The Color of Home: A Novel

by Rich Marcello

  Once inside Cambridge Common, she passed by a monument of a man, arm outstretched, hand open, reaching out to a girl sitting on a stoop. The inscription on the granite: “Never again should a people starve in a world of plenty.” She nodded. She walked down the row of maples toward the playground. Leaning on the playground gate, she watched boys and girls in vibrant summer colors play inside. She opened the gate, entered the playground, and climbed up on the large wooden dragon, where she could see everything. On a swing set in the corner, a boy pushed a girl higher and higher until the girl jumped off at the peak, flew for a second, then stuck the landing in the sand.

  CHAPTER 7

  The dream visited Nick often. He stood in a room alone. The room was empty, except for a small unshaded lamp on the floor and an unusual red door with the letter M tiled on it. He didn’t recognize the room, but somehow knew that it had been part of his life for a long time.

  After a few minutes, Sassa entered, naked. Pressing one foot against the wall, she leaned back. “I love you. I know the truth about you.”

  He smiled.

  “I know you better than anyone.” She pushed off the wall and glided closer. “I now know what it means to surrender completely to another person, and after years of not being able to connect with anyone, I’m ready to give myself to you with no masks.”

  He reached out to take her hand.

  No longer naked, wearing a stained DiPosto chef’s jacket, Sassa grasped his hand.

  A current ran up his arm. A sign. A warning. He tried to pull away, but she wouldn’t let go. What was happening?

  “I’ve met someone else,” she said.

  “You what?”

  “I’ve met someone else.”

  The room morphed into a giant snowdrift and went arctic. He started to shake uncontrollably. He never thought he would hear those words from her. Never. The red door opened. “Do you love him?”

  “Yes. I need to let the affair play out. I need to leave our room and see where things go. Don’t worry, yours is still the biggest I’ve ever seen.”

  “Fuck you.” He snapped away from her, dashed to the red door, and stepped inside. The floor gave way and he plummeted down a dark shaft for a long time. As he fell, the sickness in his stomach grew. Who was he? How could she? Palms outstretched, he braced for impact. Whomp! Hundreds of steel marbles spewed out of his shattered arms, and he screamed, “Fuck her.”

  Time cut forward. The pain subsided, replaced by a cramped feeling. Stuffed in a high school classroom seat, he struggled to acclimate. Ms. Davis, his tenth-grade science teacher, dawned at the front of the room as pretty as Nick remembered her, her hair pulled back in a ponytail, wearing thick black sixties glasses, and a tight, short black dress.

  “You failed, Nick.”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t understand.” His voice was barely audible.

  “You weren’t who I thought you were. You didn’t fight for me. You were an imposter.”

  “I was a teenager.”

  “That’s no excuse.”

  “I’m sorry. What should I have done?”

  “You should’ve taken what was yours. Instead, you crumbled at the first sign of trouble.”

  “You didn’t teach me.”

  “I did, but you didn’t listen. You thought you knew better and that all you required were words. Words, words, words . . .”

  “Teach me now, Ms. Davis. Please.”

  Ms. Davis went to the blackboard and chalked it with a beautiful multicolored abstract image. “Paint a picture with the astrology cards I gave you. Feel them. Move in them.”

  “I lost them.”

  “Find them. Build a car with them and go north.”

  A man came into the classroom. He looked at Nick with a strange expression on his face, both disapproving and perplexed. He swaggered up to Ms. Davis and passionately kissed her. While eying Nick, he inserted his hand between her legs and pushed upwards in one fluid act designed to display his superior technique. Ms. Davis responded with a barely perceptible moan, the kind that Sassa made on those nights when Nick really got to her.

  “Who’s the guy?” the stranger asked in an English accent.

  Nick hated him even more.

  “Ignore him. He’s nobody. He had some fancy words once, but couldn’t back it up with anything real.”

  “Should I take him out?”

  “No. Let him suffer. He’ll fade away in the room.”

  Nick shut his eyes, and shrank into himself. When he opened them, Ms. Davis and the man evanesced and were replaced by a man he recognized as famous. Older, forty at least, with red hair and a reddish-gray beard . . . he couldn’t place him.

  “Nick, when exactly were you born?” the man asked in a prescient voice.

  “I don’t know. 7:26 p.m., I think.”

  “I can help you.”

  But he wasn’t sure anyone could help him.

  • • •

  Without Sassa, Nick lost hope. For weeks he stayed in bed all day, drifting in and out of consciousness, unable to settle. When asleep, elaborate dreams of betrayal haunted him. When awake, he scribbled fragments in his journal trying to work through the sadness. It had to go somewhere.

  Monday: I know that I will learn from this in time, but for now, I let the tears stream me to sleep. As I dream, messengers of hope start their journey toward my home.

  Thursday: Immutable pressure in my back and neck. It feels like there is some mysterious creature under my skin, drenched, nourished by my blood, quickening to find a way out through the labyrinth.

  Friday: Perched on a ledge above translucent unfeeling, I wish I could take the plunge for a few minutes to release this burden. At this moment I understand the pull of alcohol, Vicodin—a replacement lover.

  Sunday: Once caressed, these shadow thoughts subside. They are replaced by a calm, deep grasp that I must continue to push through the pain. And so I continue struggling, groping to understand. Grieving a loss I’ve only felt this deeply once before.

  Tuesday: I know this. If I must be singularly defined in this lifetime, then I choose to be a survivor. But before I come through, I want to know one thing. Years from now, will you even remember the figs?

  For three months, nothing made him feel better. He devoured food he hadn’t eaten in years: gyros, Reuben sandwiches, sausage and pepperoni pizza, cheeseburgers, French fries, milk shakes. Craving the dark, he returned to the movie theaters, though this time he replaced Bergman with romantic comedies. On rare productive days, he threw himself into twenty-hour days at the studio. He visited his mother every week, hoping home cooking would steady him.

  One morning, while waiting in a dentist’s chair for a filling, he read a fascinating story about the healing power of Sedona’s vortexes, which linked vortexes, Shamanism, and quantum physics. Shamans helped seekers realize their intentions by leveraging energy vibrations in sacred places such as vortexes. Inside a vortex, altering reality was workable through prayer and intention rituals. For the ritual to work, the seeker had to accept the fundamental tenet of quantum physics: there was no “us versus them” in the universe. He had to suspend belief in edges and boundaries normally used to separate life.

  It sounded perfect. In a vortex, Nick would snap out of his funk. In a vortex, a Shaman would help him win Sassa back. In a vortex, he would keep his heart open until she came to her senses. He hired one and booked the trip.

  • • •

  Nick boarded the plane for Phoenix, and sank into his seat. Headphones? Check. Tablet? Check. Airline-provided pillow at the base of his seat for lumbar support? Check. The same routine every time. Settled, comfortable, and walled off by his noise-canceling headphones, he drifted off on rekindling his relationship with Sassa. What was she doing? Did she ever think about him? When was she coming home?

  After a few minutes, someone hovered. He glanced up. A woman, standing in the aisle beside him, smiled and signaled that she was in the window seat next to him. Outfitted in a smart black busi
ness suit, she stood not an inch over five feet, even in her pumps. With short gray hair, clunky black glasses, and little make-up, Nick guessed her age at somewhere between fifty and sixty years. Stumbling out of the row to let her pass, he bowed his head. She wouldn’t bother him much.

  Two hours into an uneventful flight he removed his headphones, waved to a passing flight attendant, and asked her to bring him a glass of water with lots of ice. Years earlier, during long hours in the studio, he’d picked up his ice-chewing habit.

  “Hi there, my name is Jackie.”

  “Nice to meet you. I’m Nick.”

  “Where are you headed?”

  “Sedona. How about you?”

  “Phoenix, for a conference. I’ve been to Sedona a few times. Do you know about the vortexes?”

  “A little. Have you been?”

  “Yes, a long time ago. They’re amazing. There are four of them: Cathedral Rock, Bell Rock, Boynton Canyon, and Airport Mesa. If you can, visit each one, and make sure that someone knowledgeable goes with you.”

  “Cool. I will.”

  The attendant returned with his water. Instead of chewing ice, he slowly sipped the water. First the vortex article, now the woman. What were the chances? He had to be on the right track. Pushing his lower back into the pillow to straighten up, he shifted his body toward the woman. “Can you tell me more of your vortex story?”

  “Sure. Let’s see . . . I’d just been through a divorce. I’d spent years committed to a dead relationship and had lost sight of myself. I had no idea what I was going to do.”

  “I can relate.”

  “On Cathedral Rock, I had this vision, almost like I was watching a movie of my life so far, but detached, with emotional distance. As I watched, I realized I didn’t like who I’d become, so I promised myself that I would never enter another relationship where my partner didn’t see me. I also decided to become a therapist and work with women who were, in one way or another, oppressed by men.”

  “What a change.”

  “It was. I’d been in chaos stew for years, and it had paralyzed me. The vortex cleared the chaos so that I could act.”

  “Cool image, ‘chaos stew.’”

  She nodded. “Once I left Sedona, I went back to school and eventually started my own practice in New York. Hard to believe, but I’ve been practicing for over twenty years. Most of the women I work with are from the corporate world. They feel stuck.”

  “In chaos stew?”

  “Either that or like impostors. In either case, they feel oppressed by male-created and male-dominated cultures.”

  “I sometimes dream that I’m an impostor,” he said.

  “That’s interesting.”

  Why did he feel that way? Somehow different from other guys. On the edge. Lost. Or on the forefront. Leading. Like all that mattered was love. Or fear. A sharp pain surfaced in his upper back right at the base of his neck. He tilted his head one way, then the other to work it out. “Do you still love your work?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s good to hear.”

  “How about you?” Jackie asked.

  “I’m a musician and songwriter. I have a small company. We do online recording, mostly for songwriters who need help bringing their songs to life.” Nick detailed for Jackie how the Internet recording process worked. He loved talking about the technical aspects of his business. Any aspect, really. After a whirlwind tour of studiomusicians-dot-com, he stilled. A thought formed— he’d never had a significant conversation on a plane with a stranger before.

  “I noticed you were reading lyrics on your tablet earlier. One of your songs?”

  “One of my poems. I dabble.”

  “Do you have any favorite poets?”

  “I like Audre Lorde, Alice Walker, Kay Ryan, Marge Piercy, Mary Oliver.”

  “That’s a lot of women, which is appealing to me, of course.”

  He gathered himself. Why was he doing the pitch that, before Sassa, he’d reserved for attractive younger women? What had Jackie looked like at twenty? Was it possible for attraction to be non-physical? “I tend to like people who communicate directly and honestly. Female poets seem to do that well. I’m not sure why.”

  “Probably something to do with falling apart. That happens a lot with women, and when they go through the pain, as poets often do, it makes them stronger and more honest.”

  He nodded. It happens with some men, too. No wonder he was so drawn to her.

  “Do you mind if I read some of your poetry?”

  His face warmed. He shifted slightly away. He’d never shown his poetry to anyone except Sassa, but that had turned out well. And he did feel a connection with Jackie, so maybe it would be okay. “I only consider a few of them done.”

  “You don’t have to if you’re uncomfortable in any way. I’m just curious given your interest in female poets.”

  He changed the subject back to the purpose of Jackie’s conference: The exact location. How long would she be away from her practice? Was conference food any good? His body temperature dropped. Then, while she was in mid-sentence describing one of the conference talks on self-love, he blurted out, “Oh, what the heck.” He opened a document on his tablet and handed the tablet to Jackie. As she read, he tried not to watch her, first thumbing through the airline magazine and eventually watching a man in the row in front of them tap his foot to an unknown song. Why was he so scared of what she thought? He would probably never see her again.

  Jackie said nothing for what seemed like a long time. She pored over each poem more than once and appeared to mouth answers to her own questions. Finally, she handed Nick his tablet. Turning her body toward him, she crossed one leg under her and placed her hand on his forearm. “Nick, your poems are beautiful. Like all of the poets you admire, you manage to convey a rich set of emotions in your work. I honestly believe a wider audience would benefit from reading them.” She detailed a few poems that particularly resonated with her.

  “Thank you.”

  “One more thing.”

  “Sure.”

  “Can you tell me more about ‘Dancing Ground?’ But before you do, I’ll be right back.” She popped up, crossed over him, and then balanced down the aisle, eventually disappearing into the lavatory.

  What should he share about “Dancing Ground”? He’d written it when he was twenty-three, after attending a workshop in Colorado with a group of older men. He had great father-hunger at that time, and had searched widely for ways to satisfy his appetite. The workshop focused on Native American wisdom, and he fully participated in every ritual with one exception.

  The group had gathered around a large bonfire one night, each participant with a drum. They drummed together, following the lead of one of the elders. Nick jumped right in, comfortable given his musical background, and let go as he pounded his drum in rhythm with the group. After drumming for some time, an elder rose to his feet and started dancing. Soon, another man joined in, and another, until all of the men stood dancing to Nick’s drumming. He had to keep going. Otherwise, the entire spontaneous ritual might fall apart.

  After a long time, the dancers, spent, stopped one by one, and Nick’s drumming came to an end. It was a warm July night, and everyone was dripping with sweat. Some men laughed. Some hugged each other. Some shed tears. Nick watched. A short time later, he made an excuse about being exhausted and retreated to his room. With a heaviness in his body, he reached for his journal and wrote “Dancing Ground” in one pass.

  Today I go to the dancing ground,

  to stomp and pound on the dirt around you

  Wait for your soul to rise slowly,

  through uncovered feet,

  no longer frost bitten by death,

  through legs destined to run

  through my uncentered groin

  into my heart and eyes.

  I begin to dance

  At first the movements are slow, awkward

  I feel like I’m learning to walk again,

  i
n rehab after a car accident.

  It’s slow going

  I think I may give up

  Then a swell of anger, tears

  I hear myself say,

  “I’m going to get through this”

  And for a short time

  I’m certain about something.

  Strength radiates from the ground

  The dance becomes fluid

  Blood rushes. Sweat pours down.

  A wild glow surrounds me.

  I soar and remember

  I dance soft rhythms of touch

  a hug before you go to work

  a pat on the back after baseball

  a backrub after working in the yard

  even wrestling now seems tender

  I dance sacred rhythms of forgiveness

  I did not kill or replace you

  I am going to stop clutching trust

  move with it

  through it

  in it

  toward the world

  I dance rhythms of connection

  After years watching everything

  closed circuit, out of sight

  I feel part of the trees and dirt and sky and people

  just as I now feel that you are part of me

  I look down

  The ground glistens as

  I dance

  When Jackie returned to their row, Nick kicked a few ice cubes he’d accidently spilled on the floor out of the way before she passed. The short break was exactly what he had needed. It was as if she knew when she left that he had to replay the entire memory, that he had to reread the poem before he could talk with her. It was as if he she knew there was power in space. He was even more impressed. After she had buckled back in, he asked, “Is there something in particular you want to know about ‘Dancing Ground’?”

  “Like many of your poems, I think the images are lovely.”

  “But?”

  She smiled. “Did you ever hear the story about how people respond to the word but versus the word and?”