The Color of Home: A Novel

by Rich Marcello

  “Do you trust me, Nick?”

  “Yes.”

  Sassa placed her empty wine glass on the coffee table and asked, “Do you know why?”

  Good question. Why did he? He hadn’t spent that much time with her, and he didn’t know her that well. What then? Desire and food? No, that was great, but not it. It was as if she’d forgiven him for something he couldn’t see. Something big. Older. Deeper. But what? And could she see it? Then, like that, it clicked, and he said, “I tend to trust people who are sad at their core.”

  Sassa slid from the coffee table to the sofa right next to him, so that her leg and shoulder touched his leg and shoulder. Leaning over, she kissed him on the cheek. “It’s time.” She stood, crossed over to the other side of the room, and flipped on the overhead light. After hesitating for a long time with her back to him, she spun around and slowly advanced his way. A few steps later, she reached down and pulled her top over her head.

  His breath quickened as he fought an urge to look away.

  She unbuttoned her jeans, slowly lowered the zipper, and slipped out of them, exposing red lace panties.

  “That was worth the wait.”

  “Hold that thought.”

  With Sassa in front of him, near naked and only a few feet away, he confirmed his hunch. She possessed a perfect body, the kind one often saw on female instructors in Bikram yoga classes. How could anyone have so much going for them? Did he deserve her? Was he worthy? He mouthed perfect.

  She stepped back. Were her chin and lips trembling? Yes. Pressing her lips together, she pivoted and crouched down. “What—” Her voice softened and broke. “What do you think?” A long scar reached from her left buttock all the way up to the top of her back. At around four inches wide, the scar’s smooth surface appeared interrupted in several places by old mutilated patches.

  “Did you get the scar in the accident?”

  “Yes. The result of hot jagged metal. Two inches to the right and I would have been paralyzed.”

  “Can I touch it?”

  “Another line,” she whispered. Smiling not quite out of his view, she stood up.

  “No, really.” He maneuvered around the coffee table and closed the gap between them to a few inches. Swallowing dryness, he placed one hand on her scar and gently glided his hand up and down. “Is this okay?”

  “Yes.”

  “Still painful?”

  “The pain never stopped.”

  “Is there anything I can do to help?” he asked.

  “You just did.” She stepped away from him, picked up her top off the floor, slipped it back on, tried to smile, scooted over to the kitchen. “Do you want more espresso?”

  “Sure.”

  What just happened? Show and run? Of course, show and run; they had that in common, though, even by his standards, that was abrupt. Shaking all over, with slinky legs, he scanned her studio apartment. Four hundred square feet had been worked to the point where the room appeared spacious. Everything had a purpose, often more than one, and a place. He’d already helped her fold down the dining room table into the coffee table. And she’d collapsed the two chairs they used to dine into end tables. Transformer furniture. The far wall, mostly covered in books and CDs, had a space carved out that folded down into a desk. In the back of the space, a computer monitor doubled as a television. He didn’t notice a bed anywhere.

  On return, she said, “Black with a lemon peel.”

  “Perfect.” He accepted the cup from Sassa. “Where’s the bed?”

  She grinned. “Subtle.”

  “Sorry.”

  She walked over to the sound system on the far wall and fidgeted with her iPod for a long time, almost as if Sassa needed just the right music in the room for support. Fiona Apple’s Tidal started to play. “There’s something else I want to tell you,” she said softly, with her back to him. She turned around, slowly glided back across the room, gently drove him back toward the sofa until he fell into a seated position. Settling on the floor in front of him, she folded her arms over his knees so her head rested on them.

  “I see you like me,” she said.

  He placed the coffee cup on his lap.

  She grinned. “Where’s the truth in a cover up?”

  “Sorry.”

  “I need you to concentrate for a bit.”

  “Easier said.”

  Her arms and face prickled red. Looking at the floor, first on her left, then on her right, she paused for a long time, almost as if the scar was a prelude, a test, something he had to successfully navigate to get to the sonata. Finally, she returned, and looking directly at him, said, “Until I turned twenty-three, I had a problem. A pretty serious one, even though I didn’t think so for a long time. I began taking Vicodin in college and, well, things got out of hand.”

  “How long? How did you stop?”

  “Three years. A friend helped me get through it. Getting off that stuff was the hardest thing I’ve ever done.”

  “How do you feel now? Do you think you beat it?”

  “On most days, I feel okay. Sometimes, I feel the pull. I’ve been mostly clean for five years.”

  “Relapses?”

  “A few. Minor. Stress does me in. Immediate relief is seductive, even though it’s temporary.”

  “Sorry for the barrage of questions.”

  “That’s okay. I wanted you to know before we go any further. I guess telling you is my attempt at being honest on a big one.”

  “Thank you for telling me.”

  “Even though my stuff happened a long time ago, the future isn’t a sure thing. Did I scare you away?”

  At first, yes. But by the time she’d finished her last sentence, his fear had transformed into something deeper, calmer. By sharing her scar, her addiction, she’d come fully into view. Her physical beauty, more than ample, deepened every time he saw her. The way her smile reflected light. The birthmark on her neck right below her left ear. Her hair pulled back away from her face. Her slightly crooked right index finger. Her taste lingering after a kiss. But now he’d discovered that she wasn’t perfect, that she lived with chronic pain, that she’d gone through addiction. He was toast.

  “You came fully into view tonight,” he said.

  “I’m not perfect, Nick.”

  “None of us is.”

  “That’s not what you want?”

  “Only truth.”

  “Even the ugly and disfigured parts?”

  He repeatedly ran his finger down a strand of her hair. So soft. “Yes. Where do you think beauty comes from?”

  Moving back from him, she pulled her knees up to her chest, wrapped her arms around her legs, and rested her chin between her kneecaps.

  Nick continued. “Here’s the thing. Our culture emphasizes external beauty and attaining happiness through material possessions. It’s a bunch of bull. Winning and losing, beauty and ugliness, good and bad. I’m not so sure I believe in anything dualistic anymore. I’m much more interested in truth, in vulnerability, in what you showed tonight.”

  “Beyondoman!”

  “What?”

  “We need a safe word.”

  “For what?”

  “When you go back in your head,” she said.

  Nick burst out laughing.

  Smiling, she got up off the floor and poured him another glass of wine from their second bottle, a merlot. Then she picked up a throw pillow from the sofa, threw it on the floor, sat back down on it, and pulled each leg under her as if she were going to meditate. Rubbing the palms of her hands on her knees, she leaned toward him.

  “Okay, here it is,” she said.

  “What?”

  “Truth.”

  “Wait.” Balancing his wine glass in one hand, he lowered himself down on the floor opposite her and crossed his legs under him so his knees touched hers. Was that how lovers meditated together? Knee-to-k
nee? It was good.

  She moved her hands from her knees to his, and scanned around the room at the bookcases, the kitchen, the furniture, the family pictures, as if she were taking mental snapshots. Shifting her weight from one side to the other, she took a deep breath, and said, “You’re different than anyone I’ve ever met. The thought crossed my mind that there might not be anyone like you in the entire world.”

  “Can I record this?”

  “It will still be true tomorrow. Unlike a lot of guys I’ve dated, you don’t seem to fear strength or intelligence or beauty. And you listen most times.”

  “Most?”

  “Don’t push it. You did handle the scar and V without freaking out which made me feel safe.”

  “We’re safe together.”

  With both hands, he reached over and brushed the red lace that covered each hip. Gently, with the tips of his fingers, he stroked the outside of her thighs. Leaning in, he kissed her softly, eyes wide open, for a long time. It was unlike any other kiss he’d ever experienced, like he could see her fully—the beauty, the strength, the intelligence, the loss, the pain, the scar, the addiction—all at the same time, and not only could he see it, he could embrace it.

  Sassa pulled back a bit and her gaze went weightless as she rose from the floor. Reaching out, she gathered Nick's hands and lifted him up. Placing his hands around her waist, she pulled him close and leaned on his shoulder. She began to cry.

  “Why are you crying?” he whispered.

  “I don’t know. It’s only the second time I’ve cried since my parents died.”

  “When was the first?”

  “Let’s go to bed now.”

  “And where is that bed?” he asked.

  She walked over to the far wall and slid a portion of the wall out of the way, exposing a full-sized pull-down bed. “What can I say? I like the idea of dual use in small spaces.”

  • • •

  The first time she’d cried was much different.

  Sassa, just sixteen, gulped down a half bottle of Southern Comfort, snuck off in her uncle’s 1968 Chevy Malibu, and rushed toward the Indiana Toll Road. She stuffed a whole pack of spearmint gum in her mouth, and turned up the hard rock radio station as loud as it would go. “Welcome to the Jungle.” Racing onto the highway, she hit 100 miles per hour in a matter of seconds. She loved the speed, the freedom, the closeness to death. Maybe she would become a race car driver? After a few minutes at speed, she touched her brakes just enough to slow down to sixty, stuffed her bottle under the front seat, and flew into the Valparaiso exit ramp. At the last possible second, she slammed on the pedal and came to a smoother-than-expected halt in front of the tollbooth. Mascara streaming down her face like a blonde in a slasher movie, she tried to gather herself.

  “Why don’t you pull over to the side of the road next to that state trooper?” asked the attendant.

  “I’ll be okay, sir. I just broke up with my boyfriend, and want to get home to my family.” She gave him her best smile through the tears.

  “Pull over so he can watch you walk.”

  She pulled her car over to the side, got out of the car, and leaned against the hood. Slipping out of one sandal, she pulled her leg up, pressed her foot against the fender, and waited. License and registration later, at the officer’s request, she chalk-lined for ten yards, then turned around and did it again, at the end pushing up close enough to him to be sure he smelled the spearmint.

  “All right. No speeding and go straight home. You haven’t been drinking, have you?”

  “No, sir. I would never drink and drive.”

  What had just happened? Why did she drink so much? And go so fast? Sick to her stomach, she pulled over about a mile down the road in an empty parking lot, opened the door and vomited for a long time. Later, back on the road, she reversed direction and drove the remaining fifteen or so miles home, sobbing for the first time since the accident.

  • • •

  “How do you feel?” Nick asked.

  “Happy. And you?”

  “Happy.”

  Though he’d answered truthfully that he felt happy, “home” better described the feeling. Not home the way he remembered growing up, before his father died—colored with happiness and innocence. No, in bed, naked, with Sassa draped over him, this was a different kind of home—colored with happiness, yes, but without innocence. As he drifted toward sleep, an old conversation he’d had with his mother surfaced. Strange timing, but he surfed it anyway.

  One night he came home late after spending time with a girl. After his father died, he’d hooked up with a number of different girls within a short time; some he cared about, but most helped him numb, mask his pain. When he crept in the front door, his mother, perched on her favorite living room chair, was waiting for him. He brushed her off with a comment about being dead tired as he headed off to his bedroom. Stopping him after only a few steps, she asked him to visit with her in the living room.

  “I’ve been thinking,” she said.

  An opening like that historically meant trouble for Nick. He braced himself.

  His mother continued in a calm voice and asked if he had any place to get advice on relationships, given his father’s absence. She didn’t want to embarrass him. She would keep their conversation short. She only had one piece of advice for him regarding women. “After you’re done and she is as well, make sure you pay attention to how you both feel.”

  He made an effort to jump up and leave. His mother, with a raised-eyebrow look he knew too well, froze him in his seat.

  “Love is a tricky thing,” she went on, “and is often confused by sex instead of informed by it, but there’s this short time right after you’re both done when you can ask yourself how you feel. If you’re restless, discontent, or feel alone, then you haven’t found the right girl yet, but if you feel happy and feel like you're home, then she’s the right girl for you.

  “Now here’s the tricky part. There will be times in your life when you feel at home but your girlfriend may not. During these times, it will be hardest for you to see clearly, exactly because you feel most at home. So use all of your strength and set aside the feeling of home, if only for a moment. Then make sure you look hard and take her in from that vantage point. Above all, trust your instincts. If she’s the right one, you’ll know. If she’s not, let her go and be thankful that she was an almost.”

  The rules of almost. It remained the single best piece of advice Nick’s mother ever gave him.

  “One hundred dollars for your thoughts,” Sassa said. She rolled over on top of him and pinned his hands against the bed.

  “Inflation, I see.”

  “You know, we live in strange economic times, so the amount isn’t that far off.”

  “I’ve never felt this way before,” he said.

  “And is that a good thing?”

  “Hell, yeah.”

  He watched her for signs that she felt the same way, but not that closely. Scared and afraid of what the truth might be, he ignored his mother’s advice.

  CHAPTER 3

  On a hot, humid night in August, Nick stayed late at his music studio. He made up an excuse about working on deadline for a new reggae client, but in reality he needed space to think. Why did he lie? Why didn’t he tell Sassa the truth? He sank into his chair, placed his feet on the mixing console, popped a Diet Pepsi, and rehashed the past several months. Sweat carpet-bombed the top of the Diet Pepsi can. A breeze, gathering cargo from a bakery across the street, infused the humidity with the smell of vanilla. Sitting back, he eyed the ceiling fan.

  “I love being around Sassa no matter what we’re doing.” Long silent walks with her through the Village, where they did little more than hold hands. Relaxing opposite her on the sofa, barefoot with their legs interlaced, reading a good book. Encouraging her to model outfits for him as they rambled through boutique shops. Saturday morning laundromat dates. S
ometimes after they made love, he watched her brush her hair as she sat on the edge of the bed. “I’ve never been even close to this in the past.”

  “Nick, who are you talking to?” one of his employees shouted from the studio office.

  “No one, Chris. Just myself. I’m done.”

  He swigged his soda. “I’m in love with her.” There. The first time out loud. What were the guarantees? He would love her openly. He would stay wired to her. Would she do the same? “I’d do almost anything for her, but I need to know.”

  “I thought you said you were done,” Chris said, still in the office.

  “I am now.' He picked up his acoustic guitar and started strumming a few simple chords. “I’m just happy being around you,' he sang repeatedly. He waited for repetition to bubble something up. Zilch. Different chords. “Your beauty is like a drug.' Zilch. Different chords. “You’re too sexy for your shirt.' He smiled. Finally, over the riff for “Layla,' he simply sang, “I love you.”

  “Hey Nick, Eric Clapton would be proud,' Chris said.

  “Right.' Almost as an afterthought, he stumbled across an Americana riff that walked down a series of notes, first on the G string, then the A string. Nodding in time, he whistled a seed melody. He pulled his feet off the console and sat upright in his chair, slightly hunched over his guitar. An idea darted, which he struggled to land. Songwriting had always come as a hit-or-miss thing for him and, before Sassa, he’d lost many of his best ideas in the ether.

  Not this time. He hit three chords in a row with a single strum each and returned to his original riff to hear how those chords sounded appended to the riff. Damn good. He played both parts together, humming a trial melody over top. After a few passes, he liked the part enough to propel himself on his chair toward his desk. Placing his guitar on the floor, he reached into the bottom drawer, and pulled out a deep honey-brown, leatherbound journal, a gift from his mother that contained most of the original drafts of his lyrics and poems. He opened the journal to a fresh page and scribbled down “Hold You.' Jotting down a few fragments, he sang them in his head to different melodies. Listen to the undercurrent. We’re riding it. Words are messengers. With his guitar in hand, he joined words with music, working nonstop until he had three full verses.