Evening in Paradise

by Lucia Berlin

  Zelda smiled, “Far out” as usual. Only occasionally did a natural response burst out. None of you have slippers? You drink in the morning? You have no toilet brush?

  * * *

  They all went to the Christmas pageant at Joel’s school. Zelda and Maggie got teary right from the first Hark the Herald Angel. Jesse and Ben went outside a few times to smoke a joint. Keith and Lauren kept getting up to talk to old teachers, talk with friends.

  The showstopper was when the fourth-grade girls came out in miniskirts and reindeer headdresses, did bumps and grinds to Marvin Gaye’s “Let’s Get It On.” Shocked gasps from the audience. Then the fifth grade did “Partridge in a Pear Tree.” Ben started them all off, giggling, as they envisioned the mess all those presents would make in their house on Russell Street. French hens, geese, lords a-leaping.

  Joel’s class had the last skit and the nicest one. It was very simple, like a ballet. He and two other boys were turned into statues while they were having a snowball fight. They stayed perfectly frozen while the snowman, really Darryl, began to melt, smaller and smaller until the Spirit of Christmas transformed them all again. Joel didn’t even blink as a statue, after the first brown-eyed flickering until he found his family.

  When the program was over Santa Claus and the principal, Mrs. Beck, came out onstage to much applause. “Joy to the World” played loudly as they started to hand out presents. Tonka trucks. Barbie dolls. Heavy government poverty-program money. Within seconds the stage was mobbed, mostly teenaged kids but many adults. It was like Altamont. Joel was shoved to the ground, his lip cut, bleeding. Ben and Jesse jumped onto the stage. Ben picked up Joel. Jesse knocked his truck away from the kid who had grabbed it. Mrs. Beck’s frosted wig was tilted. She screamed into the mike.

  “These presents are just for our kids! Just for the kids! Get back, motherfuckers!”

  “Let’s get out of here.” Maggie led the way. Jesse had Joel by the hand.

  “How about an ice cream, Maggie? You buy and I’ll fly.”

  “Jesse—did I look frozen?”

  “Yeah—for so long. Give me five.” Slap, slap.

  * * *

  Aunt Zelda’s last night. Jesse and Joel had gone to Martinez to cut down the tree. It was fragrant, beautiful. Maggie was relaxed. She had sold the Navajo rug from her bedroom, bought more presents, had money enough not to worry for a while. She and Zelda chatted, stuffing dates, a family tradition that no one ever ate, like the pickled watermelon rind at Christmas dinner.

  Keith and Lauren were at the dining room table stringing cranberries; the others were decorating the tree, arguing. Ben and Joel always wanted everything on the tree; Keith and Maggie liked it simple. Jesse couldn’t understand why they didn’t have icicles. Because Ben and Joel got them last year.

  “I can’t wait to get home,” Jesse said. He was leaving in two days for New Mexico, hitchhiking home for Christmas. Squawk as he stepped on a cat under the tree. Chata the dog just hung around, wet, getting in the way. Three street artists dried off by the fire, passed decorations and bulbs up to the others. In the kitchen Mabel and Big Mac were making fudge and divinity. Cost Plus candles glowed like Aunt Zelda.

  “I can’t wait to tell my analyst about my vacation,” Zelda said. Maggie wondered what she would say. Zelda had made no comments about Mabel.

  Knocking at the door. It was Linda, their next-door neighbor, asking to use the shower. She hated to take baths when she had her period. She sure gets her period a lot, Jesse said. No, I think she just likes to come over, especially if something is going on. Well, hell, Maggie, why not just ask her to come over?

  More knocking. It was John and Ian, two teachers from the school where Maggie taught. As she was taking their coats Lee roared up the walk on his Harley, black leathers dripping like a wetsuit. Maggie introduced everyone, sat the two teachers at the table.

  “You’re just in time to say good-bye to Zelda.” Zelda came in with a tray of piroshki, cookies, candies, stuffed dates. One of the street artists passed Ian a joint in a scrimshaw holder.

  “Good God, Maggie, do you smoke dope in front of your children?”

  “I don’t smoke it. Wish I did. No hangover, not fattening. I’m glad none of my sons drink.”

  “Didn’t mean to crash a party.” John talked funny because he had just smoked. He had eggnog on his mustache.

  “Oh, you’re welcome to stay,” Zelda said. “Have some more eggnog.”

  Ian and John sipped, clearing their throats.

  “We had wanted to talk to you, Maggie,” John said. Linda came downstairs from the shower, wearing a coral chenille bathrobe, her wet hair in a braid.

  “Dates! I love your stuffed dates, Maggie.”

  “Have some. Take some home.”

  “Please,” Keith said. Zelda and Linda went into the living room.

  Ian spoke, in his low grown-up voice that always irritated Maggie, the oldest teacher at the school.

  “It’s about Dave Woods.”

  “Christ,” Maggie said. She was the only teacher at Horizon who required attendance, who gave grades, not just pass-fail.

  “I gave him every possible break I could. He failed both English and Spanish. I won’t reconsider, if that’s why you came.”

  “That’s cold, Maggie. How can you have such a loose lifestyle and be so rigid a teacher? We’re supposed to be geared to the individual student.”

  “Well, that individual failed both my classes.”

  “It’s like you don’t believe in the philosophy of our school.”

  “Philosophy? Three thousand a year, beautiful campus, good dope, no homework?” Keith kicked Maggie under the table.

  “No need to get hostile. We came here in good faith,” Ian said.

  “Have some divinity.” Mabel passed the tray, gliding around. John’s eyes focused on her fine braless breasts. Maggie wished there wasn’t so much food and drink and general largesse. Linda lounged, radiant, between two artists, her robe gaping over Rubenesque thighs.

  “What is this called again?” John asked Mabel, the candy sticking to his fingers.

  “Divinity—with nuts,” Mabel drawled.

  “Sounds like a Lutheran bishop to me,” Zelda guffawed, poking Maggie. The two of them collapsed into teary giggles. Ian took one of Maggie’s cigarettes.

  She wished he would start smoking again and buy his own. At least the two teachers had lost interest in Dave Woods’s Fs, were listening to Mabel and Big Mac. “Lay, Lady, Lay” again. Maggie went into the kitchen, poured Jim Beam into her eggnog. Ben and Lee were watching Lauren cut more squares of candy.

  “Don’t worry—I’ll torch the school tomorrow.” Lee smiled. Another knock on the door.

  “Sounds like a bust,” Jesse said. Close. It was the landlord. Ben and Keith eased people out into the garage but the damage was done. He had seen that someone was living in the garage, that hippies were smoking dope.

  “We have friends here for the holidays,” she said, but he was talking about the ruined garden.

  “Ruined? I planted most of it, have worked on it for two years. The rain has ruined it.”

  “I’m selling the house. Only four white houses left on the block.”

  “Why didn’t you say so—you don’t need jive reasons to blame me.”

  “I certainly have more than ‘jive’ reasons to break the lease.”

  Maggie exhaled. “Please leave now,” she said and she opened the door for him. She drank, poured more whiskey into her eggnog, and went back into the dining room. She sat down by Ian and John.

  “I’m sorry I was so rude. Dave is the brightest kid we have … I wish you had flunked him in math and science too. As it is he’ll fail any college entrance exams. He knows he can do better than Fs and I think he will.”

  “More eggnog?” Zelda asked.

  “No thanks. School tomorrow. Is the Christmas play ready, Maggie?”

  “No, but it’s going to be great.”

  * * *

>   Everyone had left or moved out to Ben’s room in the garage. Joel was on the couch, Jesse in his sleeping bag. The lights were out but the two of them were talking. Zelda and Mabel were arguing upstairs, then Mabel came stomping down the stairs.

  “Well, I told her,” she said and left, slamming the door. Maggie washed dishes, put food away, and swept the floor until the crying stopped, then tiptoed upstairs to the bathroom.

  “Maggie!”

  Zelda sat up in bed, streams of tears superimposed upon the glisten of Elizabeth Arden.

  Maggie hugged her. “You must be so tired. I’m tired. Come on—” But Zelda clung to her, her slick cheek sliding into Maggie’s hair.

  “Mabel! My child. What do I do now?”

  Maggie broke away, went to the bathroom where she wiped the cream off her face, dampened two washcloths with witch hazel.

  “Here, let me put this over your eyes. Stop crying.” She sat on the edge of the bed, holding the other rag over her own eyes.

  “My daughter,” Zelda said. “You can’t possibly understand.”

  “Maybe I don’t. Seems like I wouldn’t care if any of my sons were gay. On the other hand if one of them became a cop or a Hare Krishna I might blow my brains out.”

  Zelda started to cry again. “I’m just so—”

  “You’re hurting. Mabel’s fine. You got any sleeping pills?”

  “Valium.” Zelda pointed to her makeup box.

  Maggie handed her the pills and some water, took one herself. She fixed Zelda pillows, turned out the light. In the light from the Bekins sign Zelda looked old and afraid.

  “You okay?”

  “No. I feel old and afraid.”

  Maggie held her, kissed her slippery forehead. “I’m glad you came, though.”

  * * *

  Downstairs, Maggie realized she had forgotten to take off her clothes or wash her face. Too tired. She took blankets from the closet, poured a glass of bourbon, climbed into the hammock, remembered cigarettes, got back out, back in, arranged the blankets around her, the glass and ashtray on the floor, settled down for her own good cry.

  “Sweet Jesus,” Jesse said from the living room. He got up, threw his sleeping bag over his shoulder.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Sleep in the truck. Never saw you sorry for yourself before.”

  When he had gone she stopped crying, smoked a cigarette, drank what was left in the glass. Racine’s Phèdre, Act II. He’s gone! She laughed at herself, got up and washed her face at the kitchen sink, hid the bottle of Jim Beam in the washing machine for morning.

  Damn, it is morning. Two more days of school. The play. Christmas. I can’t make it. I can make it, got to stop drinking. Messed up again so fast. Taper off tomorrow. Jesse will be gone in a few days. That will make it easier. Not really. I’ll get the radio for Joel tomorrow after school, the book for Lauren too. Zelda’s leaving—Praise the Lord! My bed! I haven’t even talked with Joel for weeks. I’m a rotten mother. Got to get well for my sons. God, I’m a wreck. This house is a wreck.

  She filled her glass with wine, moved the glass and the bottle with her as she dusted and polished furniture. She swept, mopped, and waxed the floors. Joel slept on, even when she moved the couch. She emptied garbage in the rain, picked a huge bunch of Linda’s pink poinsettias. Linda’s bedroom window flew up. “What in hell’s name are you doing? It’s four in the morning!” The window crashed down again. Damn, some people just aren’t themselves until they’ve had that first cup of coffee. Inside, Maggie arranged the flowers in a brass vase. There. Things are looking better. She straightened paintings, turned on the Christmas tree lights. Grate some cheese, make macaroni and cheese now, buy the radio and book after school.

  “What are you doing washing windows? It’s five in the morning, Ma.” Keith was dressed, sleepy-eyed.

  “Hi. Couldn’t sleep. They’re all sooty from the fireplace. How come you’re up so early?”

  “Field trip. Let me put the wine bottle away. You won’t be able to go to school. Stop, Ma, have some breakfast with me.”

  He took the bottle upstairs. She knew it was to the crawlspace behind the bathroom wall. She put water on for coffee, made orange juice, cooked sausages and French toast. She and Keith didn’t talk, read the paper. Zelda came down, pale, with her luggage. Maggie cooked her breakfast. Keith left after hugging them both good-bye, just as Mabel was arriving to take her mother to the airport. The three women drank coffee without any pleasantries.

  It was still dark when Zelda and Mabel left. Maggie shivered outside, waving to the SISTERHOOD IS POWERFUL bumper, went inside to make more French toast for Joel and Ben. While they were eating she remembered the bottle in the washing machine. Jesse came in from outside. “I’ll get my own breakfast,” he said.

  * * *

  It was so foggy on the freeway she was afraid Zelda’s plane wouldn’t take off. She was afraid that she was going to run into other cars and then she became afraid that she wasn’t on the freeway at all. Exit. Up a hill and around. The Mormon Temple glowed magically like the castle in The Wizard of Oz. Monolith telephone booth, white light. She called Horizon School, told them her car had broken down. Probably should cancel her afternoon classes also. No, not the rehearsal—that could go fine without her. No, thanks. Triple A was coming any minute. She drove down the hill to MacArthur where there wasn’t any fog but she was still afraid. She followed a 53 bus all the way to downtown Oakland, waiting every other block for passengers to get on and off. Downtown she got behind a 43 bus on Telegraph and followed it home. She was too drunk to see straight.

  She dropped her coat and book bag inside the front door, climbed the stairs to her room. It was dark, the curtains closed. Jesse was asleep in her bed. “Hey, what’s the big idea?” she asked but he didn’t move. She climbed over him and fell instantly asleep but he woke up and turned toward her, kicking off his boots. “Hello, Maggie.”

  THE PONY BAR, OAKLAND

  There are certain perfect particular sounds. A tennis ball, a golf ball hit just right. A fly ball in a leather glove. Lingering thud of a knockout. I get dizzy at the sound of a perfect pool break, a crisp bank shot followed by three or four muffled slides and consecutive clicks. The caressing twist twist of chalk on the cue. Pool is erotic any way you look at it. Usually in a dim pulsating jukebox light.

  Cricket in Santiago. Red parasols, green grass, white Andes. Red-and-white-striped canvas chairs at the Prince of Wales Country Club. I signed chits for lemonade, tipped the tuxedoed waiters, applauded John Wells. Perfect crack of the cricket bat. I wore white, was careful of the grass stains, flirted with boys who wore Grange School gray flannels, blue blazers in summertime. Cucumber sandwiches for tea, plans for Sunday at Viña del Mar.

  At the Pony Bar I remembered feeling as alien on the green grass as I did on the bar stool next to the biker. He had hinges tattooed on his wrists, at the bend of his elbow, behind his knees.

  “You need a hinge on your neck,” I said.

  “You need a screw up your ass.”

  DAUGHTERS

  The courage of my own convictions? I can’t even hold a perception for longer than five minutes. Just like the radio in a pickup truck. I’ll be barreling along … Waylon Jennings, Stevie Wonder … hit a cattle guard and bang it’s a preacher from Clint, Texas. Your laff is trash. Laugh? Life? From one day to the next the 40 bus alters. Some days there will be people on it from Chaucer, Damon Runyon. A Brueghel feast. I feel close to them all, at one with them. We are a vivid tapestry of riders, then there is an epidemic of Gilles de la Tourette syndrome and we’re all victims, trapped in a steamy capsule, forever. Sometimes everyone is tired. Whole bus plumb wore out. Heavy shopping bags. Cumbersome carts, strollers. Panting up the steps, sleeping past their stops, the people slump, they sway limp from the poles like languorous seaweed. Or everyone has growth on their heads. Row after row, and standing, packed, they all have hair growing out of their heads. Not green willow or eucalyptus or moss b
ut a billion strands, filaments of hair. Punk hair, blue lady hair, wet afro hair. Ach, the man in front of me has no hair at all. He doesn’t even have any tiny little holes in his head for it to come out of. I feel faint. A little girl gets on the bus, wearing a Saint Ignatius uniform. Someone, a grandmother hold still now child has plaited her hair into braids so tight her eyes slant. The braids are tied with white bows, real satin ribbons. She sits behind the driver. The morning sun gleams on her perfect part, makes a halo behind her head. I love the child’s hair. I touch my own, pat my own hair, which is short and rough, like a Samoyed’s or a Chow’s. Good boy. Kill, White Fang.

  I should have taken that job stringing graduated pearls. Working for a doctor, well, it’s life or death all day long. I glide around, a real angel of mercy. Or a ghoul. Mmmm, Dr. B.… interesting, these bone marrow results on Mr. Morbido. That’s his name, honest. Truth is weirder than my imagination, which really goes berserk with the dialysis machines. Breakthroughs in modern medicine. Lifesavers that by late afternoon turn into headless plastic vampires, draining blood away. The patients get paler and paler. The machines make a humming sucking sound with an occasional slurp that sounds like a laugh.

  By late afternoon I’m ready to strangle Riva Chirenko’s daughter. I don’t know her name. Nobody calls her Mrs. Tomanovich. She’s Mr. Tomanovich’s wife. Riva’s daughter. Irena Tomanovich’s mother. She’s what’s wrong with all us women, that schleppe from the steppe. But at other times it is this same woman, Riva Chirenko’s daughter, that I respect, revere. If I could only accept as she has done, just accept. Acceptance is faith, Henry Miller said. I could strangle him, too.

  Yesterday was the Christmas party at the dialysis center. No matter how I look at it, it was a lovely party, a celebration. All the patients and their families. Rocky Robinson came. Nobody had seen him since he got a cadaver transplant, and he was looking good. There is a bond between dialysis patients, like with people in AA or earthquake survivors. They are conscious of a reprieve, treat one another with more tenderness and respect than ordinary people do.