Outside the Ordinary World

by Dori Ostermiller

  “I feel like you’re punishing me.”

  “Good God, do you think I’m getting some sort of— Do you think this is what I want?”

  “What do you want?” I round the corner of Lupine and it occurs to me that I’m walking the same escape route I go solo each night, so I veer left, just to be different.

  “I think it’s what you want that matters right now.”

  “That’s not fair,” I snap. I’m walking furiously, hunched against the brittle air. Light snow starts sifting down again like dust. Will it ever stop? I can’t believe I live in a place where the weather hurts, that I’m smoking with a fever and a sore throat. Can’t believe I’m being dumped by the man I’ve risked everything for—don’t believe it, really. His voice has lost its usual resonance. It’s like he’s speaking practiced lines through a metal tube.

  “Sylvia?” he says after a minute. “Are you still there?”

  “Fuck you,” I conclude idiotically, dropping my half-smoked cigarette into a storm drain. “Isn’t it obvious I don’t know what I want?” I swerve onto the dirt road running beside the Fullers’ barn, straight into the hard-bitten cornfield. “Anyway, I don’t believe you.”

  “Oh? Why not?”

  He’s chuckling, the bastard. “Because your diaphragm’s not in it,” I say. Tears freeze on my cheekbones as I crunch through the corn stubble. “And you wouldn’t be laughing if this were really the end.”

  “Where are you, darling?” It’s his normal voice again—the one I loved even before I loved him.

  “I’m in the middle of an arctic cornfield. And you’re probably sitting by the fire, right?” I close my eyes. I can see him there so clearly in his baggy pants and black sweatshirt, wineglass grazing the voluptuous wave of his mouth. I can see every vein in the warm hands, the thick stubble on his neck below the close-trimmed beard, white crescent scar over his left eye, the almost cruel joy of his smile—easy edges of his front teeth beside the wolfish canines.

  If Emmie’s Wish Fairy were to appear just now and say, “Go ahead, make your wish—” I’d be hard-pressed to utter a single thing. I want to be burrowed beside him by the fire, his fingers tugging the roots of my hair, the edge of his beard scraping my throat. At the same time, I’m desperate to be back in the life I’ve chosen. I want our family back to normal and the dream revived. I want to want my husband again. Want us happy and unscathed. In the next breath, I just want to walk alone along some windswept sea for weeks, never speaking. There are so many things I want, and each comes at a price I can’t pay.

  “I want to be good,” I tell Tai, winded. “I’m so bloody tired of feeling guilty.”

  He’s quiet for so long, I wonder if he’s hung up on me. Then I hear the breath leave his chest. “All right, Sylvia.” He sighs. “Then that’s what I want for you, too.”

  I slump down in the snow, sit right down in the damp middle of the road and put my head against my knees, tiny flakes collecting on the sleeves of my black jacket. It’s nearly dark, and my aching hands are finally numb with cold. I’ve walked too far. Nathan and the girls will be wondering where I’ve gone. They’ll want me to see the end of the movie with them—the part where Maria and the children hide from the police in the Abbey and then they all burst out triumphant over the shining Alps—a happy ending; the kind we all want.

  “Please don’t tell me what you’re about to tell me,” Theresa says when I finally call her back in the middle of January. “Just lie to me, Sylvie.”

  “What kind of lies do you want, my friend?”

  “Tell me you quit the crazy e-mail affair, that you didn’t sleep with the tree guy—that you came to your senses.”

  I click off the public radio background drone, slide on my sunglasses against the morning’s glare. “Okay.” I sigh. “Nathan and I are about to go to Portugal for our second honeymoon. When we get back from our trip, we’re moving to our finished house. So, I’m calling to see if I can buy a couple of horses, to put in our renovated barn this spring.”

  “Shit, Sylvie,” she says after a pause. “I hope your lies to Nathan are better than that.”

  We’re both quiet as I drive through Haydenville. It hurts to grip the steering wheel, so I’m driving with my knees.

  “And he’s not a tree guy,” I sulk.

  “Oh, Sy.”

  “Anyway, I’ve resolved that it’s over,” I tell her, but it comes out sounding like a question, misery welling between my words.

  “When have resolutions ever worked for you?”

  “Wow. I hope you’re a bit more supportive to your therapy clients.”

  “I’m sorry. I just—I wish you and Nathan could recognize what you have, before it’s too late.” I hear the clank of dishes and picture her in the kitchen of the old Vermont farmhouse she inherited when Davey died and her parents moved to Florida—the house she hoped to fill with children, if only she’d found the right man. It doesn’t seem quite fair, the math on this problem; no wonder she’s fed up with me. “Besides, I’m not your therapist, Sy; I’m the friend who dragged you out of Hollywood when you were hell-bent on self-destructing, remember?”

  “You’re starting to break up,” I say, truthfully. “I’m losing you.”

  “How convenient. Where are you?”

  “I’m on my way to Ashfield. I’m visiting our neighbor and meeting the phone guy, okay?”

  “Well, call me when you’re out of the hills.” The line crackles. “I’m not done lecturing you.”

  I toss the phone into my bag, trying to remember resolutions that stuck, wanting to prove Theresa wrong—if only in my mind. Surely there were times when, full of resolve like clear March sunlight, I kept a promise, did the right thing? I got myself out of L.A., didn’t I? Got into a graduate program, married Nathan and got through two pregnancies? Started a business? Clearly there were times when I managed to quit whatever was killing me just then: the cigarettes or the drugs or the man, whoever he was, that was tearing me up or turning away.

  Back then, I only loved the ones who couldn’t love me, the ones who’d devour you for their lunch break and roll out of bed, car keys jangling. They brought lines of white powder and bottles of Wild Turkey, straggled into my life mean and battle-bloody, their busted childhoods like limbs needing amputation. When they started to get too restless or needy or mean, when I’d had enough of sucking them off or washing their filthy laundry, when I sensed them inching away or getting too close, I’d put an end to it—get in the car, change my number, tell them I had AIDS, say I was married. Then I’d walk around the city, leaning into my losses, peering at people in cafés and bus stops, deciding they were all just as lost as I. Especially the ones who clutched their lovers’ peacoats, dangled along on sleeves.

  Back then, at least I had the famished comfort of never caring too much. Now it seems there’s too much to care about—everything to lose.

  Though her bus is parked next to the house, Roz Benton doesn’t come to the door. I’m just about to leave the banana bread on the porch when I hear her voice chiming from the back meadow. I follow it around the garden, through the goat-trampled snow to her barn.

  “There, there, darlings. Don’t go abusing one another—you’re trampling your feed, Dalton. Good Lord, look how pregnant you are, Bitsy, fat little whore. Get off her—”

  “Excuse me, Roz.” I poke my head into the warm animal stench of the goat house. “Sorry to disturb you—the girls and I made some banana bread.” I hold out the foil-wrapped packages. “We heard what you did for Nathan.”

  She’s still patting the pregnant nanny goat, staring, so I continue, “The week before Christmas? When Nathan fell off the ladder?”

  “Oh, yes,” she says, waving off my words. “Always a struggle over at that place, isn’t there?” She pours feed into several pie tins, then comes toward me, beaming weirdly. “Let’s make some tea, shall we?”

  “Actually, I really can’t stay. I’ve got to—”

  “You can tell me all about
the man who fell—off the roof, did you say?” As she pushes past me up the hill, I check my impulse to run, to be done with the exchange, free of this barmy old woman. She’s got no one but those damn goats, I tell myself. And she did save your husband’s life. I sigh and follow her into the kitchen, where she busies herself with a teapot and loose tea, hand-thrown mugs and milk. Finally taking my packages, she peels one loaf from its foil, sets it on a warped pine board and cuts off four thick slices.

  “If dear John can’t keep up with the repairs, he ought to sell the place,” she remarks, setting the bread on the table. My stomach twists. Is she really so far gone? Or was it just a slip?

  “You mean Nathan,” I correct. Her aqua eyes drift to mine. “Nathan and I own the house now, Roz.” I catch myself speaking as if she’s hearing impaired.

  She turns to retrieve the boiling kettle, forgetting the oven mitt and scorching her hand, which she shakes rapidly in the air.

  “Here, I’ll get it,” I offer. “Why don’t you sit—I bet you’ve been working all morning.”

  “I’m just fine, my dear.” But she sits anyways, sucking the burnt finger. “You’re the one who needs to relax.”

  I laugh as I fill the teapot with steaming water. “That’s probably true.” I bring our mugs, the pot, the honey and milk to her round table. Steam curls between us.

  “Of course it’s true—just look at you. Your aura’s all muddied.”

  “I wouldn’t be at all surprised.” I smile, offering her some bread.

  “Well, it is. You’re the one with the divided life line—I remember now.”

  “Yes, Roz—I’m Sylvia.” I reach across the table, touch her wrist. I had no idea it was this bad. She takes my sore hand and turns it, just as she did before, staring into my palm. Then she reaches for my left hand and does the same.

  “Plenty of passion, but changeable, divided,” she mutters. “You do like to complicate things. The heart line’s broken—see these three shooting up from it?” She nods, sucking her front teeth. “Two lines of attachment—hmm. The past has more sway than it ought. And you’ve got this vertical one cutting deeply through your life line. I’ve not seen one like that before. Did you say you were a Pisces?”

  “Leo.”

  “Well, the two hands are distinctly different, so there’s hope.” She releases my hand and blows on her tea. “Everything you’ve been running from is before you.”

  “What do you mean?” I ask, becoming interested.

  Her eyes, unblinking, start to water. “You have work to do.”

  I sip my tea, shifting in my seat. “You know, my hands often hurt,” I tell her, hoping for some grain of insight, despite my skepticism.

  “Mmm. The hands are self-expression, dear. Creativity, efficacy, change…” She moves her own root-like hand through the air as if to shape it.

  “So, what do you think it might mean, one’s hands aching?” I try again.

  “You have work to do,” she concludes unsatisfactorily. I sigh, setting down my cup. I want to tell her that I have literal work to do—I must clean the studio, balance my books, prepare for winter workshops, which start next week. But I’m afraid my to-do list would read like Arabic to her. As I’m preparing to make a cordial exit, she startles from her seat.

  “Where’s Lucy?” she asks, beginning to search around the small room.

  “You mean one of your goats?”

  “No, no, my girl.” She’s suddenly frantic, peering under the table, behind the ratty couch in the adjoining room, then back to the kitchen, grasping her rough skirt.

  “Who are you looking for, Rosalyn?” I stand, unsure if I should offer to help, or call someone. Should I take my leave now, while she’s so distracted?

  “Lucy—Lucy Kauffman,” she snaps, swishing past me and peering into the bathroom, the mudroom, the hall closet. “She was here just a moment ago!”

  It hits me, finally, and I understand that she’s stalking a child’s ghost. Haunted by memory. When she sweeps by me again, I reach for her elbow, try to hold her steady.

  “Do you mean John Kauffman’s daughter?” I ask. “Is that who you’re looking for?”

  “Here she was, just a moment ago—you mustn’t let them take her!” My heart contracts with pity as I guide her back to her seat, both of us breathing hard.

  “It’s okay, Rosalyn. The Kauffmans don’t live here anymore.” I rub her forearm, trying to hide my own alarm. “Let’s finish our tea.” She continues to glance around the room with a folded brow, presses her left hand over her face.

  “What did you say your name was?” she whispers, receding into the chair cushions.

  “Sylvia.” I sit beside her, a fast chill rolling along my spine. “Listen, Roz, that was a long, long time ago,” I try. “Lucy’s safe now, she’s—she’s safe,” I stammer.

  After another moment, she stands briskly—all business now—and retrieves something from one of the high shelves near the fridge. “Here, Sylvia,” she says, clear as glass, and hands me a small bundle wrapped in brown paper, tied with green string. “I’ve been meaning to give this to you.”

  “What is it?” I ask, but I can already smell the familiar strong scent.

  “White sage.” Then she begins to clear our dishes, though I haven’t finished my tea or touched my bread. “It’s for energy cleansing. You’ll need to burn it around the foundation. You’ll certainly need to do that.”

  “Thank you.” I’m at a loss, flabbergasted by the seismic shifts in her demeanor. I bring my cup to the sink, pour out the leftover tea, shaking my head.

  “And now, my dear, if you’ll excuse me, I should really milk my poor goats.”

  “Yes, of course.” I retrieve my coat from the chair back. “Thanks for the tea, Rosalyn.”

  As I’m making my way through the snow to my van, she appears in the side doorway, wiping her hands on a lavender dish towel. “Give my love to John,” she warbles. I turn, my lips parting to correct her—then I stop myself.

  “Did you know him well?” I ask instead. She cocks her head, so I try again, “Do you know the Kauffmans well?”

  “Oh, yes.” She’s shutting her eyes on the morning’s white brilliance, nodding. “He was my lover,” she says, clutching her tea towel; then she slips back into the kitchen.

  My mind is buzzing as I bump down Roz’s long driveway, take a left onto Route 112. As the pieces of the puzzle clunk into place, I reach for the phone, wanting to tell Nathan what I’ve discovered. I can just imagine him shaking his head, chuckling. So Kauffman was doing Roz Benton—the old devil…. Then I remember I have no cell service up here, and maybe it’s for the best. The implications of what I’ve learned are troubling indeed. Did Jennie Kauffman know that her husband was having an affair? Is that why she drove herself and Lucy into the lake? Did Kauffman stay on all those years out of grief or inertia, or because he was in love with Roz and wanted to be near her? I imagine the two of them, slowly going mad in their cocoon of secrecy and remorse, losing track of years while the house and grounds fell to rubble around them. I laugh aloud, though it’s not the slightest bit funny.

  Approaching the turnoff to Plainfield, I’m overwhelmed by the need to see Tai. With no time to hesitate or reason, I swing sharply, dangerously onto State Highway 116. Just for a moment, I tell myself. Just for one cup of tea and a talk—that’s all, Sylvie. That’s all you can have.

  But I’m already regretting it as I spot four cars in his driveway. Aside from Tai’s Saab and landscaping truck, there’s a Ford Ranger and a CR-V. He’s talking to two young men in work clothes; they’re all staring down at oversized sheets of paper rolled out on the hood of his car—blueprints for something, I’m guessing. I’m about to turn around when he spots me and comes forward, frowning. I crack my window. “Sorry,” I say. “I was going to turn around.”

  “No, no, it’s fine,” he responds. “These guys are about to leave—I’ll just be a few minutes.”

  “It doesn’t seem like a good id
ea, Tai. I was just being impulsive.”

  “I like your impulses. Can you give me five minutes?”

  I park near the shed, then wander behind the house, not wanting to engage with his workers, not wanting them to consider me or my errand. I pick my way across his stone patio and down the narrow garden paths, recently shoveled. The sun heats my shoulders; the snow is melting into tiny rivulets that run wild through his winter garden, the breeze unseasonably warm. Before me, the Berkshires roll west in a thousand shades of mauve and gray and chocolate.

  I stop beside the labyrinth, which he’s cleared of snow. It’s a huge, circular, mazelike structure, about a foot high, and looks ancient, though of course it’s not. Perhaps that’s the appeal, I muse—a shape that recalls some piece of our deep, communal past. I imagine how he milled each stone from the earth, contemplated and shaped each before adding it to the pattern—it must have taken months. I’m making my way toward the entrance when I hear him crunching up behind me. Yuki appears and stuffs her cold nose into my ungloved hand, then bounds over the landscape, stopping here and there to poke her tongue into dissolving snow.

  “It’s so warm today,” I say, squinting into the shining east as he comes near. “Must be January thaw—seems to happen every year around now.”

  “It’s global warming, darling, as sure as I have this annoying hard-on,” Tai says in his loamy chuckle. “What brings you?” He reaches to push a curl off my face—a routine gesture that suddenly irks me. I bat his hand away, resisting the urge to kiss him. It’s been twenty-eight days and my heart is stomping, energy shooting through the soles of my feet, scorching the frozen ground.

  “I’m not suggesting climate change is a liberal hoax.” I smile. “But this is a typical New England January thaw.” I can’t fathom why I’m talking about the weather. I’d thought I wanted to tell him about Roz and the Kauffmans, but now that I’m here the idea of such gossip seems ludicrous. “There’s a storm predicted for tonight,” I say brainlessly.