by S. P. Hozy
“You watch Oprah?” Maris said.
“Once in a while,” said Ray. “Someone lent me the video.”
“Do you still have it?” said Spirit. “Terra should show it to the girls.”
“Enough, Mom,” said Terra. “I don’t want them getting any ideas.”
“Not until they’re married,” said Josh. “Then their husbands can pay for it.”
Chapter Fourteen
The weekend has got off to a good start, Spirit thought. Nobody had yelled at anybody or stomped out of the room yet. She was sure that would happen eventually, but she still held out hope that her children had grown up since the last time she’d seen them. She suspected there was no such thing as a serene, mutually respectful, and well-adjusted family, except on TV where father knew best and kids knew father knew best (it was always father, never mother). Spirit had raised her kids, after a point, without a father. Had Freedom Man done more harm than good in the years he was with them? She knew the kids loved him and were devastated when he left. Being kids, they naturally blamed themselves. Ironically, the one who was most angry with her father, Terra, was the one who had turned out most like him. No kid gets raised in a perfect home, Spirit told herself. And what was the point of second-guessing all your decisions? You just ended up waffling and that was worse than being wrong, in a way.
Terra and Josh were good parents, Spirit believed, but Emma and Alison had their own personalities, which could only be controlled — or managed — to a certain extent. In the debate over nature versus nurture, Spirit tended to fall into the nature camp now that she was seeing her own kids as adults. She had thought that by “raising them in the woods” she could isolate them from the big bad influences in the big bad world. But she couldn’t protect them from themselves, it turned out. She had armed them with a set of ideas — a belief in themselves, in their abilities, and, she hoped, respect for others and for nature — but had she prepared them for the world they chose to live in? Look at Ra, she thought, still living like a student at thirty-five, with no family, not even a girlfriend. And Maris seemed lost all of a sudden and without the ballast she needed to work on her art. She believed she had lost everything with Peter’s death, even her ability to paint. She had come “home,” but was this really her home? Where did she belong? And Terra, seemingly the most stable of the three, sometimes seemed to Spirit to be hanging on for dear life to … what? A lifestyle? A bunch of stuff in a nice house? An unswerving, and therefore inflexible, faith in the perfectibility of her own family? God help her, thought Spirit, if there’s ever a crack in the façade. If one piece were removed, would the whole thing come tumbling down?
Spirit knew that worrying would not change anything. Life was like a basket of eggs that you had to carry with you everywhere. Sometimes an egg broke and the mess slopped over onto a few other eggs. Hard-boiled, she thought. If you could hard-boil all the eggs, they wouldn’t break. And then she thought, deviled eggs: I should make some deviled eggs.
Emma and Alison were up in Maris’s room looking through her stuff. Alison, about to turn thirteen and very aware of herself as a girl moving on in life and leaving behind childish things, was tall, as Maris had been, and willowy. She moved with a fluid motion unusual for her age. Where Maris had been awkward, even gawky, Alison was graceful and seemed to know how to make the parts of her body move in unison. In that sense, she was a lot like Terra, including her blonde hair, blue eyes, and straight teeth. She seems together, thought Maris, or as together as a thirteen-year-old could be. But inside she was probably a jumble of all the parts that went into making her Alison, not quite adding up to a whole person yet. So far she hadn’t exhibited any particular talent, as Maris had, but her environment was more sterile than Maris’s had been, so maybe it would take her longer to find her creativity, if indeed she had any.
“Maris,” she said, “how come you saved all this stuff? It’s kid’s stuff. Like, what would you want it for?”
“Your grandmother saved it, honey, not me. I guess she needed to hang on to my childhood for some reason. Mothers and grandmothers are like that. Sentimental.”
Alison snorted. “You’re not kidding. Our mother is always taking pictures of us. ‘I don’t want to forget these wonderful years when you’re growing up so fast,’” she mimicked Terra, using a falsetto voice and rolling her eyes.
“Don’t be too hard on her, Alison. She loves you a lot, and you are growing up so fast. She knows that one day you’ll both be gone and living your own lives. Right now you are the most important thing in her life.”
“How come you don’t have children, Maris?” piped in Emma, two years younger and still hanging onto her little-girlness. She was what they now called a “tween,” which drove Spirit nuts. “It’s all about marketing,” she’d say. “Selling these little kids as much junk as they can. Defining them as this little wedge between being a child and being a teenager. A demographic, for God’s sake.”
“Well, Emma,” Maris said, trying to give the right answer, “I guess I haven’t been lucky enough to fall in love with the right man who could be the father of my children.” Oh, God, she thought. How lame, pathetic, and filled with all kinds of clichéd, socially acceptable mores — equating falling in love with being lucky and finding Mr. Right? How much damage have I just done to Emma’s little tween psyche?
“That’s what Mom says,” said Emma.
“What?” said Maris, relieved she wasn’t the only one doing the damage. “That I haven’t been lucky?”
“Yeah. And she says Ray hasn’t been lucky either, but he’ll have to grow up before any woman will want to marry him.”
“And what about me? Will I have to grow up, too?”
“No, she doesn’t say that.” Emma’s honest brown eyes were remembering past conversations. “She says you’re artistic and that makes it more difficult for you. Men don’t usually fall in love with women who are artists.”
“I see,” said Maris. “Wow. You guys talk about me a lot, eh?”
Emma laughed. “Yeah, I guess we do. But not all the time.” Of the two, Emma was most like Maris, although she resembled her father physically. She was shorter than her sister, but just as slender, with brown hair and eyes that were almost the same colour. Emma was the dreamer while Alison was the pragmatic one. Alison wore outfits that matched and took planning. Emma, on the other hand, threw on some clothes in the morning and, as long as all the essentials were there — top, bottom, socks, shoes — it didn’t matter to her whether they were colour-coordinated or not. Alison would have been mortified to step out the front door wearing what Emma usually put on. Of the two of them, Maris was putting her money on Emma to be the more adventurous in life. But maybe it would take one of those earth-shattering, defining moments for either of them to become what they had the potential to become. And what was that? Grown-up maybe? Nah, thought Maris, the most interesting people are never the grown-ups.
The evening meal went better than Spirit expected. Her family seemed to be enjoying one another’s company and it made her feel that all was right with the world, a feeling Spirit seldom had. Any sense of control she might have once had where she made choices in her life and those choices actually happened — like moving to the commune, becoming a potter, having children — was wrenched from her grasp when Freedom Man left. After that there was very little she could control. She suddenly had fewer choices and more imperatives. The kids were growing up fast and the things they wanted or needed were more expensive than the things of childhood. For the next decade, Spirit’s life was all about paying the bills, maintaining, and barely keeping up. Then, before she knew it, the kids were gone and she was middle-aged and alone. When she looked around her empty house, she wondered if this was an ending or a beginning. Or both. It was certainly the end of life as she had known it, and she had to convince herself that this wasn’t a bad thing. She told herself that in every ending there were the seeds of something new. That “something new” became a more innovative
approach to her pottery. Instead of the usual money-makers — coffee mugs, teapots, butter dishes, and serving platters — Spirit started experimenting. She created objects that had no function other than to be beautiful to look at. You could serve cookies on some of the flatter pieces, or put a bunch of flowers into something that would hold water, but Spirit’s primary motivation became the creation of form over function. There were plenty of coffee mugs in the world but there could never be too many beautiful objects. It pleased her that two of her children were pursuing a life in art, Maris as a painter and Ra as a photographer. She had tried to teach them the value of self-expression, but only if they had something to say. True art, Spirit believed, was about ideas. And ideas came from watching, listening, learning, and experimenting. Only time would tell if either or both of them would leave their mark.
The usual family skirmish came the next morning after breakfast. In terms of past history, when all three children would get into a shouting match over who was right about something stupid (like whose turn it was to mop the floor), this was a minor conflict, and it occurred when Terra decided Ray wasn’t doing his share.
“Have you even so much as lifted a dishtowel since you’ve been here?” Terra shot at Ray.
“Um, I don’t think so, Terr,” said Ra in even tones, so as not to appear hostile in any way, “but I believe I have been helpful in other ways.” He recognized that tone in Terra’s voice. It was like a flashback to the time that was before. The time when they all lived together and Terra was the one who was totally committed to the notion that everyone should pitch in on an equal basis, equality being measured and determined by her alone, it seemed.
“And what other ways would that be?” said Terra.
“Well … I distinctly remember carrying something into the kitchen last night after dinner. It was … wait, it’ll come to me … it was … a dinner plate. Yes, definitely a dinner plate. Probably mine. And I’m pretty sure I brought in the cutlery, too.”
“You are impossible,” said Terra. “Mom, tell him he’s impossible. Did you know that you raised a male chauvinist pig for a son?” Terra’s anger was escalating as her vocabulary became more aggressive.
“Whoa, hold on there, Terr,” said Ray. “How did I get to be a male chauvinist pig all of a sudden? I mean, I’ll accept pig, as in slob. I’ll even accept filthy pig or lazy pig. But chauvinist?” He looked at Maris and his nieces. “Come on, help me out here, girls. Is Uncle Ray a chauvinist pig?”
“What’s a chauvinist pig?” asked Emma.
Terra said, “A male chauvinist pig is a man who thinks men are superior to women, and that housework is beneath him because it is women’s work.”
Emma and Alison grimaced in a teenage-girl way to indicate they were really not keen on entering the fray. Maris, on the other hand, was eager to put in her two cents’ worth. This was going to be fun.
“I agree with you, Terr. I think Ra Baby has been a closeted chauvinist for well over two decades. I saw it when he was a teenager when he refused even to put his dirty underwear in the washing machine — hell, he wouldn’t even put them in the hamper. Expected his mother to pick up after him.” She folded her arms in front of her chest, the exact stance Terra had taken.
Josh, a man of few words, was standing a few feet away from Ray.
“You’re busted, buddy. No way you can win this one.”
Terra shot him a look that said, “Back off, Josh,” so he did. He, like the teenage Ray, lived in a household of females. Outnumbered is outnumbered.
Spirit listened to her name being bounced around and her mothering skills being maligned and couldn’t decide whether she should speak or not. Her only stand was a defensive one, since she’d, in effect, been accused of being a bad mother. Was this fight worth undertaking? Should she defend Ra, who actually hadn’t lifted a finger all weekend, or should she just let it fizzle out? Engagement would lead to escalation, no doubt in her mind. And Terra was clearly annoyed, although Maris appeared to be having fun jibing at her hapless brother.
It was Ray’s turn to respond and he was choosing his words carefully because he knew he was, as Josh had said, busted. He had avoided all of the domestic chores that went with a weekend of cooking, eating, and drinking, figuring there were enough women to do the work, and the women, after all, would do the work because they thought it was important. Ray didn’t care if the dishes got done or not. That was the tricky part. Was this an issue of duty, responsibility, being a good person, or not giving a shit? Should he just apologize and do some dishes or sweep the floor? Or should he call Terra on her obsessive and skewed sense of justice? Remember, he told himself, you’re outnumbered on the gender front. If it comes down to a pitched battle, the women and girls will gang up on you. Of that there is no doubt.
He looked at Maris. Her face said, “You are so dead.” He looked at Spirit. Her face said, “You’re my son and I love you, but Terra has a point. You’re a lazy pig and you always were.” Alison and Emma were a united front: “Ray,” they seemed to say, “you’re our favourite uncle and we think you’re cool, but chauvinist pigs are the enemy.” That left Terra, the scary one. Her expression said, “I cannot think of anything that will redeem you at this point. So whatever you say or do right now will probably determine your fate forever.” I’m dead, thought Ray. Silence filled the room like mist in a horror movie.
“Gee, Terra,” Ray finally spoke. Terra raised her eyebrows in expectation. Everybody else watched; a few held their breath. “I was going to surprise you, but I guess I’ll have to let the cat out of the bag. Sorry, Josh,” he said, giving his brother-in-law a look that was both penitent and pleading. “Got no choice.” He turned back to Terra. “Josh and I are making lunch. Right, Josh?” he said, nodding his head up and down. Josh nodded his head up and down.
“Affirmative,” Josh said. “We planned it a week ago. Wanted to surprise you.”
Terra looked at her brother and her husband. “Great,” she said, her voice neutral. “What are we having? Beer and chips?”
Ray and Josh laughed, relief audible in their voices. “Yeah,” said Ray. “Among other things. I told you it was a surprise.”
“I’ll bet,” said Terra. “And I’m sure you and Josh are just as surprised as the rest of us.”
“Okay,” said Ray, rubbing his hands together in a let’s-get-down-to-business gesture. “Me and Josh are just going to pop down to Safeway to grab a few things. Anything you need, Mom? Dishwashing liquid, instant mashed potatoes?”
“Go,” said Spirit. “Go now.”
“Right,” said Ray. “We’ll be back in a jiff. Call me on my cell if you think of anything.” He and Josh backed out of the room, smiling and waving. When they finally heard the car start, all five females started to laugh.
Sunday lunch was hot dogs on the barbecue, with lots of bright yellow mustard and fluorescent green relish. There were chips and nachos, deli potato salad and dill pickles, beer and pop, chocolate brownies, and rocky road ice cream. And all of it was served outside on paper plates with plastic forks and knives. Spirit held her tongue and Terra realized she couldn’t remember the last time her family had had so much fun. Mustard stains be damned; it was worth it. Maris ate three hot dogs, drank three beers, and thanked Ray and Josh for the exquisite meal. She felt good. And she still had room for brownies and ice cream.
When the meal was over, Josh and Ray cleaned up. Everything went into a big green garbage bag, which they stuffed into Spirit’s trash can, but not before she made them separate the beer bottles and plastic utensils for recycling.
Terra, Josh, Ray, and the girls headed back to the city at five o’clock, and Maris and Spirit opened a chilled bottle of late harvest Riesling from the Okanagan Valley.
“This is nice,” said Maris.
“And well-earned,” Spirit sighed. “What a weekend.”
“Yeah,” said Maris. “It had everything: lots of good food, lots of fun, a little bit of tension to spice it up, and a fine fi
nish.”
Spirit laughed. “If you can call hot dogs on paper plates a fine finish.”
“Well, I think we can,” said Maris. “After all, we didn’t have to lift a finger.”
“That’s true,” said Spirit. “But I’ll have to drop that green garbage bag full of toxic waste at the dump in the dead of night.” She took a sip of wine. “My own son,” she said. “Where did I go so wrong?”
Maris laughed. “Nobody’s perfect, Mom. Not even your children.”
“I’m not asking for perfection, Maris, but how about …” She tilted her head in thought. “Is there even a word for what I want?”
Maris looked at her mother and shook her head.
“Do you think Ra will ever find someone?” Spirit asked. “I worry so much about the two of you. Being alone. Maybe not having children.”
Maris thought, I really don’t want to have that conversation right now. “I’m not going there tonight, Spirit,” she said.
“Okay. Maybe another time.”
“Yeah. Another time.”
Chapter Fifteen
Instead, they talked about Peter. As they drank the wine, Maris thought about how he would have liked it. He would have said it was aromatic, expressing ripe pear and apple flavours. He would talk about the structure and texture and the finish, and she would agree with him, taking it in and remembering it for next time. She was always learning from Peter, and now that he was gone, she felt unfinished. Where was she ever going to find that other half of herself?
She told Spirit about the first time she met Peter. She had walked into the gallery on Stamford Road and immediately known she was in a special place. “That gallery was Peter and Peter was the gallery,” she said. “He had such an eye for detail. And he knew exactly where to put things, and how far apart to space them. He gave you just the right amount of time to walk out of one headspace and into another. He just knew. He knew how to maximize a natural light source and he knew how to present a piece from all angles. He was a genius in his own way.”