And Yet They Were Happy

by Helen Phillips

  A horrible mistake has been made. Each year, I see my parents for a few summer days, a few winter days. Aside from that we’re connected by tenuous things—telephones that flicker in and out of service, poorly punctuated emails. My parents sit on a deck in the faraway mountains. They sip coffee while above them swallows dip and whir. It used to be that on such mornings their offspring would eventually awake, come out onto the deck, see the swallows.

  Sometimes it simultaneously rains, snows, sleets, and drizzles in this city. We imagine apocalypse. Sidewalks flooding, subways stalled. In the churchyard, the plastic angel malfunctions. Her electrical wings make mournful, mechanical sounds. People stand in long, meaningless lines. Someone growls, and everyone wonders, Who’s growling?

  It won’t be easy to get to the mountains when apocalypse comes. We’ll go on foot, walking west along empty highways until our first pair of shoes wears out, our second, our third. We’ll get skinny and start to resemble animals. Language will elude us. Nothing could have prepared us for this. My parents tried to prepare me, difficult hungry childhood camping trips, blisters and insects. I’ll have to thank them. Will they be on the deck when we arrive? Will they have coffee to spare, and unpolluted swallows? Will my child be born in my childhood home? Will we build a family settlement with outbuildings and a protective log wall? Will we coax apple trees and wheat out of the hillside? Will my brother arrive from the North with a stolen cow? Will my sister arrive from the South with a loom? Will my parents grow old and happy, grateful for the apocalypse?

  In another version of this story, we die on the road, murdered for our shoes, or simply sinking from dehydration into oblivion, or killed by sadness at the sight of a dead child. In yet another version, my parents are not alive when we arrive. They are corpses, embracing in their big old bed. My brother never arrives, nor my sister.

  far-flung family #9

  Once, long ago, there were many things that brought comfort in the morning: A heavy rain falling. A large tree swaying. A small wooden bed. The distant sound of a man’s voice and a woman’s voice, exchanging occasional words. The smell of someone cooking breakfast elsewhere. Gray light at the window. The green weight of summertime. Clover growing between gravestones encrusted with orange lichen. An old wedding dress hanging in a closet. The closet door ajar. A metal fan whirring. Four raccoons walking along the telephone wire. Paper dolls preserved behind picture frames. A wooden jewelry box painted red, a strand of yellow beads, and a rusty broach.

  Now, there are many things that bring uneasiness in the morning: A heavy rain falling. A large tree swaying. A small wooden bed. The distant sound of a man’s voice and a woman’s voice, exchanging occasional words. The smell of someone cooking breakfast elsewhere. Gray light at the window. The green weight of summertime. Clover growing between gravestones encrusted with orange lichen. An old wedding dress hanging in a closet. The closet door ajar. A metal fan whirring. Four raccoons walking along the telephone wire. Paper dolls preserved behind picture frames. A wooden jewelry box painted red, a strand of yellow beads, and a rusty broach.

  Who said ‘Nature reflects the colors of the soul’? I should like to live alongside a pond with whoever said that. Sometimes the mosquitoes would annoy us, and sometimes they wouldn’t. His soul would feel dirty and clean and dirty and clean again, and my soul would too.

  Someone says: ‘You should not be so melancholy.’ Someone replies: ‘It’s true. I should not be so melancholy.’ Someone says: ‘You are not easy.’ Someone replies: ‘It is frightening to be a wife.’ Someone says: ‘For crying out loud.’ Someone replies: ‘I’d rather not go to bed sad, if you don’t mind.’ Someone says: ‘I don’t mind.’ Someone replies: ‘I’d rather not wake up uneasy.’ Someone says: ‘For crying out loud. Look out at that beautifully falling rain!’

  the envies

  envy #1

  My sister and I are jealous of the girls in Maxfield Parrish paintings. We, too, want to stroll down marble staircases, a cliff on one side and a palace on the other. We want to live among roses of indescribable shades and fountains running with snowmelt water in light that’s always like daybreak or sundown. We want to wear white fabrics that cling longingly to our hips. How unencumbered one’s body must feel in that cool golden air! We wish to sleep outside, and be woken by naked androgynous children.

  There have been brief moments—once, at dusk, coming upon a faux Greek colonnade in a city park, we managed to disregard the graffiti, and sat there, and were happy. Another time, in another city park, there was a waterfall, the black stillness of the pond disrupted by the extravagance of white bubbles. But then the breeze blew, bearing the smell of chlorine rather than the cardamom fragrance of Arcadia, and we were disappointed.

  Also there was a time years ago, when we were children and our parents took us to see the strange red cliffs of Utah. My sister sat dangerously at the edge of a cliff and I stood behind. I still had thick hair then; the wind pushed it and the sun transformed it to copper. Our limbs were lithe, our skin golden.

  This happened long before we’d ever heard of Maxfield Parrish. Imagine our surprise when, as teenagers, we discovered a painting of two golden-skinned girls on a red cliff, their copper hair twisted by the wind, one girl sitting, the other standing behind!

  Now my sister and I live in large frightening cities on opposite coasts, and we have learned that Maxfield Parrish paintings are not to be taken seriously.

  We are so jealous of the girls in Maxfield Parrish paintings! We’re desperate to live on a cliff together. We want to have honeycrisp apples and cream for breakfast, and walk among gardenias and waterfalls, and let the sun warm the lonesomeness out of our veins.

  envy #2

  The colonists on the ship that brought the first honeybees to the New World suffered a worse passage than all other colonists. In addition to everything—stenches, storms, sunburns, hunger, thirst, constipation, nostalgia, insomnia, uncertainty, cold moons on black waters, the desperate yearning for sugar, the infuriating weight of one’s body, its tyrannical needs, how heavily it moors one to the stinking wooden boards, preventing one from experiencing other, more abstract desires—they’re subjected to bee-stings, most earthbound and gardenbound of sufferings, a pain historically mitigated by the aroma of peaches, grass, dirt, roses, usually forgotten by the time the sunbeams turn to honey, warmly recalled as the worst mishap of a perfect day (and anyhow aren’t honeybees responsible for peaches, roses, the metaphor of honey?), but there’s nothing in this waterbound world to mitigate the pain, and so they howl, howl until gender and age vanish and each becomes just a creature, howling. Meanwhile, a tiny golden carcass falls to the salty boards.

  The colonists get stupid, their minds drifting in dumb directions due to the lack of sugar in their diets. They wonder how the bees manage to stay on board if they’re always flying. Why doesn’t the ship just sail out from under them? And what’s this peculiar continent ahead where, supposedly, there are no honeybees? It doesn’t sound like a place hospitable to stone houses with rose trellises . . . nostalgia returns, and uncertainty, before giving way to hunger, constipation.

  How does the beekeeper keep his shirt so white? Why doesn’t he develop sunburns? He picks the bee up, places it in his palm, flicks it into the ocean. The golden carcass glimmers midair. The night the sugarstarved colonists try to break into the hive to get at the honey, he exhibits superhuman strength. Furiously, they wonder: Why don’t the bees sting him?

  In fact, they do sting him, but he doesn’t mind. The bees build an orchard in his brain. He dwells there. He envisions the continent ahead, covered with orchards, shimmering with bees.

  envy #3

  Once upon a time, a person walked through an orchard on a hill. It seemed to this person that the air smelled of cinnamon, though upon further reflection the illusion of cinnamon could be accounted for by the fact that apples are so often served with cinnamon. And indeed there were apples of all kinds—Macoun, Honeycrisp, Braeburn, Baldwin, Jon
agold—rotting very sweetly in the grass. From the top of the hill, one could see many other hills, which resembled medieval tapestries woven of maroon and umber thread. Also at the top: Dirt wagon tracks. A yellow farmhouse. A vegetable garden. For the first time ever, this person was not envious of all the other, happier people who were surely enjoying themselves in other, more beautiful places. Yes, this person knew there was no one of whom to be jealous for these few minutes!

  This person strolled toward an exceedingly fruitful tree. In fact, its overloaded upper branches had begun to rip its trunk apart with their weight. This person stared at it, trying to decide if it was a symbol of lushness or of death. This person ducked under the branches of the tree. There, one could see only four colors: blue sky, green leaves, gray bark, red apples. It may sound like an oversimplification, but the world is simple beneath an apple tree.

  This person noticed one apple in particular, and recalled a fact: infants are attracted to faces that are perfectly symmetrical. This person stretched up to pick the symmetrical apple. It became impossible not to think of Eve. It seemed possible that, upon twisting the apple off the branch, upon tearing into it with one’s teeth, thunder would shake the orchard and an angry grandfather would awaken. But. Of course. Nothing happened. Just: a sudden swift return to the conviction that other, happier people were right now enjoying other, more beautiful places. And also: a sudden swarm of gnats, rising from nowhere, swirling around the mouth that bit the apple, attempting to enter the nostrils and the eyes.

  envy #4

  I am jealous of them.

  They are sitting there together on the rain-darkened dock in the honeyed sunlight of an October afternoon. Sixteen leaves in different shades of orange have fallen onto the dock. Her hair is just the right color, halfway between brown and blonde. He will age well. They have two mugs and two cups. One thermos and one basket. Thirty-three grapes, one loaf of bread, one plaid blanket. They wear four leather shoes, two pairs of jeans, two tan overcoats. Beyond them, the lake reflects the forest—smears of red, yellow, dark green in the green water. They are sensible people, and say sensible things to each other. They make astute, amusing observations about the world. Love comes easily to them. They do not falter; they do not have doubts. They invest in the stock market, do important work during the weeks, and relax on the weekends. He adores her. She feels adored; in response, she becomes the loveliest woman ever. She laughs at something he says. She sips something from her mug.

  Though this is just the photograph on the cover of the L.L. Bean catalogue, still I can smell the damp blackberry bushes alongside the lake. I know every inch of the scene is manicured, from the flawless grapes to the friendly bend in his knee, from the sixteen fallen leaves to the chemistry between them; but still I am jealous. For however long the photo shoot lasted, that man and that woman sat together on a rain-darkened dock with trees turning red and yellow all around them. For a brief time, it might as well have been true: the tranquility of the lake, the comfort of a mug held between two hands, the tenderness with which he gazed at her, the peace in her eyes.

  Those who achieve even five minutes of such perfection—mediated or no—deserve our envy. The world is a humid and difficult place, and we are so often exhausted, and love is strange, and arrives in stops and starts.

  the mistakes

  mistake #1

  A man comes into a party. A woman at the party once knew him and he once knew her. Initially they don’t recognize each other. There are many people. It is too hot. The white wine in the fridge has somehow gotten warm. He holds a plastic cup in his large hand. She leans against the mantelpiece but her elbow slips. She stands with her hands clasped in front of her. It was a long time ago. It was only one night. She was wearing a long blonde wig. She’d been in a play about a mermaid. Neither of them had cared either way.

  She says: “I sometimes think of you because I’ve recently met someone who reminds me of you.” For the first time since his arrival the man does not look bored. He says: “Oh? Who?”

  Then the thing that’s been happening to the woman lately happens again. Parts of her mind are suddenly lost to her. She leans against the mantelpiece again and her elbow slips again. She tries to recall their conversation. She said ‘I sometimes think of you because I’ve recently met someone who reminds me of you’ and he said ‘Oh? Who?’ But now she wonders: Who indeed? She cannot think of anyone who reminds her at all of this man. She cannot think of anyone she has met recently. She never meets anyone. To whom, then, had she been referring?

  The woman grinds her faux pearls together in her palm. The man twists his thick neck around. Someone ought to buy an air-conditioner. He has recently become a lawyer. The woman realizes that she definitely does not sometimes think of him. She hasn’t ever thought about him. She does not know anyone who reminds her of him.

  She says: “Actually, the person I was thinking of is you. I just ran into you at this party, and seeing you reminded me of you.”

  Then she dumps her wine on his foot to distract him from how odd she is but he’s already left.

  mistake #2

  At times, we wake hopeful, sensitive to good omens, such as the cotton-candy seller who sits down beside us on the subway, puffs of cotton-candy guarding our heads like an umbrella; such as the inexplicable fireworks glimpsed over faraway skyscrapers on a boring night in June.

  Like tribal peoples, we obey the imperative of these omens. We dress ourselves in brightly colored garments. We load blankets and games, water and food, into a wheelbarrow. We go to the city park, we spread blankets, we shuffle a deck of cards, we wait for our friends to arrive. We put our trust in the city lake, which reflects a half-blue sky; we put our trust in the grass. We become convinced that we will be able to create the impression of Arcadia, of nymphs and gods lounging in some clean and wild place, how pastoral it will all be, how softly the weeping willow dips seven fingers into the lake, you may think those are scraps of litter but in fact they are clusters of small white flowers. We sit there on our blanket, awaiting joy.

  Our friends appear, smoking cigarettes and worrying about the weather. With yellowed fingers, they point out the black cloud we’ve neglected to notice. Unlike them, we are brave. We are not afraid of lightning, nor thunder. In fact, we rather enjoy such things. We swear to—

  But at the first drops of rain, we grab the blankets and the games; we push the wheelbarrow through the downpour; our friends follow behind in a long lackadaisical line. We try to think of our life as a moveable feast. We try to yelp with the thrill of the rain. Our kitchen fills with damp cigarette smoke. Wet heels grind crumbs into our carpet; someone writes something in pen on the fabric of our couch.

  Hours later, cleaning up, throwing plastic cups away, we become furious with ourselves for misinterpreting the signs. We should have kept the blankets safely in the linen closet. We should have built an ark.

  mistake #3

  It was a dark and dangerous time. Failures of both large and small magnitude took place regularly. Still, someone—charmed by our youth if not our cleanliness—gave us a hundred-dollar gift certificate to a fine restaurant. Trying to disregard the alarming rumors we’d been hearing—my cousin’s husband had taken to shitting in the bathtub, your aunt had taken to threatening her dog with a medieval dagger—we wiped the grime off our faces. We adorned my head with stolen flowers and found a necktie in a dumpster. But youth is beautiful, and they led us graciously into the restaurant. Perhaps they assumed we’d paid a lot for our ragged clothing. Ashamed of the flowers wilting behind my ear, I went to the ladies’ lounge. The toilets were golden. Beside the sink lay linen cloths finer than anything we owned. Back at the draped table, I sat up and tried not to feel humble, but looking at you—your bloodshot eyes, your poorly shaven chin—made me feel humble all over again. Knowing nothing, we said yes to everything the waiter offered. Once the wine arrived in its bucket of ice, things improved. We began to feel not only comfortable with this kind of luxury, but even
deserving of it. The courses came one by one, combinations we scarcely understood—grapefruit with licorice? yam with lemongrass ? raspberry chamomile duck? We couldn’t keep them straight while we ate, couldn’t recall them once we’d finished. But the food didn’t matter, we assured ourselves. It was everything else that mattered, the waiter’s patient smile, the second bottle of wine being uncorked, the way we looked rich in the candlelight. Yes, we could get used to this. We forgot about our small bed, our clunking refrigerator.

  When the check arrived on its golden clipboard, it said: $1114. We laughed at the decimal point error. The dear waiter returned. We pointed out the mistake. He regarded us mournfully. Our blood turned black and cold, rushing around our brains and stomachs; we left that place with nothing to call our own.

  mistake #4

  We’re not the kind of people who take taxicabs. Instead, we march down midnight streets damp and shiny with gasoline, over canals releasing black fog, past the lot where taxicab drivers doze. How yellow and faithful the taxicabs look! The whole world drips with rain and anxiety, but the taxicabs are safe.

  A bleak block beyond, we come upon it, there beside the superhighway. Long ago, it would have been one of many mansions lining a boulevard. Now it looms here alone, blackened with car exhaust, no buffering gateway between the sidewalk and its front steps.

  We’d scrub the outside until the original color was revealed. We’d repair the leaks. We’d pull down the stained wallpaper. We’d bring in Oriental rugs and mahogany furniture. We’d put roses in crystal vases. We’d polish everything with lemon oil. We’d buy yellow songbirds and bamboo cages. There would be enough guestrooms; finally, we’d be the kind of hosts we’ve always wanted to be. There would be feather mattresses and thick towels. Our guests would feel happy, like cats in velvet laps. The kitchen would be orderly, its canisters of flour and sugar always full. At daybreak, the house would smell like coffee; at night, like steak and peppercorn. Proudly, our mothers would visit. We’d preside calmly over our guests, stirring tea with silver teaspoons. Yes, the highway would still abut the house, but it would be a testament to our powers as homemakers, as magicians, that once inside no guest would recall the anxious city. The cars would waver like dreams beyond the sheer curtains.