I wish she had a voice like chocolate! But she just drinks tea and cream, happy as a puppy; and when we return to the churchyard, she hurries back to her pedestal, for an angry and mystified crowd is already gathering there, everybody convinced that Mary has failed them.
fight #6
She realizes quite suddenly, many years later, how splendid it was, that day she screamed at him in the street. She sits at an empty, polished table beside a large window in a peaceful neighborhood, drinking water and thinking of it. How swiftly and splendidly the rage had come over her! They’d been walking together; he’d said something; he’d kept walking; she’d stopped; she’d begun to scream. There was a chasm between them, the twelve paces he’d taken without her at his side, and she screamed across it. Her rage was white and clean. It cleared the vision, like an orgasm. She was so correct; every word she screamed was completely correct. She screamed at him in the street, thinking I am a woman screaming at a man in the street. Until this very moment, in this quiet room, she’s always believed that she was horribly embarrassed by the stares of the passersby. But now it seems obvious that their stares delighted her. She transformed into the uncontrollable woman they assumed she was! He did not love her and never would. She recalls certain things: brown leaves lying on the sidewalk as though they’d been arranged there; an exhausted pink geranium in someone’s yard; the windows of the pizzeria; an old woman in a blue coat; a teenage boy with a scared face.
And then, after the outburst?
Well, there’s nothing to do but go through with it, stride down the street away from him, shoulders thrown back, your posture absolutely astonishing.
But what about the hours after the encounter, the oncoming night? An unmade bed in a small room, the silence and the gray, a person on the floor, a gulp of leftover peppermint liqueur, the dial tone and the numbers, the black hole of the intestines? It was devastating—sure, devastating, but now it’s all so vague. That rage, though!
She sips her water. She strokes the polished table, which gleams in the fading gray light. Oh, she’d do it again! You bet she would. She’d do it again.
fight #7
Something awful has just happened in the kitchen.
If you go in there, you will see that one door in the row of cabinets is open, revealing small bottles of cinnamon, ginger, rosemary, nutmeg, clove, cumin, sage, etc. The refrigerator and the stove are silent. The blender rests dully in its corner. On the countertop, the toaster oven is dark and cold. The gray linoleum of the floor is vaguely sticky underfoot. A jade plant sits on the windowsill. The window is open. Outside, the neighbors’ children scream. It is somewhere between dusk and night. Really, it is the time of day when someone ought to turn on a light. The kitchen smells of old dust, spilled orange juice, and the downstairs neighbor’s cigarette smoke. It also smells, inexplicably, unpleasantly, of rose perfume. You may wish to hold your breath. In the refrigerator, you will find four eggs in a white bowl. You will find a stick of butter that has not yet thawed, two bags of carrots, half a loaf of brown bread, a nearly empty container of Hershey’s chocolate sauce, and three packets of yeast with an expiration date thirteen months ago.
The round table is set for two, with two red placemats, two white bowls, two white plates, two spoons, two forks, two glasses, and two teacups. Also, salt and pepper. One yellow napkin has fallen to the floor. The other yellow napkin lies crumpled on one of the wooden chairs. One glass of water is half full. The other is half empty. The one that is half empty has a chapstick smudge at the top. There is red soup in each bowl. One spoon, unused, has been placed on the plate beneath the soup bowl; the other spoon is up to its neck in uneaten soup. A spinach salad wilts on the table. There is a pot of rice and beans on the stovetop. In the freezer, you will discover outdated peas and a pint of vanilla bean ice cream.
Something awful has just happened here.
fight #8
After several difficult days, they make hot chocolate on the stove, keeping in mind advice once given them by someone: Use nutmeg, cinnamon, clove, ginger, and cayenne pepper! Who was it? They cannot recall, yet this catalogue of words—rich, mysterious words that they of the microwave dinners scarcely recognize—runs through their minds like a spell. The spices sit on the counter, newly arrived in this bitter little house after a rare expedition to the grocery store. At the store, they were jovial. Lively observations were made about the miraculous ease of obtaining these exotic spices now as opposed to in ancient times. Walking home, they passed trees displaying such weird, brilliant shades of orange that they already felt nostalgic for fall. They heard the weird, mournful call of some migrating bird, but then realized the sound came from a child in a stroller. Suddenly, they became less jovial.
Ok, so. The kitchen. Pan on stovetop. Unsweetened cocoa powder, sugar, five magical ingredients. Pour in water, stir until it becomes a spicy paste. Add milk—yes, whole milk, it has not been easy lately, we need milk that will save us. Heat almost to the boiling point. They feel right then, and righteous, following the unwritten instructions. While the milk is heating, anything’s possible. It’s possible that this drink will serve as a balm for aching innards. It’s possible that someone will turn on the radio and something beautiful will be playing.
But perhaps you, reader, have known all along that this concoction would fail. And indeed: it’s bizarrely thick, undrinkably so, in limbo between liquid and solid, powdery lumps of cocoa, cayenne pepper burning the throat, a sickly amount of cinnamon. They attempt to sip a bit, attempt to grin triumphantly at each other. One admits failure with two monosyllabic words; the other quickly agrees, gripping a tense stomach. They have chocolate moustaches and brownish teeth. This does not amuse them. The disappointment is unbearable. They pour it down the sink, but it gets caught in the drain and clings there.
fight #9
I (don’t want to think about the morning the wife died from a snake bite, don’t want to think about the husband’s noisy sadness, don’t want to think about the swamps he encountered on his way to hell, don’t want to think about the tune he played for the king and queen of hell, don’t want to think about the queen turning to the king, don’t want to think about the bargain being struck, don’t want to think about the wife’s imperceptible footsteps as she followed the husband back up through the swamps, don’t want to think about the vow he’d made to not look back until, don’t want to think about the expectation of joy, don’t want to think about the yellow light of the world up ahead, don’t want to think about the husband’s sudden uncertainty, don’t want to think about the vertebrae in his neck enabling him to turn his head, don’t want to think about the wife who’d scarcely disrupted the darkness to begin with now yanked back into darkness) would prefer to think about an afternoon months beforehand, when they had a little fight in the kitchen; in their kitchen they had wooden bowls and copper pots; a jar of honey and a jar of nuts; a basket of plums and a basket of dried fish; a jug of water and a jug of wine; a door that opened into the backyard where she was trying to grow tomatoes, where a gnarled fig tree stood, where there were honeybees and snakes; what was the fight about?; if they couldn’t even remember themselves, how can I be expected to know?; but anyway, they had a fight and for some time were irritated; she stepped outside and he composed a ferocious song; but then something happened—I’m not sure what—and they forgot about their fight; someone opened the door; when I think of them, this is what I think about rather than thinking about everything else; I think of a man and a woman in a small house.
fight #10
Once upon a time, a small girl in a dress the color of butter stood on the subway platform. A scowling man pushed her onto the tracks. She hit the third rail. Her dress exploded into flame. Then this small girl found herself beside a lake. There were swans and ducks in the lake, and she began talking to them. The swans made fun of the ducks. The ducks made fun of the swans. They were all having a lovely time. The scowling man appeared from behind a weeping willow and pressed the s
mall girl into the lake until she couldn’t breathe. Then this small girl found herself walking down a street lined with old and wonderful trees, and beyond these trees were stately white houses, and in these houses were kind and protective adults whose breath smelled like black pepper and red wine, and these adults held small girls on their laps in the candlelight, and the small girls were entranced by the gleaming satin wallpaper. But this small girl didn’t get the chance to enter any of these houses before the scowling man hit her over the head with a croquet mallet.
Then this small girl found herself on the eleventh floor of an abandoned building. All the windows were broken. All the walls had disintegrated. She sat on a dusty oriental rug, and a mirror in a gold frame lay beside her. In that mirror she saw the face of the scowling man. And indeed he was there, standing behind her.
“Hello,” she said.
“Darling,” the scowling man said, “darling. I am sorry I pushed you off the subway platform. I am sorry I drowned you in the lake. I am sorry I hit you over the head with the croquet mallet. It’s just because you never seem one bit frightened—”
“Why don’t you shut up,” she said, “and let’s watch the sunrise?”
Because the abandoned building had no walls, they could see every inch of the rising sun, and they held each other, and were happy.
the failures
failure #1
Before we left for our trip, we neglected to wipe the kitchen counters. Our trip was tiring, and not as much fun as we’d anticipated. When we returned—we gasped—for there—in our kitchen—a mouse carnival was taking place! Our electric mixers made for a wild ride. Our scrub brush wedged against our faucet formed a waterslide. Pearls, once part of our heirloom necklace, served as balls in a lively game. Our cheddar cheese created an edible playground. Some mice had found the scotch and were staggering among the plates. A four-mouse band performed atop the table. They used spoons to keep the beat and mewled cheerfully. It was packed in there. They were all having a great time, wiggling their tails and feasting on the crumbs we’d failed to wipe off the counter. Truth be told, we didn’t have it in us to interfere. This was just the kind of party we were always wishing to go to. And now here, in our very own kitchen. . . .
We went to the bedroom . . . and what should we find there but a nursery, many mother mice nestled among the sheets, each with a bunch of tiny bald sweet things squirming around her. The mother mice smiled—or so it seemed—in the soft yellow light of our bedside lamp. We had to admit, it was a heartwarming scene. Quietly, respectfully, we shut the door behind us.
In the living room, there were no mice. We sat and wondered what to do. And then we noticed that, among our plants on the windowsill, pairs of mice were strolling. They gazed up through the leaves to the enormous moon outside. They nuzzled each other. They sat on the edges of the flowerpots and—perhaps—made plans for the future. It was lovely to behold.
All these mice—the partygoers, the parents, the lovers—they were doing such a better job than we’d ever done. They were succeeding where we’d failed again and again ... we gathered up our luggage, headed toward the door, and went away forever.
failure #2
A girl living in the modern world decides she would like to go dancing. She pictures herself in an enormous room with black-and-white checkered floors and crystal chandeliers—wearing high heels that make her legs look ten feet long—a crimson dress that twirls up to reveal her underwear—she dances with everyone and everyone dances with her—everyone smiles at her, and everyone winks—they stand back to watch her spin—these people are all so delightful that even when they leave the dance floor to go to the bathroom they keep the beat in their fingers and toes—their joy is unbounded.
This girl begins to dress herself. Her practical modern shoes and skirt are not the joyous garments she envisioned, but. Leaving the concrete room where she lives, she pinches her cheeks to give them the flushed color of a dancing girl’s. Out in the streets of the city, she searches for a place where she can go dancing. She asks a woman in a tracksuit; the woman turns away as though she’s been addressed by a crazy person. She asks a man with two briefcases; he smiles sadly and grips more tightly the handles of his briefcases. The streets are gray and quiet, the bars subdued. She asks a lady pushing a baby carriage; this lady laughs unkindly before turning her attention back to the infant. She asks a skeletal policeman, who, with great confidence, gives her directions to a nearby address.
Grateful, tempted to kiss his hand, the girl follows the policeman’s instructions, only to find herself in front of a Chinese takeout restaurant. She leans her face against the corner of the brick building. If only I could trade places with my great-great-grandmother, who surely must have danced in a crimson dress beneath crystal chandeliers on black-and-white—After a long while, she moves away from the brick building. Unbeknownst to her, the bricks and mortar have left a dramatic and disturbing imprint in her cheek; all the way home, she looks as though something terrible has just happened to her.
failure #3
We harbor certain titillating feelings toward the blind woman in the neighborhood. Overtaking her on the sidewalk, we become aware of the length and shapeliness of our legs, and the ease with which we move. The blind woman inches along, relying on her pole, like some weird cautious creature on the ocean floor. We notice things about her, such as the fact that she always wears khaki trousers with a brightly colored shirt. We agree that khaki matches everything, and that it is wise, if you are blind, to wear only khaki trousers. She has one pair of shoes; these shoes have thick black soles, and are the same kind our mothers used to force us to buy. Another fact about the blind woman, which sounds like it comes from a heartwarming movie: she always has this little smile on her face.
Eventually, you lose interest in the blind woman. She becomes just another odd fixture of the neighborhood, like the telephone booth covered in graffiti that says You love me You love me and the statue on the church’s lawn in which Mary has the body of a hot teenage girl.
Whenever I overtake the blind woman, I wonder if she can smell me. If so, what do I smell like? Like the cocoa butter cream I put on this morning, or like the sex we had yesterday? Are her nostrils offended by the onions I ate at lunchtime? I wonder if she can hear me, if she recognizes the sound of my gait, if my heavy breathing deceives her into believing I’m a man. I wonder if she thinks of me as a familiar and comforting presence.
Once, I spotted dog shit on the pavement in front of her.
“Look out!” I said.
But she didn’t know I was talking to her, and she stepped gracefully over it, smiling, and I wondered if it was her sense of smell that did the trick, and I wondered what kind of bitch would say “Look out” to a blind woman.
failure #4
We count nine oranges on the highway below us. How bright they look in our gray city. Standing on the overpass, we cling to the fence. We peer through. How radiant those oranges are, flickering among the fast cars. We have not seen oranges in many months. In fact, it is rather amazing that we recognize them at all, considering how unsophisticated we are. We tell ourselves we must be geniuses. Who spilled them, we wonder. Was it an accident? Did they fall from an enormous truck driven all night from nice green swampy Florida? Or did some carload of rich people get bored with their oranges and throw them out the window? What asshole could get bored of oranges? We dare one another to go down there and—
Just then, a charter bus pounds over the fifth orange. It is flattened, surrounded by a wet smear of orange juice, which we glimpse whenever there’s a gap between cars. Then the second orange meets with the same fate, and the eighth orange too. We think to ourselves how similar blood and orange juice are, in this context. Our teachers have criticized us for this. They have informed us that we suffer from the pathetic fallacy. Wow, we say. That is so mean. How can you say that to us? No, the teachers reply. It’s not as bad as it sounds. It just means—it just means that you tend to attribute human
emotions to inanimate objects.
Well, anyway, the oranges are bleeding on the highway.
We long for oranges. We start to believe that if we’d gotten them, if those oranges on the highway had made their way into our mouths, we would have been better than we are. The scabs on our mosquito bites would have vanished; our sneakers would be clean again; we’d feel less tired and less hot. We’d be smarter, kinder, stronger, more admirable. We’d no longer be filled with this unbearable sadness at the sight of things such as nine oranges smashed on the highway.
failure #5
Our bodies have no memory of the seasons. If they did, we’d never stay in the same place; if the cruelty of February and the cruelty of August could play simultaneously over our skin, we’d go mad. We’d leave our homes, board southbound buses, wouldn’t stop till we reached eternal primavera. Thankfully, our bodies are forgetful. They enjoy the strange shocking brightness of spring and fall, then talk themselves into staying for another season.
We go to the primeval park where our prehistoric ancestors can be seen. The path leads down into a canyon. The blackberries are so big they make us laugh. Also we’re laughing because we’re frightened, and nervous. What will they be like, these ancestors of ours? Won’t they wish to attack, and won’t they win? Reeds thick as thumbs grow everywhere. Then we spot one, squatting beside a shallow stream, its hand—yes, opposable thumbs!—outstretched to grab a frog. Its limbs are thicker and shorter than ours. It has a hump on its back. Its hair is stringy. We feel little affiliation with it. Only as much as might be felt with a cow. Its face is more like the face of a beast than like one of our faces. Suddenly, it becomes aware of us. Or perhaps, like any non-human creature, it has been aware of us all along, our expensive hiking boots grinding deafeningly into the reeds, and has just now chosen to acknowledge us. We can tell, when it looks at us, that the latter is true. It looks at us with such compassion! We become shy, and retreat.
And Yet They Were Happy Page 3