by Robin Greene
k
I’ve been lying in the sunroom for over an hour. Thinking that the past is like looking down a deep well. Yet I keep looking, drawn by its cool darkness and dank magnetic pull.
I sit up, hungry, deciding to make myself a cheese omelet and toast for dinner.
Jake trots with me into the kitchen, reminding me that he, too, is hungry, so I get his bowl, fix his meal, place it on his mat. But now, suddenly, I have no energy for the omelet, so I sit at the kitchen table. “Dad,” I call aloud. And he appears.
I’m back in South Shelburne, where Cal, still a toddler, and I are visiting my parents. Nick, having a long paper to write for a graduate class this weekend, has remained at home in Endicott, grateful for the time to work. We’re both in graduate school at SUNY Binghamton, now Binghamton University.
When I come upstairs, having put Cal to bed in his port-a-crib, I join my parents at the kitchen table, where we talk mostly about their upcoming move to Florida. They’ve signed with a realtor and must empty, clean, and paint the house over the next month. They’re hoping the house sells quickly as they’ve found a luxury condo they’d like to rent, possibly purchase, in Lauderhill, a suburb of Fort Lauderdale.
Dennis, a night manager for a commercial cleaning company located in World Trade Tower II, is working tonight and won’t return until almost 9:00 tomorrow, Saturday morning. This visit to my old South Shelburne house might be my last.
For some reason, the conversation shifts to Dennis as my mom explains that he’s gambling again and what little good jewelry she has left has been locked in their safety deposit box. She bows her head, hands folded on the table as if in prayer. Then she stands up, walks over to the prep area, nearby but enclosed by overhead cabinets, with only the pass-through connecting the table and the working part of the kitchen.
But just as I think of how odd her action is, my father clears his throat. “We need to tell you something, Rae. Something important. Something we should have told you years ago.”
My mom opens the dishwasher and unloads. I hear the clanking of plates and silverware, ordinary household sounds, but carefully muted so as not to wake Cal perhaps, or perhaps so that she can distract herself but hear the difficult conversation she knows will follow.
“What?” I ask. My father lowers his head, plays with a paper napkin on the table, folding it, then tearing it along the creases into neat geometrical shapes, squares and rectangles.
“Do you remember when we were robbed in the apartment, Rae? When Mrs. Goldstein brought you home from nursery school that day?”
“Of course,” I say, staring at him, slumping now, mechanically dividing the last half of the napkin.
“Well, what we didn’t tell you, because you were too young, because we needed to protect you, because we loved you…”
“What?” I ask. “What else happened?” But I already know.
My dad takes a deep breath, lifts his gaze from the napkin, looks at me, his eyes saddened, wearied. “The assailant forced Dennis to perform oral sex on him. At gun point. I mean the guy held a gun to Dennis’s head and made him do this.”
My mother appears by the table. “We should have told you a long time ago. But we could never find the right moment.” I see her standing in her pink zippered duster. “We’re sorry. I’m sorry.”
Perhaps I should get up, go over to hug her. Reassure her that not telling me for all these years was the right thing to do. But I don’t. The moment is not about her. It’s about secrets. How they reveal themselves. It’s about impact. Collusion. About things too awful to talk about. Also, it’s about Dennis tying me up. Dennis’s “mad” and “glad.” His lying, his gambling. Perhaps more.
“Why tell me now?” I ask.
“Mom and I wanted you to know why we’ve helped Dennis so much, how responsible we’ve felt for him, his problems. Mom should have been home that day when Dennis came home from school.”
“Rae,” my mother begins, her voice soft but clear. “We’re giving him $5,000 when the house sells so that he can start his adult life in New York without us, when we move. If he mentions the money, we want you to know why. Dennis won’t be coming with us. This is our time for a new beginning.”
My dad chimes in: “We can’t afford to give you any money. Just him. Even that’s going to be a stretch. But we want you to know why, the history.”
He and my mom look directly at me. Waiting for some outburst? I wonder. Some huge response? I move my chair back, away from the table so as to speak to them both. “This makes sense,” I say. “This explains a whole lot.”
“Are you upset, Rae? With us? Dennis? Just tell us what you’re thinking. We wanted you to know before we left New York. But this is difficult, very difficult for us. You can’t imagine.”
“Nick and I could use some money,” I say.
“I only wish we could give it to you,” my mom says. “But we can’t, simply can’t.”
“Dennis isn’t quite launched yet,” my dad adds. “You know that. He needs our help. We just wanted you to know why.”
I stand up. “Thanks for telling me. I wish you’d told me a long time ago. But that’s okay. I know now.” As I rise, my chair makes a scraping sound against the ceramic tile floor. I tuck it neatly back into its place under the table top. “I’m really tired, and Cal probably won’t sleep the night, so I’d better get to bed. I’m sorry about Dennis. I mean what happened.”
My father remains at the table, napkin now transformed into two small orderly piles of white squares and rectangles.
My mom backs away, allowing me access through the kitchen to the stairs so that I can descend to the guestroom where Cal sleeps. I wish I had something profound or forgiving to say. But I don’t. I only know that I must get out of the room, be alone. Something’s still missing, a puzzle piece, a memory, one that I can’t reach.
“I hear you,” my mom says. “I only hope that you’ll forgive us. Or understand, now that you’re a parent. We couldn’t tell you. We couldn’t do more than we did. But you know now. That’s what’s important.”
I’m halfway down the stairs when I hear my dad call after me, “I love you.” My mom repeats, “I love you.” I should call out the same: I love you. But the words are part of a liturgy I can’t perform.
twenty-seven
Days have passed and I’ve written nothing. I haven’t had the courage to face the page. It’s been a strange silent time with little contact from Nick, Will, or Cal. The days are so hot that I keep all the window blinds closed and the air conditioning set at seventy-two.
I’m watching TV, which I’ve been doing a lot, and it’s only midmorning. As a family, when Cal and Will were growing up, we had a policy of never turning on the TV until after dinner. Except for Saturday early morning cartoons that the kids were allowed to watch for a couple of hours.
I sit in front of some morning show, and the host, a well-dressed, good-looking generic woman in her late thirties, holds up a book and talks in an overly animated way about marriage.
“This book will change the way you relate to your spouse. Guaranteed. If men are from Mars and women from Venus, Marilyn’s book will guide you both safely to the same planet. Here, you’ll learn how to communicate in the same language and act with forgiveness, not grudges. I know with Brian…” she pauses slightly, turns, looks at a cameraman, then laughs are heard all around. “I know, I know,” she says. “The point is that Marilyn has answers, and all of us married people need answers. Right? After the break, Marilyn will be back to give us some of her answers. Let me tell you, they work.” The camera cuts to an Allstate insurance commercial in which a man assures us we’re in good hands.
So, what’s the problem between Nick and me? Are we still together? Why haven’t I been hearing from him? Are we from separate planets? Speaking different languages? Has our marriage finally unraveled?
I snap off the show. I’d turn on Hit and Miss, but last night I watched the last episode. I go upstairs, through the shado
wy house to my computer, having decided that I’ll inventory all the important people in my life—think about and write about—my relationship with them. Then, I’ll inventory all the important events in my life, sizing them up, determining their values and effects. Take stock. Get myself right.
First, though, I’ll shower, get dressed, make the bed. I feel disordered, like I’m losing it. Crazy and suicidal people, I’ve heard, let themselves and their homes fall into disarray. They stop caring. But I won’t let that happen.
Having made these decisions, I feel better, cheerful actually, as I get into the shower, let the hot water stream over me. I bring awareness to this moment—a shifting of attention—something I do when I meditate. But the challenge is to take this focused attention “off the cushion,” into daily life. There’s the difficulty. I breathe consciously and meditate. The water encourages this, the enclosed space of the shower stall encourages this, and I stand in the downpour, opening myself.
At the end of Anna Karenina, Levin, the fictional surrogate for Tolstoy, contemplates the nature of his life, of life itself.
“What is life’s meaning?” Levin asks plainly. As he struggles to answer, he realizes that the peasants have something to teach him. They live their work, which is tied to the natural world—the seasons and the physical labor of tending crops. Earlier in the book, Levin joins the peasants as they scythe wheat for harvest. The rhythms of bending, cutting, collecting, and moving from swath to swath create a transcendent experience for Levin, one that frees him from intense intellectual activity yet connects him to the earth and to his physical being.
By the book’s end, Levin connects this simple work to God. In sync with the rhythms of his labor, he’s in sync with the rhythms of life and the seasons—which become both literal and metaphorical. And here, Levin finds God.
After my lovely shower and my brief focused meditation, I sit at my computer, about to take inventory as I planned.
People first: Nick, Cal, Will, Jesse, Suzanne. Next: family of origin: mother, father, Dennis…Lydia? Yes. Julia, their first born? Yes. Hannah, whom I’ve never met? Yes. Friends: Sonya, Jackie, Claudia, Elizabeth, Joel, Phoebe, Donna…and newer friends: Naomi, Diana, Stephanie…great women I’ve met. But my list seems short. I stop.
I think about death. Suicide. Why?
The next list: “things I have”—a house, many books, a computer, a car—the list here is very short.
At the end of Anna Karenina, Levin becomes an existentialist—to do is to be. When he finds himself doing the physical, necessary, simple work, his life has meaning. It’s as if our existence is best felt in our muscles.
How would I do it? Anna throws herself under a train in a prolonged episode of desperation. She thinks she has no choice; Vronsky has lost interest in her, her husband won’t give her a divorce, she can’t love her daughter, and she’s lost her beloved son. After she tosses her bag and jumps beneath an oncoming train, timing her jump so that she falls in between its wheels, she immediately regrets her decision. Beneath the train, she realizes her suicide is a mistake. She wants to stand up but it’s too late.
I read over my inventory and think of each of the people on my list without me. Nick first. Yes, he’d miss me, feel guilty for not calling more often this summer, not realizing how desperate and depressed I’d become, but he’d move on. My death might even liberate him.
I think of Cal—he’d miss me but he’s married, perhaps thinking of a family of his own. Will, well, he’d take my suicide hard. My death would open a dark door. But he’ll marry one day—perhaps Suzanne—and find his way forward with his art.
My friends? Ultimately, they wouldn’t be affected. A few sad months, and I’d be an interesting story.
Life goes on without us. Inventory over, computer off.
k
I’m dressed now, in Ruby, driving north on Ramsey Street, which turns into Route 401, so I’m traveling the slow road to Raleigh. Why not?
Traveling about ten miles above the posted limit, I think of having an accident, driving off the road, steering into oncoming traffic, which would be selfish, so it’s a thought I immediately dismiss. I think of going home, drinking some hard liquor. We have rum in the credenza. Maybe I could overdose on my old sleep meds—I have a full vial in the cabinet. Last year I worked hard to get off them, and although successful, I’ve kept the entire stash, just in case. But would they kill me? Or just leave me incapacitated? Another botched suicide attempt would be the worst thing.
We have a rifle or shotgun of some kind—I don’t know the difference—taken from our friend Judith when we were all in graduate school together. She kept it in the trunk of her car and was going to kill herself with it during a particularly difficult month. Her son had been fathered by the man she loved, and she didn’t love her husband, her son’s legal father. I don’t remember the whole story, but after Judith had told us about the shotgun, Nick removed it when Judith parked at a nearby grocery story. Judith knew Nick had taken it, but they never talked about it, and Judith had never asked for it.
But I don’t know how to shoot. What am I thinking?
In Fuquay-Varina, I see a Dairy Queen, decide to treat myself to a thick milkshake made with bits of chocolate or candy. Food therapy. Something sweet. Something to connect me to my body. And now that I’ve had this idea, I’m obsessed with it.
I’m in the turning lane when I burst out into sobs. But there’s a lot of traffic, and I need to cross two lanes to make my turn. I wipe my face, try to get a grip. Instead, I see the faces of drivers and passengers locked in their automobile cages—blank faces, talking into cell phone faces, smoking cigarette faces, dead faces.
A guy pulls behind me in a black Ford Explorer, also to turn into Dairy Queen. Then, with a small break in the traffic, I go, and he follows. I park, but he drives to the dry cleaners next door.
I pull in between two empty parking spaces, turn off the engine. The sun is intense, and the car, without the a/c, immediately becomes unbearable. I’m no longer crying. I feel numb, blank.
I get out of the car, lock Ruby, and, before going to the Dairy Queen, a rack of colorful items on the sidewalk by the strip mall catches my attention. As I walk there, the man from the black Explorer comes out of the dry cleaners, holding a gaggle of wire hangers tied together, clothing draped in plastic, his hand lifted high to prevent dragging them. He notices me and smiles. I smile back, headed to the rack that I now see is part of the Dollar General store, attached to the narrow strip mall. It’s an old, decrepit building, with racks of $1.00 tee-shirts lined up in front on the sidewalk, along with stacks of big blue baby pools, shelves of half-dead petunias in plastic tubs, and broken glass by the curb.
When I was living in New York City, after Diane tried to kill herself, I felt so alienated and disconnected that I had taken a shard of glass I’d found on the street and slashed my palm—just to feel something.
But it hadn’t worked. My hand bled, but I couldn’t feel it, and I pocketed the glass as a souvenir, leaving it in Diane’s apartment when I moved from the city.
Now as I walk, recognizing a similar alienation, I imagine picking up a shard to see if cutting my hand might now help me feel something. But I’m older and dismiss the idea.
Looking up, I see a young White woman with a toddler in tow. She wears tiger-striped leggings and a jazzed-up gold-threaded tank top. The toddler, her son, perhaps, is dressed in superman pajamas and has a dirty face. As I stare at her, she looks at me, frowns. I glance away, deciding to walk back to the Dairy Queen.
Inside, the atmosphere is as forlorn as it was at the strip mall. This Dairy Queen hasn’t been remodeled in years. The Linoleum tile floor is cracked, uneven, the few tables are shabby, seats with ripped upholstery, and even the red service counter is dull, beat-up. The side freezers, full of Dilly-bars and ice-cream cakes, have a dirty look to them, and the motor makes a shrill hum. I get in line behind an older couple with matching navy velour sweat-suits. They order two small
chocolate cones. The place only has vanilla, however, as the soft-serve chocolate machine is broken. So, they reluctantly change their order to vanilla.
My turn comes, and a young man in a red Dairy Queen golf-type shirt and stained black pants asks, “Your order, ma’am?” I tell him I’ll have a small Turtle Pecan Cluster Blizzard, to which he says, “Yes, I’ll have that for you in a minute. Would you like to pay first?” To which I say, “Yes,” and hand him a five-dollar bill. As he moves to the register, I notice his right hand is deformed and doesn’t have all its fingers. He offers me change with his left, smiles, nods as he turns to fill my order.
All the details of my life are happening now in slow motion now as I bring such focused attention to each moment. Depression, I wonder?
The older couple leaves. Now a Black woman with a tight skimpy shirt and stretchy pants comes in. Her hair is braided into a thousand strands, a sort of medusa, and as I look into her face, I see that she’s ravishingly beautiful, with chiseled features, bright eyes. She’s out of breath, but when she sees me looking at her, she smiles—radiantly, naturally, with incredible warmth.
“Do you have a public restroom?” she asks the young man.
“It’s out of order today, ma’am. You can use the one in the Dollar General. If you exit through the side door, you’ll see it at the end of the lot.” He smiles back at her, her smile obviously contagious. I notice now the young man has dimples. Sweet, I think.
“Thanks,” she says, and leaves. I see her trot across the lot to Roses. No car, I observe. She’s a runner.
In a few minutes, with my Blizzard in hand, I, too, walk out. But as I make my way to Ruby, I spot a concrete garden bench at the side of the store on the sidewalk that goes around the building. Probably for employees, but I sit.
As my thick Blizzard melts in the waxed cardboard cup, I dip the long-handled red plastic spoon into the ice-cream mixture, scoop some out, eat, enjoying the sweet cool flavor, its weight on my tongue, the smooth way it feels in my mouth.