by Lisa Samson
“That won’t bother me.”
“Me either. I kind of like it, Fia. Better than throwing everything away. Much better. People throw things away too much these days.”
“Obviously I don’t have that problem.”
“See? It’s not as bad as you think, then.”
Perhaps.
“So is the backpack all you have?” I ask.
“I’ve got a cot in the truck I’ll bring in, just a camp cot for now. I’ll wait to bring a bed in after you decide if I’m allowed to stay or not.” He laughs.
Josia’s laugh is better than any drug I ever took in the olden days of motion pictures.
“Do you need a coffeemaker or a microwave?” I ask his back as it retreats down the hallway toward the entry hall.
“That would be great!” he calls over his shoulder.
As he brings in his cot, I dust off a Mr. Coffee circa 1982 and a Hotpoint microwave with actual dials, not a digital pad. I like the chrome on these things.
He’s delighted as, once back in the bedroom, he takes them from me. “Good! I love these old things.”
“I’ve tested them. They still work.”
“Do you have a little table I could set them on?”
Do I have a little table? That’s funny.
“I’ll be right back.”
Ten minutes later, using the forest green card table I procured from one of the upstairs bedrooms, he sets it up. “And I was wondering if you mind if I threw on a coat of paint in here, just to spruce things up a bit as they say.”
“Feel free to do whatever you’d like, as long as our agreements are followed. Which, just to clarify. If you don’t see me in the hallway, like, actually in the hallway, just don’t talk to me because you can’t help but walk by the kitchen, and I really don’t want to have to be mean about things.”
“I understand. No problem. Where’s your bedroom? Just so I know how quiet I have to be when I come in at night.”
“Not quiet at all. Don’t worry about that. I’m up in the far back right corner of the house on the third floor. You could play a trombone down here and I wouldn’t hear it.”
“Good to know. Do you want to approve any changes or repairs I make?”
“I trust you. You have to live in it. You’ll make it good for you. And I think I can reasonably assume you’re not some horror movie weirdo who’s going to paint everything black with some ghastly spider mural or something that lights up when you flip on your black light. Correct me if I’m wrong.”
He howls. “Oh, you’ve got my number!”
“Some of us just have the gift.”
He begins opening the cot. “Well, thank you for your vote of confidence. Of course I’m not going to do anything that this home cannot accept with beauty and grace. I like to respect the vibe of a house. Each has its own, don’t you think?”
“I do.”
I suddenly change my mind and blurt out, “And you can use the backyard if you want. It’s not very, well, kempt, out there, to say the least. But there’s a patio, and if you want to bring in a lounge chair to sit outside or something, be my guest.”
“Good. That sounds agreeable. I’m an early bird and on nice days a bowl of cereal always tastes better outside.”
I’m sure he’s right about that.
I arrange my feet to face the door. “I haven’t eaten out there for years, but anyway, feel free to use the space however you see fit.”
“Can we see it now?”
“Yes.”
We head back out into the corridor. I point to a door opposite the direction from which he entered the house. “That leads directly outside.”
“So I don’t have to desert the designated path.”
“Pretty much.”
“Good. If rules are rules . . .”
I turn the latch, grab the knob, and pull, only to feel the door catch. “I haven’t gone through this door to the patio in years. I’ve always used the kitchen door.”
I turn the latch once more, thinking maybe it’s actually been unlocked all these years. And, true enough, the door opens.
You can feel very safe all the while not being safe at all, can’t you? I realize.
“Well, looky there,” Josia says, pointing at the lock. “That’s an easy enough fix.”
True enough.
“Feel free to go on outside,” I say. “If you don’t mind being your own tour guide, I have work to do, and oh”—I dig into my pocket for the key I had made the day before—“here you go. Welcome to Mount Vernon Place, aka The Cave of Wonders.”
“Ha! I love that movie.”
“Me too.”
I wait for him to recognize me. The seconds pass. But he just stares back at me. “Are you okay?” he asks.
“Yes. Yes, I am.”
I put forward my hand and shake his again. This time he enfolds mine into both of his. “Many thanks for the opportunity, Fia. I think it will all work out just fine.”
Because you’ll make sure it will? I ask inside my head, hoping the answer will be yes. Hoping the answer will be, “Of course.” Longing for him to say, “I’m here now. Everything will be all right.”
But he doesn’t say this. And why should he? He’s here to rent a room, not work miracles.
I head toward the kitchen.
“Fia!” he calls.
I turn to face him. “Yes?”
“I, on the other hand, have an open-door policy. If ever you need me, just give me a knock.”
Of course he’d say that.
Seven
At eleven, I enter the house. Darkness enfolds me as I shut the door behind me and amble back to the kitchen. A golden light surges from underneath Josia’s door onto the wood floors. I left at nine for a date from The List, a quick call for some human interaction and a cocktail. I can’t imagine what Randi would say about the chances I take. And if I don’t tell her, who am I going to tell?
Definitely not Josia. It’s not that he’s naïve, but there’s a certain innocence about him I’d rather not taint.
With no overhead light in the room, I’m not sure where the light is coming from; however, it’s none of my business unless I choose to make it thus. I know he didn’t find a lamp from one of the rooms here because he told me he wouldn’t go off the designated path and I believe him.
I throw my key ring on the administrative kitchen table and decide I might as well listen to my voice mail.
“Hello, Fia. It’s your mother. Have you seen the tabloids? It’s fast and furious now, but don’t you worry about a thing. Everything is per usual here in the canyon.”
That’s what Jessica calls their compound, “the canyon,” because having a thousand acres isn’t enough. She has to lay claim to the entire geographic region.
One day my mother might really fall in love, and those divorce rumors coming from her side of the canyon will be more than rumors. But fat chance of that! Why she’s content to let her life remain the same year after year is something I’ve yet to figure out. She does love to act, though.
I do too, but I’m not sure if it’s because it was the only thing I was actually good at. Which is why my fall was that much more of a disappointment to the world and everyone around me. It’s one thing if you’re there for your bra size and your ability to be cute, or to shock, and you can deliver a line in a manner that doesn’t embarrass you or anyone associated with you. When you fall, people aren’t surprised. They feel bad for you, sure, but the fall isn’t as steep as it might have been had you been a person of real talent, so they don’t necessarily feel deprived.
I made them feel deprived.
No more roles from Southern literary fiction brought to life under my touch. No more moments as the bright spot of acting in an action film. No more portrayals of young British ladies quietly and torturously repressed. I loved being that little glimmer of hope that a young actress really cared about her craft.
But then, I didn’t care much about anything else, and playing other people isn’t enough
to teach you how to act in your own personal melodrama. In fact, it just widens the scope of your choices, making it impossible to decide anything for yourself.
So when I get Jessica’s messages, I can’t just pick up the phone and ask, “Why? Why, why, WHY are you telling me this? What about the letters D-I-V-O-R-C-E spell ‘free access anytime’ to you?”
The next message is Jessica again. “Oh, and about the book, I know you’re going to be upset. But there’s just nothing I can do about it. The truth is the truth, you know. And even despite all that you did, I still love you. Which is a miracle on my part, I think.”
Jessica’s call reminds me that I’ve got to get moving on the preparation for my interview. I look weak and anemic. Maybe I need to bike more. Do some push-ups. Something to give my arms some body.
The next message is from Randi, giving me some ideas she came up with for the Bizarre. And what would I think of maybe putting together a 3-D sculpture arch for the inside of the doorway?
“I’m thinking some of those interesting items you’re always finding, Fia.” I hear the whir of the bean grinder in the background. “Somehow welded into an arch. Still not sure what color I want you to paint it, but I want it uniform and I want it bold. See ya!”
Red. I see it red.
So, nothing worthy of a blurb in the Weekly World News, and I’m grateful. I pull out the bottle of grape soda I bought at the Shell on my way home, heat up a can of soup, and head upstairs. I secretly hope Josia’s door will be open and he’ll see me in the shared space of the hall, but it remains the same. I turn at the end of the hall and the light in his room goes out.
Oh well.
It’s just me, grape soda, and the latest book on the three steps to happiness and productivity.
I want somebody to write this book: the three steps you need to take before you’re ready to take any step at all. But so far I haven’t found anything like it.
Three a.m. and I feel like somebody put diodes all over me and jolted me back to consciousness. I sit up, trying to remember if it was a dream that summoned me, but nothing comes to mind. Usually you remember those jarring dreams that force you from their surreal, slanted corridors, and I don’t recall anything. In fact, I had been enjoying one of those rare, black sleeps that only asks to take you along for a simple ride of rest: Lie back, don’t worry about a thing. I’ll take it from here.
When I say awake, I mean decisively awake, the kind of awake that forces you just to throw back the covers without thinking. Which, when I do, allows all the cold air of the room to come whooshing in around my skin. My underwear does nothing to ward off the chill. I didn’t fall asleep in my clothing, not after meeting up with Polo guy who would probably drink that cologne if he could. Heck, maybe he does.
So I grab the woolly mammoth sweater and jerk on a pair of yoga pants. After shoving on my slippers, I make the trek downstairs because I don’t know what else to do at three in the morning other than check my phone. I sit on the bottom step and see what’s happening online. Every so often there’s a mention of me, usually filled with pity that someone given all the blessings I was given—wealth, talent, opportunity, and beauty (amazing what Hollywood can do to make an otherwise “regular pretty” look outstanding)—would throw it all away. That if all that didn’t make her happy, nothing would.
Win an Oscar and you’re likely to come up every so often, I guess.
I don’t even know where I put that statue now. Best Supporting Actress. It’s not an easy category to win because that’s where so many of the really talented women, who might not be sexy and beautiful, end up.
Who in the hell misplaces an Oscar?
I figure I might as well make a cup of tea, so I proceed to the kitchen.
The light is back on in Josia’s room and a power tool whines, adding sound waves to the light waves that spill across the floor. I stand still, hardly breathing, wondering what he’s doing in there, knowing he’s up to something.
“Just knock,” he said. But I can’t. I’m not sure he’d hear me anyway.
Not even twenty-four hours and he’s already living up to his word of making some improvements. I pictured him rolling on a coat of paint. Sure. But this is a tool thing, and tool things mean a lot of work, and we only do a lot of work on things that are important to us.
Maybe this house is important to him.
Or maybe making things beautiful is important to him, and where he is doesn’t matter in the least. Or it all matters.
The man is a mystery.
The next morning around nine, after grabbing another few hours of sleep, I stand at his door. I’m pretty sure he’s already gone to the forge. That kind of unoccupied silence seeps out.
Who sleeps for three hours, is up by 3:00 a.m., and keeps on going as if that is the start of his day? Maybe it is the start of his day. Maybe he doesn’t need a lot of sleep. Maybe he loves being awake, awake, awake because so many wonderful things are waiting to be accomplished in the light of full consciousness.
Sounds like hell to me.
I wait another minute, still no sound. Do I open the door? Do I see what he’s done in there?
What a violation of his privacy.
Again, “Just knock,” he said. Is that all I have to do? Do I wait for a more formal invitation or just take his words at face value?
I remember the list of parameters I’ve given him and decide that fair is fair. I cannot expect more of him than I’m willing to give myself, even if he is capable of handling more. Isn’t that right?
Isn’t that the way it works?
Time for my instant coffee. I assemble the beverage, then head to the patio. All the boxes from Josia’s room have been stacked neatly against the house, and the old iron chaise now faces the overgrown garden.
He’s right. This would make a nice place to eat cereal. If I ate cereal.
But I can drink my coffee here. So I do. Even in the chill of a March morning, this is extra nice. The coffee feels hotter and more delicious. More real than in the kitchen. More special. Like coffee when you’re camping, or what a cup must have felt like when you were about to jump back aboard the Conestoga and continue the trek west.
Maybe I should take a clue from Josia and keep making things better. I could go through the boxes, sorting all the items into keep and discard piles. But how am I going to get rid of the stuff I don’t want?
That’s always been a major problem. You can have a bunch of items you’ve let go of in your heart, but if you’ve got no way to get them out, like Dorothy’s shoes, “There they are, and there they’ll stay.”
After heading inside, I rinse out my cup and trudge upstairs for a shower. In the hallway a note hangs taped to one of two crib ends stacked together near his door. “Would love to use these ends. Hope you don’t mind. I think you’ll like the result. I won’t use them until I know you’re okay with it. Just leave a note and let me know.”
His “help myself, don’t mind if I do” manner frays my edges. Even though I don’t remember the plans I had for these things, I did have a plan at one time! And I might remember it and need every last piece of these cribs.
And then—a note?
I didn’t think about having to respond to notes.
I don’t care what he can do with these things, he can’t have them, and I refuse to write back. If I start doing anything on his terms, the whole arrangement will come tumbling down, and if that happens, he’ll have to go.
I should get back to those boxes, but I can’t. Instead, I forgo the shower and head down to the basement and my studio. Maybe the sight of other supplies will remind me what those cribs were for.
My studio.
I had such lofty hopes for this place, picturing the Eameses or Andy Warhol’s The Factory. Maybe calling it a studio has been the problem. Maybe I’ve thought of myself more highly than I should have in the first place.
I could call it a workshop instead.
But that implies power tools, while I hold my su
pplies together with wire and twine. The fact that I disassemble them is irrelevant. Of course I’d love to learn to weld; that spot of the blowtorch’s blinding light concentrated enough to bond metal seems like the coolest tool an artist can employ, the trump card of artistic processes. But that’s some high heat held right there in the palm of my hand. I didn’t even trust myself to check my own oil when I had a car. I’d need a class or something to attempt it and even then, I’d be that weird girl who isn’t quite as coordinated as the others. “Who’s she?” they’d whisper behind my back. “And who wears a sweater like that?”
Randi’s idea of the arch for the coffee shop doorway comes to mind. I should know how to weld for that. That could be some major incentive right there.
A long worktable attached to the right-hand side of the wall displays my current work in progress. I found a gallon jar of buttons at an estate auction a few years back. Though I didn’t think of an immediate project, their beauty was enough, all gathered together behind glass like a tiny display of year-in year-out clothes worn happily, clothes worn out, buttons holding them together in good times and bad, sorrow and joy.
The buttons of choice lay in a spilled swath of brass and silver, pewter, bone, stone. Plastic amid the more real materials. But not any old plastic, chunky old black plastic buttons that look like somebody carved them out of coal. There are sixteen of these buttons to be precise, large and round, the same size as the lid on a small jelly jar, most likely from a double-breasted, women’s overcoat from the fifties or sixties. I can picture it. Pale pink for some reason, and the gloves Miss Fresh ’N’ Now bought to go with it? Fabulous and ivory, with a felt beret to match. She bought this coat thinking it would last for years, and it did, as far as construction and quality. But she went just a little too extreme with the style and offered merely an homage to classic couture and not any real commitment to the test of time.
Of course, Miss Fresh felt a little put out. She didn’t have the kind of income—or rather, her husband didn’t—that allowed for a new overcoat every few years. So when 1968 rolled around, it looked a little dated and made her feel somewhat clownish.