The Universe is a Very Big Place (12 page)

2005

"Is it our week again?" Sam was grilling turkey hotdogs on the back patio. He was wearing his new apron and chef’s hat combo, purchased from the Eddie Bauer store during his last mall outing. Spring sat on the patio chair beside him, rummaging through a bag of potato chips like a puppy looking for a lost bone. She had this annoying habit of only eating the ones that were curled or folded. Sam sighed, wishing she would use the chip bowl he had made for her in week two of his ceramics class.

"Yes, Sam," she finally spoke when she found the perfect chip. It was folded over like a taco, and she popped it into her mouth and immediately began searching for the next. "It’s our week again."

"But why tomorrow? Why can’t Jason follow the rules? Sunday through Saturday. That is what it says in the custody agreement."

"He asked me if I could have them an extra couple of days so that he could take a trip to the botanical garden." Spring tossed the bag onto the ground and Sam bent over to snatch it up. He folded the top and fastened it with the chip clip he stored in his apron pocket.

"You mean the one he grows in his backyard?" Sam snorted. When Spring didn’t respond he realized the joke might have been funnier if Jason actually
had
a backyard. "But really, he isn’t above the law. You should bring that up in court."

Spring held her ground. "He asked me, Sam. And they are my kids. I love them." Spring stood, crumbs falling from her dress, and stomped into the living room. Sam decided it was a battle not worth fighting. He would simply remind her of his concession the next time he wanted something.

Sam turned off the grill and placed the hotdogs on the plate. They looked sad and shriveled and for a brief moment he missed pork. Still, it was a small price to pay to enter Paradise, where the women behaved themselves. It could be worse. He remembered his stint as a Buddhist. He hadn’t fared well on the Himalayan diet of yak butter and grass. He took the hotdogs into the kitchen and set them down on the counter. Not quite hungry, he left them to wither, picking up a new book he had acquired in a hard-won eBay fight. It was leather-bound and he held it to his nose a moment, taking in its scent. His fingers pulsed around the spine and his grip tightened. There was nothing sexier than opening a brand new book.

Sam wasn’t ashamed to admit that he loved books. In fact, he loved books more than he loved people, and definitely more than he loved animals. The only thing he loved more than books was Allah, for it was Allah who created the great minds that created great books. Sometimes when Spring was asleep he would wander around his den and run his fingers along the spines of all of his books. Hundreds and hundreds of beautiful books. He felt like the Count from Sesame Street as he touched each one. "One book...two books...three books...(pause, cue lightning bolt)...three beautiful books! Ah-hah-ha!" There was so much knowledge sitting on those shelves that he could get drunk thinking about it. If he could absorb every bit of information from every one of his books he could control the world.

Sam cocked an ear, listening for Spring. She must have disappeared into the bedroom. He trotted out to his lawn chair. A breeze brought the scent of the book back up to him and he squirmed in his chair as he recalled one particular memory, the evening Spring was gone all night with her sister for a girl’s night out. He was alone in the house. The lights were low. Bach was playing on the radio. He felt that familiar longing and pull in his trousers.
 

He checked to make sure the driveway was empty, that she hadn’t forgotten anything. Seeing that the house was clear, he tiptoed to his den and pulled a book from his shelves. His hands slid over it, his fingers trembling at the feel of leather beneath his palm. His thumb fell into its grooves and bumps and dents, and he moaned with each new crevice he explored.

"Economics in a New World,"
he shuddered. He held it to his cheek for a long, delicious moment.

And then he licked it.

"Oh God." He was going to the Muslim equivalent of Hell for certain. But he didn’t care. His tongue forked out, digging into the gold lettering inscribed by some master. The taste of it was so strong, so primal he thought his pants would burst. He ran to the bathroom with it and locked the door. Spring knew nothing, of course. By the time she had come home the book had been replaced and she was none the wiser.

"Now those little bastards are going to be touching my books again," he said, imagining them sweeping into the house with their tiny, sticky hands, defiling everything he held sacred. He tasted the acid that bubbled up from his esophagus and took a swig of cold coffee to wash it away.

Sam wondered why, in retrospect, he had decided to keep his relationship going with Spring after he learned about
The Twins.
They were five-years-old when he met her, and when she mentioned she had boys that age he almost thought it was sweet, until they descended upon their home like the hounds of hell. They were loud. Hyper. Twitchy. Always doing stuff. Always talking. Always getting into everything. Touching things with filthy hands. Fiddling with things that shouldn’t be fiddled with. Arguing over everything.
 

The worst part was that Spring always took their side. Always.
 

"Pookie, the boys were touching my books again. Can you tell them not to?"

"God, Sam. They are kids. You’d think you’d want them to be interested in reading."
 

They’d stand there, grinning at Sam, smug little
Omen
children waiting to push him over the banister. The only reason Child Protective Services didn’t take them was because no one would have them.

Sam was getting upset thinking about it. He looked at the title again.
Secrets From the World’s Best Day Traders
. His hand shook. But Spring and Lanie were both home. He gave the book a promissory peck. Another time.

Nine

Lanie took a stroll around the neighborhood, a nice walk to do her heart and lungs some good. She puffed on her cigarette as she took in the scenery––pretty, cookie-cutter homes with neat lawns and gingerbread shingles. In the window of each home she saw faces––mothers, fathers, children. Most looked happy and content. It made her want to gag.

"Maybe I’ve stayed in one place too long," Lanie said, nodding at a young couple pushing a big-headed baby in a stroller down the sidewalk. "I could look up some of the old gang, go back on the road." Lanie tried to remember where she put her address book, and then realized it didn’t really matter anyway. None of her old friends had permanent addresses.

How do they live their lives like this? The same people and places day after day. Don’t they lose their fucking minds?
 

A stray cat meowed and Lanie leaned over to scratch it. The cat hissed and Lanie backed off. Too bad, she really would have liked a familiar.
 

As she rounded the corner she kept her eyes open for what type of people might live on the other side of her daughter’s fence. There were three houses that might all line up to Spring’s backyard, and Lanie stepped lightly as she approached the trio of homes. In front of the first were two red bikes, probably belonging to children. In front of the second was a fixed up hot rod, probably circa 1960 something. And in front of the third stood a young man cleaning out sporting equipment from his garage. Lanie smiled and waved at him. He paused a moment, looked behind him, and waved back. Then he hastened into the house.

The sky was beginning to darken.
 

"Fucking global warming," she grumbled, sucking in the last puff of her cigarette before tossing it on the sidewalk. "...Making the days short like this."
 

She was about to turn the corner back to her own street when she saw movement behind her from the middle house. She turned in time to see a middle-aged man with an impossibly thin frame jump into the hot rod and zoom away. He had a long, hookish nose and not a hair on his head. The gleam of the waxing moon hit his scalp in a familiar way. Like an eagle. A majestic bald eagle, she thought, and almost skipped home.

"How well do you know the neighbors?" Lanie asked, opening the door. Her daughter was wiping her brow with the hem of her dress.

"I can’t talk now, Mom. Look at this!" Spring slammed a stack of envelops onto the table. Lanie picked up the top one. Someone had drawn a bright, red, frownie face in sharpie on the cover of it, with an arrow pointing to the words Cancellation Policy.

"My insurance is cancelled. Great huh? And that’s just the start of it. The landlord wants to charge us one hundred dollars more a month for you to live here. I thought I told you not to tell anyone." Spring looked exasperated and Lanie wondered if she was having problems with irregularity. She had something for that, but decided not to bring it up yet. Timing was everything with these types of issues.

"I didn’t tell anyone." Lanie said. "I got ethics."

Spring gave Lanie a full once over. "I guess it’s pretty tough to hide you." Lanie watched as Spring tore the envelops into a dozen tiny pieces and emptied them into the garbage can. Obviously she did not want Sam to find them.

"Well, if you’ll excuse me, I gotta go take a crap. I wouldn’t plan on going in there for a while if I were you. Just giving you fair warning." Lanie popped a prune in her mouth and thought if she timed it right she wouldn’t have to wait on the pot but a minute or two.

"When...if...you ever get done, I could use your help, mother. The boys will be here tomorrow and I want the house clean." Lanie watched as her daughter wiped the table with one of Sam’s socks.

"They live half the month in a van with their unemployed father. This is fucking Nirvana as far as they’re concerned." Lanie paused, feeling the pressure of the prunes settle in. "Why the hell do the courts allow that, anyway?"

Spring shrugged. "I think he’s sleeping with one of the social workers again. I can’t figure out why else they’d let him keep shared custody."

Lanie licked her lips. She knew why. "Jason has a way about him. Even I’ve felt his sex appeal."

"God, mother!" Spring frowned. "But I have to agree with you." Spring leaned back against the counter and wiped the sock to her forehead. "I think Jason is going to try and get more child support. He says his restless leg syndrome makes working impossible."

Gurgle, gurgle, thump, thump.
The prunes were knocking. But Lanie wasn’t about to leave her daughter feeling unsupported. "What? That’s nuts! The whole court system has gone to hell, I tell you. They should make that man get a fucking job. Perry Mason never would have allowed this."

Spring groaned. "I’m not about to have the Perry Mason argument with you. Again."

"You could turn him in for selling dope," Lanie suggested, hoping to draw the conversation to the close. She looked fleetingly down the hall in the direction of the toilet.

"He doesn’t sell. I don’t even know if he uses anymore." Spring searched the entryway closet, and Lanie watched as she moved her collection of boas from side to side. "Do we own a vacuum?"

Lanie leaned back and laughed. "Where do you think I buy mine from? You think I put a rolling paper under my pillow and the reefer fairy pays me a visit each month?"

Spring gritted her teeth and stormed towards Lanie. "If you ever, ever say those things in front of Sam, the boys, or the social workers who pay me those lovely visits, I will boot you out so fast you won’t have time to wipe the scuff marks from your butt."

"It’s for medical use anyway. It’s not like I’m doing it cuz I like it."

Spring looked at her sideways. "Insomnia hardly qualifies as a medical emergency. If you wouldn’t play video games all night you might sleep."

Lanie crossed her arms and stared at Spring. "What crawled up your butt this morning? Sam still not giving you any?"

"No, but that’s not my problem." Spring looked at the wastebasket with the shredded letters. "Things are difficult right now, Mom. My life isn’t turning out anything like I planned."

Lanie looked from Spring to the
No Smoking
sign Sam had scotch taped up on the kitchen wall. "Whose is?" she asked and trotted to the bathroom.

Ten

It didn’t take John more than one full week to realize that coming to Phoenix had been a mistake. The employment application ad had been misleading.