping lunch and German class to go to the ceramics room, some days passing four or five hours in there. Nancy and Frau Schoenmeister each turned a blind eye to this, since I was still the girl
who had been through so much
. By the end of eighth grade, I had created seven eight-piece dinner settings. The plates were the hardest to make look nice. I made these sets with a mindless, therapeutic focus, never suspecting they would serve me for the rest of my life.

On one of my last days of eighth grade, before I went off to high school and never saw Nancy again, I asked her to choose a set of dishes to keep. She chose one that was nice, but politely stayed away from my two absolute favorites. The set she picked had cows and pigs standing before cheery red barns. A lesser teacher, or person for that matter, would have said, “No, no, I can’t. You put so much effort into these,” but Nancy enthusiastically accepted the set and carefully wrapped each piece in newspaper to take home to Willie and her pets.

“We’re having corn on the cob and artichokes for dinner, and they’re going to taste good on these plates,” she said. I can remember waiting, a knot in my stomach, for her to ask me to join them. She didn’t.

I hope she still has those dishes. Sometimes when I am in Hudson I consider stopping by her old classroom, but she couldn’t possibly still be there. She was old even back then.

Adrian and I rotate through our remaining six sets. I don’t know what was in that clay, but there is hardly a chip on them. We have a strong preference towards the yellow set with the fat, purple flying saucers. The leafy jungle ones are a very close second.

The way Adrian loves my crazy dishes makes me feel like part of a real couple, instead of just one of the accessories in his life. Lately I often feel removed from him and our life, and somehow even myself. But remembering things like this brings me back. Calms me down. Gives me some proof that what we have is strong and real. Reassures me that I have something unique to give him, and that he truly wants it.

When we got engaged we registered for lovely square white china, and received every single piece down to the oblong gravy boat. We have barely used any of it. Thanks to Adrian’s coaching, our guests insist on the monkey plates.

So here were Jeb and I, seated at the Golden Dragon again. I ordered a whole meal and some potstickers to make up for being a cheapskate the other times.

“I need some more money,” said Jeb.

“How much?” I asked.

“Another fifteen hundred.”

“I don’t have fifteen hundred dollars with me today, obviously.”

“No, I know you’re good for it, I’m just setting you straight on where I’m at. I’ve got some good news: I got a guy who was arrested in Minneapolis in 1989 for raping women. He liked to put duct tape over their mouths, and he wrapped their hands up like your sister’s looked. He just got out about six months back or so and he looks like a good bet. But I need to do some more research. Got to get something with his writing on it for one thing. Follow him around a little. So fifteen hundred should cover the trip to Minneapolis, and I’m going to need that soon, and then I’ll let you know where we’re at after that.”

Fifteen hundred dollars to go to Minneapolis and track down a murdering rapist, including meals and hotels? Seemed fair to me.

“Okay,” I said.

“Mind if I have a couple of those, if you aren’t going to eat them?” asked Jeb, nodding to the plate between us.

“Go ahead.”

I rummaged in my purse for a pen. As I was about to give up I saw a small velvet case poking out from a tear in the lining and I discovered a really nice fountain pen Adrian had given me a year or two earlier. I thought I had lost it, and finding it again gave me a small rush similar to buying something new. I removed it from its case and briefly admired the delicate engraved scrolls on it.

$1500 Jeb
I wrote on the back of a receipt I found in my purse. After all this time the pen still wrote perfectly. I admired my handwriting, which is practically calligraphic.

Psychic
I wrote beneath it.

Jeb was dipping my potstickers in a dish of hot mustard. I waited silently while he chewed on them.

Through the dirty window by our table I watched our waitress walking in circles in the parking lot, smoking and talking on her phone. I had a sick, fleeting feeling that perhaps I was enjoying this experience. That the real me, that insecure weirdo buried deep inside, might be living vicariously through the fancy woman with the fancy pen.

“What are you shaking your head about?” asked Jeb.

“I wasn’t shaking my head. How should I get the money to you?” I asked.

“Well, I got some work to do this afternoon. Meet me back here at seven tonight in the parking lot. And be careful. The guy who killed your sister knows where you live and is playing games with you. Think about that.”

“So, you don’t think my husband is involved in this in any way, right?”

“It wouldn’t make no sense to me if he was. Now take care of yourself, I gotta go.”

“Okay, thanks Jeb. See you later.”

He left but I stayed a little longer, sipping tea by myself, feeling invisible in the tall booth. There was something really unnerving about a private investigator warning you that a murderer was after you. Those Minneapolis postmarks had given me a false sense of security.

I finished my pot of tea and pulled some cash from my wallet. It occurred to me that Adrian could be in danger even in that moment as I sat there. He was most likely back from the dog training class, sitting at home in his studio painting with the music so loud he wouldn’t even hear anyone approaching. Frisky would be barricaded on the back porch and the cast iron fence going halfway around our yard (the workmen had run out of materials and could not finish it for a week) would provide little protection.

I paid my bill at the cash register and returned home to find Adrian outside teaching Frisky to sit, using tiny sausage snacks for a reward.

“How was class?” I asked, surveying our surroundings for anyone who seemed out of place.

“Good,” he said. “The instructor thinks Frisky will make a good dog someday, with a little work.” On cue, Frisky growled at me and showed his long, white teeth. Adrian immediately squirted him with the garden hose and Frisky slinked away, whimpering.

“We learned that in class,” said Adrian. “Just give him a squirt.”

“That’s not abuse?”

“I guess not.” Adrian sniffed. “Have you been eating Chinese food?”

“Yeah. It just… you know. Sounded good.”

“Huh. Okay. Well, I’m feeling creative so I’m going to get some work done. I’ll be in my studio if you need me.”

I didn’t know what to do with myself, so I called the fence people and yelled at them a little for their false guarantee of a three day fence. They offered to give us a hundred pounds of mulch to make it up to us, which I accepted. Then I flipped through the yellow pages, looking at ads for psychics, talking myself more and more into this being the answer. Convinced, I got back in my car and drove to the bank to withdraw more money for Jeb, and an extra five hundred, since I had no idea how much it may cost to have my fortune told.

I had plenty of time to kill before seven o’clock. I drove across town until I found Zemma’s House, a purple shack with gold shutters. It looked like something out of a Harry Potter book. I parked in front, and turned off the car, fully intending to walk right on up there and ring the bell. I was surprised at how nervous I felt. I was aware that I still smelled like food, and I felt self-conscious. Would I receive an accurate fortunetelling if all the psychic could think of was crab rangoon? I fiddled with the rickrack hem on my dress, wishing I had my cigarettes with me.

The curtain on the front door moved a little and I panicked. I started the car and drove off, taking the first right turn that presented itself, just to get out of Zemma’s line of vision. The houses were getting shabbier and shabbier.

“Are you going to do this or not?” I asked myself, aloud.

“I don’t know. Maybe. Maybe not.”

I got a little lost and the next thing I knew, I was driving past the little purple house again. A small, pale woman with white hair in a scraggly bun sat on a yellow metal chair beside her front door. She watched me go past, her eyes squinting at me accusingly.  I hit the brake, but I thought better of it and went to the library instead.

This seemed like a better plan. Safer. Brighter. More devoted to the factual.

I got out of my car and went inside, sitting down at a computer carrel. From the plastic cup beside the computer, I took a scrap of paper and a little pencil that looked like it was for miniature golf. I began compiling a list of the things Jeb had told me about the potential murderer:

From Minneapolis.

Jailed for rape in 1989.

Recently released from prison. 6 months ago?

Without knowing the man’s name, the information I plugged into the computer did not get me very far. Eventually I got bored and went out to do some shopping. I figured it was necessary to come home with some new things, considering I had withdrawn two thousand dollars and been gone all day.

I bought a couple things for Adrian as well, and then got an iced mocha for myself. As I sipped it, I wondered if I was being followed. It was still very strange to me that I had been before, and had never suspected a thing. I touched up my lipstick and pulled my hair back into a twisty bun, feeling alert and alive. I tried to catch someone darting about in my peripheral vision, but if I was being followed, my stalker was very discreet.

Finally it was time to meet Jeb. I made unnecessary turns on my way to the Golden Dragon, trying to catch a potential tailgater, but again, I seemed to be alone and unmonitored. Jeb was standing outside the restaurant. He nodded to me when I pulled in and walked up to my window. I passed him the envelope.

“Jeb, what’s the name of the man?”

He took a quick look inside the envelope, and then he slid it inside his wallet. He did not answer me.

“Hey,” I said, “this is what I’m paying you for!”

“His name is John Spade, but until I can say otherwise, he’s a man who served his time, might not be the one who did this. You understand what I’m saying?”

“I’m not going to do anything, but I have the right to know,” I said.

He shrugged. “Well, I don’t know. But that’s the man I’m going to see. I’ll be up there as long as it takes for me to find what I’m looking for. Probably leave the day after tomorrow and I’ll follow up with you when I get back. Now you take good care.”

“I will. You too.” I will admit, I felt ashamed that for the cost of a birthday gift or a weekend in Atlanta, he was going to risk his life for me.

The next morning, bright and early, the fence men showed up. The rest of the materials had miraculously been located, and by evening our house and yard were a bastion of security. Adrian had worked all day finishing a small project for a client, and now that the painting was completed, he was relaxed and content with himself.

We lounged on the porch, sipping minty iced tea and admiring our fortress. Frisky patrolled the grounds, snarling as gaping, nosy neighbors walked past to get a look. A feeling of peace like I hadn’t known for weeks, months even, had come over me. Each cast iron post was sharpened to a dagger-like point. The creaking gates were operated by a remote control that Adrian was busy examining. If that were not enough, Frisky’s enormous chompers had a never-ending stream of elastic drool hanging from them, making them both conventionally frightening and grody-scary. When he poked his nose through the rails, globs of saliva were left behind as a menacing reminder that there was nothing worth stopping for here, so move along.

He seemed to be warming up to me, since I’d spent most of the day feeding him lunch meat and Slim Jims while Adrian had been holed up in his studio. As the sun began to set, Frisky plunked down by our feet, his tongue hanging out, and Adrian wrapped his arm around me.

“I love you,” he whispered.

“I love you too.”

Adrian is the only person, in my entire life, who has said that to me.