Cinnamon Girl

by Lawrence Kessenich

  “Fingerpaints!” she cried.

  And sure enough, Claire next set out containers of red, yellow, green, and blue paint.

  It was a magical, sensuous experience to fingerpaint while on mescaline. It engaged body and mind. The brilliant colors seemed to flow from our fingertips as we moved them sinuously across the wet paper, laying down areas of color at random, shaping images inside them, then changing the images with a few swipes of our fingers. We made blue roads, red trees, multi-colored rainbows. Each sheet was a world of its own, full of possibilities.

  Claire left us after a while to feed Jonah. Then she brought him in and laid him down on a blanket on the floor to watch us. Eventually, he fell back to sleep. And still we worked, hardly speaking to one another, aside from exclamations of pleasure over our inventions.

  When the special fingerpainting paper ran out, we used shelf paper. We put Jonah back in his bed, moved the kitchen table aside, and rolled out one long sheet, so we could all work together. We kept on painting and rolling out more paper, until, when we finally quit at midnight, we had a strip forty feet long, full of trees and flowers and hills and dancing figures. It was beautiful!

  Then we realized that we’d unconsciously painted a celebration of the Woodstock Festival. With great ceremony, we carried it into the living room and taped it around the wall, then stood facing it, arm-in-arm, spellbound by what we’d created.

  “Far fucking out,” said Tony.

  Eventually, with some reluctance, we detached ourselves from one another and stood around, not sure what to do next. Then Tony turned on their old black-and-white TV and found a W.C. Fields movie. Mina put on the headphones and laid back on the floor to listen to more Santana. Claire announced she was going to the kitchen to make popcorn. I said I’d join her.

  While she got out the pan and started heating the oil, I cleaned up the mess we’d made with the fingerpaints. She and I didn’t speak, at first, but I found myself inordinately thrilled to alone with her for the first time in several days. I kept pausing to watch her move around the room, from the cupboard to the refrigerator to the stove. She seemed to glide like a skater on a pond, her movements deft and sure. No doubt the mescaline enhanced this perception. That and the fact that I was in love with her. For it was then a realization that had been dancing around on the periphery of my consciousness leaped into full view. I was thrilled being with her because her being thrilled me.

  As she stood at the stove, tending the popcorn pan, I had a sudden, intense desire to throw my arms around her. Instead, I kept wiping the same spot on the table, over and over again, as I stared at her back. She must have felt my gaze. She turned around and gave me a quizzical look.

  “That’s enough, John,” she said.

  For a second, I thought she’d read my mind. Then I realized she was talking about the table.

  “You’re going to rub a hole in it if you don’t stop.”

  “Oh,” I said, feeling sheepish, but unable to take my eyes off hers.

  “Are you all right?” she asked.

  “Me? Fine.”

  Her eyes searched mine for a moment, and we exchanged a confidence, but one so volatile that neither of us dared accept it. It was as if cupid had shot arrows toward our hearts but we’d turned them insubstantial before they could strike home.

  The popcorn began to pop, and Claire turned back to the stove to watch over it. I went to the sink and rinsed out the paint-filled sponge, which discharged spurts of color as the water flowed through it. From the street below, I heard the sound of someone leaning on his car horn. It mixed with the sounds of running water and popcorn popping madly, until it was one big sound that grew and grew inside my head. Just as it was about to drive me over the edge, the car horn stopped abruptly. Then the popping slowed down. I shook my head, turned the water off, tossed the sponge onto the back of the sink, and turned to Claire, who was melting butter in a tiny saucepan.

  “Anything I can do,” I said, trying to sound casual.

  She replied without lifting her head. “You can see if anybody wants a beer.”

  I wanted desperately to say something meaningful to her, but I had no idea what it should be.

  We all ended up in front of the TV with the lights out, eating popcorn and watching W.C. Fields. Because of the mescaline, everything Fields said seemed swathed in innuendo—even the things that weren’t intended to be. My mind turned a pretty straightforward comedy into a Moliere-like word play. I was almost totally engrossed by it. Occasionally, I looked over at Claire, hoping to catch her eye. In the blue glow of the television, she looked more wraithlike than ever. She never looked back—at least, not while I was looking at her.

  The mescaline was beginning to wear off as the movie ended. It was time to call it a night. Tony had already promised to take Mina home, and I was relieved when he offered to drive me home, too. I wouldn’t have felt comfortable staying over that night. Claire and I said a curt goodnight, and the rest of us made our way down to Tony’s old yellow Bel Air, which was parked on the street.

  We dropped Mina off at her parents’ house, a few blocks west, then circled back to catch Lake Drive. Soft summery air flowed through the open windows as we drove past the huge houses along the lake. It carried the pleasant scent of flowers from rich people’s gardens, and the sweet odor of lake water. There was enough of the mescaline high left to heighten my senses.

  “Did I ever tell you I have a brother in ’Nam?” Tony asked suddenly.

  Snapped abruptly from my reverie, I sat up straighter. “No, you didn’t. I think you mentioned you had a brother in the service, but you didn’t say anything about his being in Vietnam.”

  “I think about Joe a lot on nights like this. He loved to bomb around on his Harley all night when the weather was like this.”

  “What’s he doing over there?”

  “He’s a Marine, a grunt—the worst job going. He joined up a year after high school. He was in Okinawa for a while. Then they sent him to ’Nam. He’s been there for nine months, now. We hardly hear from him anymore.”

  “That’s tough. My brother’s there, too, but he’s in the Navy, so he’s not in too much danger.”

  “Smart guy. Kolvacik’s best friend is a grunt, too.”

  “I assumed you were his best friend.”

  “I suppose I am, now. He and Mickey had a big falling out when Mickey joined up, right after high school. Tim told him he was stupid and Mickey didn’t appreciate it. They didn’t write each other at all, until this month, when Mickey got shipped over to ’Nam and started writing. I guess he figured he’d be needing a friend, and luckily Tim wasn’t an asshole about it. I think he’s really worried about Mickey.”

  “It sucks, all these good people getting sent over there to get their asses shot off.”

  We turned off Lake Drive and drove the four blocks to my street. It was overarched with majestic elms that formed a natural cathedral ceiling. The effect was emphasized by the headlights, which seemed to carve space out of the darkness.

  “This is far out,” said Tony.

  “Isn’t it fine?” I said proudly. “The sad thing is, Dutch elm disease has taken hold in the neighborhood. They say it could hit this block any day. It makes me want to cry. Here’s my house.”

  We pulled up in front of the simple, white-sided house that had been home for most of my life. It had a small lawn in front, reasonably well cared for, but worn from use by the neighborhood kids, who always felt welcome there. The house was nestled in-between its neighbors, separated from them only by driveways. It looked cozy and secure. I thought of Marion, Ruth, Steven, and George, all fast asleep; Dad snoring away; Mom, who would wake up the second I walked in the door. I knew I would have to leave them soon, leave that house, strike out on my own, but it was not going to be easy.

  Tony put a hand on my shoulder. “Take it easy, my man,” he said.

  We clasped hands. “I will. Thanks for the ride. I’ll be in touch, soon.”

  I
got out of the car and waved to him as he drove off. Inside the house, I reported in to Mom, then went upstairs. As I tiptoed through George’s room in the dark, to get to my own, he suddenly said, “Hi, John,” as if it were the middle of the day and sun was shining. I started.

  “What the hell are you doing awake?” I asked.

  “I can’t sleep.”

  “Sorry to hear that.”

  I continued toward my room.

  “John?”

  I stopped, reluctantly.

  “What? I’m tired.”

  “Are you high?”

  “Jesus, George … A little. Why?”

  “I was just wondering what it’s like to be high on marijuana, that’s all.”

  I wasn’t about to mention that it wasn’t marijuana I was high on. I was afraid the word mescaline would freak him out entirely.

  “It’s pleasant, that’s all. Your senses are heightened. Like alcohol, but more interesting. I don’t know. I can’t describe it.”

  My tone was full of irritation.

  “Okay, okay. I’m just curious. Hey, tomorrow morning’s family brunch, you know.”

  Family brunch was a tradition that had started when I was ten or eleven, before Steven was even born. The last Sunday of every month, the whole family went to Mass, then came home and prepared a big brunch, everybody pitching in, one way or another. We always had a lot of fun.

  “You’re going to get up and go with us, aren’t you?”

  “That means I’d get about four hours of sleep. And then I’d have to sit through Mass. I don’t know …”

  “C’mon, John. You’ve missed the last two, you know. You’d make Mom and Dad really happy, and the rest of us would love to have you there, too. We hardly ever see you anymore.”

  “I’ll try, George. That’s the best I can do. Wake me when you get up. Now, good night. I’m beat.”

  In my room, I stripped quickly and lay down to sleep. As I lay there, my head danced with images formed with fingerpaints flowing from disembodied fingertips: Claire holding Jonah, Mina nestled in my lap, Tony beating on his bongos, my family lined up in a church pew. Finally, it all ran together and I fell asleep.

  TO MY SURPRISE, I felt pretty good when George woke me in the morning, so I decided to get up and join the family. I hoped to make up for the fight on the front porch the week before. As George had predicted, everyone seemed delighted to see me (though I think amazed comes closer to my parents’ reaction). They all fawned over me in little ways. Marion complemented my new shirt. Mom gave me half-and-half for my coffee. George insisted I finish the last of the Welch’s grape juice, which we hardly ever had in the house because it was so expensive. It was almost embarrassing.

  Going to Mass at St. Veronica’s was the true test of my resolve. The gigantic barn of a church evoked unpleasant memories of boring Masses, every day before school as well as on Sunday. That regime had taught me to hate going to Mass, and the whole experience still set my teeth on edge. I was anxious to leave from the moment I walked in, so it was a very long hour. I played a little “footsie” with Steven, who’d insisted on sitting next to me, and smiled bravely whenever Mom looked in my direction.

  But, finally, it was over and we went back home to start brunch. I kicked Mom and Dad out of the kitchen, insisting that they read the Sunday paper while the rest of us cooked. Ruth made the coffee and orange juice. Marion tended the sausages, and Steven was put in charge of the toast. I made eggs, while George made home fries. It was a little crowded at the stove, but we managed to stay out of one another’s way. Mom couldn’t resist popping her head in to check on us. I think she was touched her children were working together so closely, and she didn’t want to be left out of the scene. Despite our protestations, she ended up sitting at the kitchen table, watching us. But she managed to let us do all the work and she looked happy as could be.

  We always ate family brunch in the dining room, because it was a special occasion. Dad led grace, and I noticed he was looking a little ashen-faced. I wondered if his heart was bothering him again. But it also struck me how attractive both he and Mom still were at what seemed to me the advanced age of fifty. Dad still had a full head of brown hair that matched his eyes, and his craggy face was handsome as ever. He was proud of his erect posture, which showed off his broad chest and shoulders. Mom’s hair was graying uniformly, so it looked quite comely, especially with her blue-gray eyes. She was the one who enforced the diets that kept them both trim. She was quite a bit shorter than Dad and slightly stooped from years of childbearing and housework, but she exuded the dignity that comes from serving others with humility.

  “Hey, John,” said Ruth, halfway through the meal, her pudgy face beaming beneath blonde curls, “are you going to take us to a movie today? You’ve been promising to do that for weeks.”

  “Yeah,” Steven chimed in, excitedly, “you have.”

  “I’ve got exams this week. I ought to study. Maybe George can take you.” I looked to George to rescue me, but he didn’t return my gaze.

  “George always takes us,” said Ruth, pouting. “We want you to take us.”

  “Yeah,” said Steven again, imitating Ruth’s pouty face.

  Mom spoke up in my defense.

  “Now, don’t you kids bother your brother if he has to study. You can go to the Fox Bay this afternoon, on your own.”

  “We’re tired of the Fox Bay,” said Ruth. “We want to go out to the new shopping center”

  “Maybe George can take you, then,” said Mom.

  “I’ve got things to do, too, you know,” George protested, shoving his glasses up his nose with particular emphasis. “I’m working full time this summer.”

  “All right, all right,” I said, raising a hand. “I don’t want to start a fight. I can take a break this afternoon and drive you out there.”

  Steven and Ruth cheered. Marion looked pleased, too.

  “Let’s see Pinocchio,” said Ruth.

  Steven seconded the motion. I said it was fine with me. Pinocchio was one of my favorite Disney movies. It had just been re-released in the theatres.

  “Do you want to go along?” I asked Marion. “Or are you too old for this kind of stuff, now?”

  She blushed.

  “I’ll probably go. I don’t get to do things with you much, anymore.”

  “How are your summer classes going, son?” asked Dad.

  “Okay,” I replied.

  “Just okay?”

  “I mean fine, just fine.”

  “What kind of grades do you expect to get?”

  I knew he was pushing me. We’d gone around about grades many times before. He knew I couldn’t care less about them. I didn’t want to take the bait, but I was too tired to resist. “I don’t know and I don’t particularly care.”

  “You don’t care what kind of grades you get?”

  The tension was beginning to build in the room. Everyone could sense another argument brewing. They grew quiet and concentrated on their food, perhaps hoping that if they ignored what was going on, it’d go away.

  “No, I don’t care what kind of grades I get. I care about whether I like the classes and whether I’m learning anything from them.”

  “How do you know whether you’re learning anything if you don’t get good grades when you’re tested on the material?”

  “Frank …” said Mom, warning him.

  He ignored her.

  “I know in here,” I said, tapping my head, “and in here,” I continued, tapping my heart.

  “And how is a prospective employer supposed to find out what’s in your head? And why should he give a damn what’s in your heart?”

  “Employers don’t give a damn about grades, either, Dad. All they want to know is that you have a degree.”

  He saw an opening and went for it, like a fencer touching with his rapier. “Well, Mr. Know-It-All, if you don’t pay closer attention to your grades, you won’t get your fancy degree, will you?”

  “Damn
you!” I said, standing up and accidentally knocking my chair over backwards. “I’ll get my goddamn degree—don’t you worry about it! Why don’t you just get off my back?”

  I stormed out of the dining room, through the kitchen, and started up the stairs toward my room. I heard Mom telling Dad he just didn’t know when to quit, but I couldn’t understand the reply he growled back at her. When I got to my room, I slammed the door and kicked a few things before dropping onto the bed, exasperated. It seemed my dad and I couldn’t spend ten minutes together without getting into an argument. I hated it. But I wasn’t going to let him bully me. I knew my way of looking at things worked for me, and I was ready to defend it.

  Eventually, I calmed down enough to start studying. I sat on the bed with a pillow propped up behind me and reviewed my sociology book and class notes. I had been at it for several hours and was getting a little bleary-eyed when there was a knock on my door.

  “Come in,” I said wearily.

  The door opened, and Marion stepped halfway in.

  “Sorry to bother you, John, but it’s three-thirty. We’ve got to go to the four o’clock movie if we’re going to get home in time for supper.”

  “Okay,” I said, snapping shut my notebook. “I need a break, anyway.”

  I dragged myself up off the bed and stretched. My legs were half-asleep, so I rubbed them. Marion stood in the doorway, watching me with a concerned look.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “I just wonder about you and Dad. Why do you always fight?”

  “We just seem like oil and water, these days. We have very different ideas, and both feel strongly about them. He fought in a war and I’m refusing to; he’s devout about religion and I’m an agnostic; he thinks grades are important and I think they’re bullshit—excuse my language. Where’s the mystery?”

  She looked at me with big, sad, brown eyes but didn’t speak.

  “Look,” I said, “I really hope to be able to move out, soon, but until then, he and I will probably—”