The Evolution of Love

by Lucy Jane Bledsoe

  “I appreciate the relationship advice. But I’m just trying to put two and two together. Or maybe it’s three and three. You take a rather arduous journey, by plane and crazy car and foot, to a region leveled by an earthquake. Who does that? That’s one. The look on your face after your little romp with the Electra-Glide guy. What was his name? Doesn’t matter. That’s two. You did mention that your bonobo friend has also traveled from afar to arrive in Berkeley. Three. What’s up with you and Tom?”

  “Why are you changing the subject?” Lily asked.

  “Why are you changing the subject?”

  Lily couldn’t help it; she grinned at her sister. Vicky clapped her hands and shouted, “Ah-ha! Got ya!”

  15

  As Lily carried her bike up the steps to Joyce’s front porch, she realized that someone was coming up behind her. Annie didn’t bother with the pretense of mugging her this time. She stood next to Lily, both of them dripping rainwater, waiting for her to finish unlocking the door.

  “What’s up?” Lily asked.

  “I’m hungry.”

  “I didn’t see you at dinner tonight.”

  “I missed it.”

  “That wasn’t smart.”

  “Do you have anything here I could eat?”

  Lily rolled the wet bike in after Annie and propped it against the wall, making a mental note to mop the drips off the hardwood floor. After tossing her soaked army jacket on the armchair, Annie touched everything, pulling out drawers, trying light switches and testing the TV remote, pressing the buttons in rapid succession, as if multiple clicks would make it work. She looked under the sleeping bag on the couch.

  When her hand gripped the brass doorknob to Joyce’s bedroom, Lily said, “Off-limits. Come on back to the kitchen. I’ll make you some supper. Then you have to go.”

  Annie followed Lily into the kitchen where she finally stood still, watching. Lily had a hunk of cheese, a gooey bit of honeycomb, and a loaf of bread she’d bought from street vendors. The food was meant to be her morning meal for the week. She sliced the bread and cheese and laid it out on the table with the honeycomb and a knife.

  Annie ate slowly, carefully, almost reverently. Lily didn’t stop her from finishing the piece of cheese and every crumb of bread. She left a bit of honeycomb.

  “Now you have to go.”

  Annie stood and stretched. “Why?”

  “Because you can’t be here.”

  Annie’s back straightened and her eyes flat-lined. “I want some milk.”

  “I don’t have any.”

  “Water.”

  After she drained one and then a second glass of water, Annie tore off a paper towel and wiped her mouth. She wadded the towel and handed it to Lily. She pulled up her purple leggings and tugged at her red T-shirt, arranging it around her chubby midsection. She popped her knuckles.

  “Where are your parents?” Lily asked.

  “Fighting terrorism.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Are you deaf or something?”

  “It’s time for you to go.”

  “Where am I supposed to sleep tonight?”

  “I can’t help you with that.”

  Annie walked to the window in the kitchen door and looked out. “I love plums.”

  “I’ll bring you some when they’re ripe. Come to the church tomorrow for your dinner. Time to go now.”

  Annie headed down the hall, and Lily thought she was leaving at last. Instead, she stopped in the living room, looked at the wadded sleeping bag, and scanned the floor, as if considering where she might sleep. Lily picked up the soggy green army jacket and held it out, but Annie folded her arms across her chest, hugging herself. Then, in three quick steps, she was back at Joyce’s bedroom door. She flung it open and belly-flopped onto the bed, letting out a long groan that could have been pain, could have been pleasure. She lay motionless except for her right hand, which stroked the burgundy chenille throw.

  “I can sleep here,” she said in almost a whisper.

  “You can leave now is what you can do. Come on, Annie. Get up.”

  She closed her eyes, her round body sinking deeply into the mattress. Lily wouldn’t be able to physically move the girl off of Joyce’s bed, even if she tried. She stared at the mess of adolescence, wondering what she was supposed to do. Were there any functioning agencies she could call? Would she call them, if there were?

  “Annie. Please.”

  Keys clattered against the wood of the front door, and then the deadbolt scuffed along its little burrow. The door swung open; Joyce stepped over the threshold and paused. Her gaze went right to the puddle of rainwater on the hardwood floor under the bike. For an absurd moment, Lily mentally scrambled for a way to apologize for possible damage. But Joyce’s gaze had already lasered across the living room and through the open bedroom door. Then, hushed and angry, “What’s going on?”

  Annie leapt off the bed, and Joyce shot into the kitchen, returning with a knife.

  “Joyce! Hold up. This is Annie. I know her.”

  Joyce waved the knife at Annie. “Get out.”

  “You’re overreacting.” Lily reached for the knife but Joyce jerked it away. Strands of frosted hair fell across her eyes.

  “She’s just a girl who eats at Trinity Church. She followed me home and—”

  “Home? You’re a guest. And I told you to stay away from that church.”

  “Okay. Okay.” Lily took Annie’s elbow. “You have to go.”

  Annie did a good imitation of a gangster girl, but really, you only had to look a second longer to see that she was just a child. Her long eyelashes fluttered against sorrow, and the dimple at the side of her mouth twitched with fear. Lily could feel her trembling as she guided her toward the door. “I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”

  Lily shut the door after Annie and noisily slid the deadbolt to reassure Joyce. She pressed her forehead against the door for a moment and then turned. “I’m sorry.”

  “She was on my bed.”

  “I know. I was trying to move her. She’s just a hungry child.”

  “Hungry? Did you notice the size of that girl?”

  “Please put down the knife.”

  Joyce sat on the couch and set the knife at her feet. She put her face in her hands. Then she lifted her head, clenched and unclenched her jaw. “I’m sorry. But just hungry? Do you know what hungry is driving people all over the East Bay to do? And child? Don’t be so naïve. She’s at least sixteen. She could have taken everything I own. It’s not unheard of for sixteen to murder. Yes, don’t look at me that way. Murder. For a sandwich, too. Maybe you haven’t heard what’s been going on.” The veins in her throat strained against her white skin and her voice had climbed to a squeak. She stopped and inhaled more oxygen, then continued in a measured voice. “I’m sorry, but I need you to leave. I just can’t take this risk anymore.”

  “Now? It’s almost dark.”

  “You can stay tonight. But that’s it.”

  “I found Vicky.”

  “Good. I’m glad to hear it. So now you can leave. Go home.” She picked up the knife and waved it at the door, as if home were a few blocks away. “From what I hear, you have plenty to attend to there.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Running away doesn’t solve anything. Just go home.”

  Lily started shaking her head. The sensation was like an icy pinprick at the back of her skull, directly into her cerebellum. As if she hovered somewhere on the ceiling of the room, outside of herself, Lily watched the spot of cold colonize her brain, her chest, her bowels.

  “I figured you knew,” Joyce said with a trace of dread that didn’t disguise the dose of smugness. “Fair Oaks is a small town. There’re no secrets.”

  “Who are you?” Lily asked, suddenly outraged. Joyce, with
her tight face, her assumptions and insinuations! She tossed the house key onto the floor and pushed her bike out the door. She pedaled off into the dusk light, riding hard, not stopping, except for the times she had to portage the bike over or around debris, until she arrived, hot and sweaty, on Ridge Road.

  Vicky was supposed to have been out by midnight, but Lily hoped that she’d ignored that edict as she did most others. No one answered the door, and the broken basement window had been boarded up. Lily’s key didn’t work.

  She sat on the front porch, under the eaves, and pulled out her phone. She looked at it for a long time, breathing deeply, taking in the astringent scent of the nearby junipers. Medicinal. Corrective.

  “Did you get my message?” she asked when Tom answered. “I found Vicky!”

  “Yeah. I got it. Thank god.”

  “I know. Thank god. I just feel so overwhelmed with…”

  “With what?”

  He had to ask? “Relief. Gratitude.”

  “Yeah. So she’s fine?”

  “It’s…it’s complicated.”

  “Complicated how?”

  “She doesn’t have anywhere to live. And she’s broke.” No need to go into the Gloria and Paul story. Nor her own. If he could see her now: getting ready to sleep outside in a black plastic garbage bag.

  “So…what’s your plan?”

  “She won’t come back to Fair Oaks with me.”

  “I guess that’s her call.”

  “I can’t just leave her out here homeless.”

  There was another one of those long silences that were becoming staples of their conversations. Then Tom said, “Why are we talking about Vicky?”

  “Maybe because I came out here to find her?”

  “I think we need to be honest with each other,” Tom said.

  “Okay. We always are.”

  “No. I don’t think we have been. Not you. And not me.”

  Not him?

  “We’ll talk when I get home,” Lily said.

  “When is that going to be?”

  Vicky was homeless. She was also in the crosshairs of Paul’s fury. Lily couldn’t leave her out here in that mess. But Tom had asked for honesty, and the truth was, she didn’t want to leave. Not yet. The dilation of her world was thrilling, even as she sat in a garbage bag, homeless herself. She wanted at least a few more evenings in the noisy, hot, sweaty, clanging community room at Trinity Church where people shared vats of food and their wildest stories.

  “I don’t know,” she admitted.

  “I don’t think you’re coming back.”

  “I’ve only been gone seven days.”

  “I’m lonely. I’ve been lonely for years. You write these long letters to Travis. You take long walks out past the field. You’re always looking outward.”

  “No. Tom. I just think—” But Lily couldn’t finish that sentence; she had no idea what she thought about her marriage anymore. What she loved best about Tom was his steadfast truthfulness, his clear-sightedness, but she didn’t want this truth-telling now.

  He blurted, “I’m seeing Angelina.”

  For a hot moment, she thought he was joking. She really did. A cruel, angry joke. Angelina was a good five years older than Tom, spoke in aphorisms, did that clucking thing in the back of her throat, and passed all her vacation weeks at church camp. “You can’t be serious.”

  Tom remained silent.

  “Angelina?” They used to make fun of her duck walk. How, despite her churchy ways, she always wore V-neck sweaters that showcased her impressive bust, the little gold cross glinting in her cleavage.

  “What am I supposed…?” he started and stopped.

  “Fifteen fucking years.”

  “Come home, then.”

  So this was a threat?

  “I need—” he started, the last word fraying.

  “What?” Lily shouted. “What do you need, Tom?”

  He couldn’t answer the question, but she knew the answer. He didn’t need her. He needed someone, apparently anyone, to stabilize his life. She clicked off her phone.

  All night long, Lily lay under the juniper bushes in her plastic bag, her cheek pressed into the soil, shivering with cold and anger. Little bits of memory multiplied, brightened, came to life, breeding inside her like an algae bloom. The plates of cookies Angelina brought to the lock shop. The way Tom enthused about her honesty, her cheerfulness, her stalwartness. He’d said she was the perfect employee. Lily should have known, seen.

  But Angelina? The name pooled like vomit in her stomach. The jarring dissonance between herself and that woman, who they were as people, was a cacophony of shock. He might as well have said he was seeing Mother Teresa.

  “Come home, then,” he’d said. And if she did, what exactly did he intend to do with Angelina? Shuttle her off to a permanent church retreat?

  At the first gray light of dawn, Lily dragged herself out from under the juniper bushes, not wanting to be found by the Floreses—or worse, Paul—and rode her bicycle down to the library. She sat on the sidewalk in front, in her black plastic bag and damp clothing, surrounded by the drizzly morning fog, waiting for the doors to open.

  Lily remembered standing on the sidewalk in front of the Fair Oaks library with her third-grade class. The teacher had asked what one building would be the most important to save if a town burned down. The children all wagged their hands, eager to answer that the building right there, in front of them, would be the most important. “That’s right,” the teacher had affirmed in her slow, edifying voice. “Why? Because the library contains all the wisdom people have amassed over the centuries, and we wouldn’t have to start from square one again.” Lily had been very impressed by the word amassed.

  Now she wondered what exactly square one was. Drawing on cave walls? Wearing pelts? Gathering roots and berries, hunting gophers and bison? Had our cathedrals and skyscrapers, our fashion and multiple flavors of chocolate, moved us onto square two? With people on several continents ravaging one another, with couples the world over betraying one another, what good had all the wisdom amassed in the libraries done for humankind?

  Did anyone even know what love was?

  Tom used to say, “Love is what I feel for you.”

  As a child, Lily thought love was attacking her sister’s attackers.

  She’d told Kalisha that chocolate pudding might be love.

  For Van Gogh, love was an ear.

  Travis said sex is love. If that were true, then did Tom love Angelina?

  When the library opened, Lily went directly to the encyclopedia and looked it up. The word love is derived from Germanic forms of the Sanskrit word lubh. The article went on to say that the word lubh, even back to its Sanskrit, has too wide a range of translations to be truly useful. The Greeks tried to solve this problem by having three terms: eros, philia, and agape.

  These sounded to Lily like types of wine. Didn’t the wine merchant say wine was love? Not exactly. He said it was poetry, friendship, art, and history. That’s getting pretty close, isn’t it? But that was the problem with the question, What is love? Close is easy. Lots of people get close. Getting it right, exactly right, is what no one has ever done before, not even Jesus or Buddha.

  Lily knew she loved Tom. She knew he loved her. And yet their marriage seemed more like an institution than a feeling. What she wanted—what she needed—was the feeling.

  16

  The guy who’d bought the Harley Electra-Glide, Wesley, sat at one of the long oak tables in the far corner of the reading room, holding a book with both hands, as if it anchored him. He never looked up, no matter how much she stared. There was so much sadness in his spare camber, the slightly caved chest. His black hair looked fluffy with static electricity, as if just washed. It was calming to watch him across the room as she inched forward in the line for the computers. />
  Lily printed the email Tom had sent last week with the plane ticket confirmation code. “I forked out the dough for an open-ended ticket,” he’d written. That must have killed him, paying extra. Seriously, what exactly was he going to do with Angelina if she used the ticket and came home? She folded the paper into a tiny square and pushed it deep into her front pocket.

  Then she pulled off the garbage bag, although it was arguable whether her clothes were more presentable than the bag, and stuffed it into her backpack. She combed her fingers through her hair, which was decidedly not fluffy, though she’d washed it yesterday, albeit in cold water with bar soap.

  Wesley didn’t look up until she was standing right at his side.

  “Hi. I’m Lily.”

  “Yeah, I remember. How’re you doing?”

  He had a brooding kind of smile. She fought an urge to tell him about Tom, managing, just barely, to curb herself. He had a heap of his own troubles. He didn’t need to hear about hers.

  “You haven’t left for Eugene yet.”

  “I thought I’d wait for the rain to stop.”

  “I have your book.” She dug Orlando out of her backpack.

  “I wondered where I’d left it.”

  “My high school Language Arts teacher was so passionate about this book.”

  “How about you? Did you like it?”

  “I loved it. The time-traveling androgynous character reminded me of Vicky.”

  Wesley laughed. “That’s cool when an old book reminds you of something in your life now. I wouldn’t say it’s Woolf’s most accomplished novel, but hands down it’s her most daring one. I think it’s brilliant.” His deep voice kept being a surprise up against his skinny sadness.

  “You said you were writing a novel. What’s it about?”

  “Oh. It’s just a story I post serially.”

  “Funny or sad?”

  “It’s goofy. It’s called Wings on Fire. Before the earthquake, I had three hundred twenty-four readers. But since I started The Earthquake Chronicles, my readership for both blogs has skyrocketed. The cross-pollination thing.”