Phone in hand, she decided she’d best start closing windows before she air-conditioned the whole neighborhood. This wasn’t an easy task, because the old wood tended to swell and stick. First she tackled the two in her library. With its wall-to-wall built-in bookcases, corniced ceiling, and marble-framed fireplace, this was a room she loved. It was the one place in the house where she approached something akin to feeling at home, because Iggy didn’t go behind her back rearranging everything the way he did in the rest of the house and because here she was in the company of books. Long ago she had learned that all of her hopes, dreams, and potentialities could be defined and refined through the reading of good literature and even pulp fiction of dubious quality if the hero had enough oomph.
After a brief struggle, she managed to shut both windows. She checked the clock she kept on the bookcase reserved for poetry, plays, and her Zora Neale Hurston collection. Eight-fifteen. Nine hours and forty-five minutes until six p.m. Thanks to one surprise phone call, the longest day of the year was turning out to also be the slowest. But she had more windows to close; it was a sixteen-room rambling house, for goodness’ sakes. And those roses were summoning her. No time to write! She had to finish trimming the stems, had to find the tall, cut crystal vase. Stunning! The word surged through her. The arrangement would be absolutely stunning!
She headed out of the library but stopped at the stairs because she heard laughter coming from the second floor. Surely Iggy didn’t have a naked woman stashed in his office. For one horrible moment, she flashed on an image of him romping in the guest room with that skinny blonde. Was she, Clarissa worried, becoming certifiable? First the music from nowhere, now this ebullient laughter and fantasies of him cheating right under her nose? She gripped the carved oak newel post and looked up at the landing; the laughter stopped, started, trailed away. She gained the stairs, determined to throw an absolute fit if Iggy was carrying on with one of his bimbos in her house. The phone rang, startling her. She dropped it, and, ringing all the while, it tumbled two steps down. She grabbed it, checked the caller ID.
Oh God. Cookie Manx, her agent. Was it a mortal or simply a venial sin not to take your agent’s call? She wasn’t sure, but she couldn’t risk piling up any more bad juju, especially where her career was concerned.
She flipped open the phone and brought it to her ear. “Hey!” she said, forcing a bouncy enthusiasm into her voice.
“Hey, sweetie! I’m not interrupting, am I?” A woman on a perpetual mission, her agent never called just to chitchat.
Clarissa continued up the stairs, the phone pressed hard against her cartilage. The fly, the one head over heels for her, the very same one that had trailed her all morning, followed. “Actually, I was, um, just taking a break.” She hated herself when she lied, hated the warble and hesitation—they gave her away. She paused at the landing window, which was closed, and looked out. Yep, all three of them were out there. The blonde was naked and sitting in one of the Adirondacks. The brunette was holding a rake and staring dead-eyed ahead. American Gothic in the Nude. How charming. “So, how are you?” Clarissa turned her back to the window. She must have been wrong about the laughter. It must be the house settling; it was an old house, and old houses creaked.
“Good, good, just got a thousand things going. Listen, I don’t want to pressure you. That’s not what this call is about…” Clarissa felt her gizzard crack. “But I need a really, really honest idea of when you think you’re going to deliver the novel. No pressure. Just asking. Your publisher is planning the catalog.”
“Soon,” Clarissa said, “really soon.” A chunk of her gizzard broke off and lodged somewhere, maybe in the concave curve of her left kidney. The fly flitted past Clarissa’s head and then zipped over to the north-facing window, where it was cooler.
She thought she heard her agent—a very nice woman who understood the publishing business with the same acuity that a bulldog understood the sweet spot of a butcher’s bone—groan. “Well, I’m not sure I know what ‘soon’ means.”
During the ensuing pause, whatever was left of Clarissa’s porous stone gizzard flaked away to parts unseen, and she pondered if she was brave enough to confess. Or was confession simply the yellow-bellied flag of a quitter? And once she admitted that she’d been unable to write more than two or three sentences in a row that amounted to more than squat, what else might issue forth? Why, no telling what might come out, and there was not one living, breathing human being on the planet—especially Cookie Manx—who had time for such nonsense. And what were the subtle gradations separating, say, yellow-bellied cowardice and saffron-jaundiced professionalism? The phone felt as if it weighed a thousand pounds.
“Sweetie, are you okay?” Cookie Manx asked.
“Of course. Yes, yes, I’m fine. I’m just, working out some problems in the novel. I think I need about another six months.” Where was this coming from? Six months? What? Was she crazy?
“Okay. That’s good. That’s all I needed to know.”
“It’s really…” The sound of a clay marble rolling across the pine floor vaguely caught Clarissa’s attention. Indeed, she stepped over the marble, it just missed the crown of her big toe, and the little ghost boy who rolled it—Heart Archer—giggled and scrambled like a crab to retrieve it from its eventual resting place against the baseboard. Every time the big man was in the yard with ladies who wore no clothes, his mother sent him to his room. But he, without her knowing, spied on those naked ladies. It was fun.
“The book is going well. The process, you know, always surprises.”
“Are you still calling it Breathing Room?”
“No. Uh-uh.” She wandered into the guest room. Why was her agent driving her mad, forcing her to lie, asking questions she couldn’t possibly answer? She noticed, to her relief, that all the windows were closed.
Heart Archer, holding the marble in his tiny hand as if it were the most precious of possessions, followed her in. He was barefoot, too, and he marveled at how much blacker his skin was than hers.
The bed with its wedding ring quilt was lumpy. Iggy must have taken a nap up here. She put the phone on speaker, set it on the nightstand, and, as she drew the quilt tight and smooth, said into the air, “I’m thinking of calling it something edgier. Something like American Gothic: The Nude.”
“Great!”
Cookie Manx really did sound enthusiastic. Or maybe what Clarissa was hearing was distortion courtesy of the speaker function. What would a book with that title be about, anyway? Naked farmers? Swinging suburbanites? Clarissa took the phone with her as she walked to the front window, where the fly had fallen into a momentary slumber, and looked out at her oak-shaded front yard, and its azaleas that were in need of a good trimming, and the roses that, from this vantage point, appeared nearly decimated. Jeez, she had cut more than she had realized. “That’s just for now. It’ll probably change. But I’m working hard.”
The ovarian shadow women, having traveled to her cerebral cortex, sounded like a gang of mean schoolchildren as they hissed, “Liar, liar, pants on fire!”
Heart Archer scrambled onto the bed and jumped up and down. The squeaking bedsprings woke the fly. Being prudent, he flew over to the rocking chair and from his perch on the bottom rung watched Heart watch Clarissa. Outside, a red-tailed hawk flickered through the oak canopy. The mold on her white picket fence crept like mutant kudzu made slow and tiny by an unexplained kink in its DNA.
“I know, and like I said, no pressure.”
“None taken.” Clarissa heard that laughter again, but this time it was closer. This time it was right behind her. She spun around. The double wedding ring quilt was kerfuffled, as if a child had been playing, jumping, squirming, as children were prone to do on beds. What in the world? The stress; she was simply under too much stress.
“How’s hubby?”
“Fine,” Clarissa said, still staring at the bed, adept at deflection and denial. “He’s in the yard. How’s Richard?” The laughter was infectiou
s. It rang with the kind of joy one hears only from children who know they are loved. Or maybe the rat family in the attic was having one hell of a good time. Or maybe it was the laughter of the child she and her husband never had because he didn’t want children. Maybe that should be the name of the novel she couldn’t write: Maybe Maybe Maybe.
“Okay, sweetie, I have to get across town for an appointment. I’ll talk to you later.”
“Thanks for calling, Cookie. Have a great day,” Clarissa said, faking it, all sunshine and zest.
She flipped the phone closed. The laughter stopped. The fly flew to the doorjamb. Clarissa walked to the bed and pressed her hand against the quilt. It felt cold, even though the upstairs was hotter than downstairs. It was as if the quilt had absorbed all of the house’s air-conditioning from the day before and held it.
Heart Archer sat very still on the edge of the bed, afraid he’d made her angry. He held the clay marble close to his chest. She smoothed the quilt again. I’m losing it, she fretted, absolutely losing it. Her intention had been to straighten the quilt, but she’d gotten preoccupied with her agent’s call. And the laughter wasn’t laughter at all, but wind rattling through the eaves. Something like that. Just like the music, the laughter didn’t exist.
But whether it did or didn’t, the mere thought of a child reawakened in her an old ache: the baby ache. Iggy had said it to her many times: “See how miserable women are who have kids? We don’t want the snot-nosed little fowkers. They only screw everything up.”
For reasons Clarissa could not fathom other than it felt right, she kissed her fingertips and touched them to the quilt. Then she left the room, thinking, Of course, he’s right; he’s always right. She couldn’t even write a book; how could she raise a child? She headed down the stairs, and the fly followed, leaving Heart Archer alone.
The little boy, no longer afraid, slid off the bed, sat on the floor, shot the marble—it skidded left, hooked back to the right—and waited for his mother.
Clarissa was halfway down the stairs when she noticed that someone was standing at her front door, knocking. Holy moly, if this is another naked bimbo model, heads are going to roll, Clarissa thought, fed up; and she better not confuse me for a housekeeper.
She threw open the door, fully prepared to tell the girl who appeared to be not a day over twenty that Iggy didn’t live there. “Hi, can I help you?” With her wire-rimmed glasses, notepad and paper, and a skirt hem that fell below her knees, she appeared bookish, innocent, not Iggy’s kind of gal.
“Ms. Burden?”
“Yes.” Clarissa wiped at a dirt smudge on her cheek but succeeded only in smearing it from her nose to her ear.
“I’m Jane Boyer with the Aucilla Chronicle.”
Jane Boyer. Aucilla Chronicle. Nothing clicked.
“I’m here for the interview. I’m sorry that I’m a little late. I got lost.” She pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose.
“Oh! Oh, yes,” Clarissa said, wondering how on earth she could have forgotten and wanting nothing more than for a sinkhole to swallow her whole. Not only was she filthy, she stank. Really stank. During the ensuing three seconds that dragged on for what felt like three years, she could think of no way to tell this girl to go away, that now wasn’t a good time. So she pushed open the screen door, her heartbeat slowed by dread. “Come in. Welcome!” She offered her hand, but it was so grimy, she withdrew it. “I’m sorry, I was working in my garden and time got away from me.”
“That’s okay. I just love your books. I’ve read them both three times. So far, Listening for Light is my favorite, but Blue River is really fantastic, too. When the paper said I could interview you, first thing I did was call my mom and she got so excited that she started crying.” Jane smiled, revealing a mouthful of braces.
Clarissa smiled back and said, “Why, thank you.” She was, relatively speaking, new at being in the public eye, and though she instinctively liked this young woman, she was shy in the face of enthusiasm. “Would you like something to drink? Some lemonade?”
“Sure.” Jane stood in the middle of the chandelier room, eyes wide. “Wow. This is some house.”
“It’s an oldie,” Clarissa said, shuttling her into the kitchen as quickly as she could. The last thing she wanted was for the reporter to see the backyard activities. “It’s got some real history to it, which I’m just starting to get into.” She hurried over to the window—no time to close it—and pulled the blinds.
“Look at those roses! They’re beautiful.”
“Aren’t they gorgeous? I grew them myself.” Clarissa, mortified by her appearance but knowing it would be crazy of her to make the reporter wait while she went and showered, said, “I’ll be right back.”
“Sure. Mind if I look around?”
Panicked, Clarissa had to think fast. There was no way she was going to let her get caught up with her husband or even go into the living room, where his paintings of giant crotches covered the walls. “Actually, why don’t you wait here and I’ll give you a tour when I come back.”
“Okay.” She pulled a stool over to the island and sat down. “Can I look at that magazine?” She pointed at an old copy of Gourmet that Clarissa had left out on the counter.
“Absolutely.” Clarissa handed it to her and noted that nothing much seemed to bother Jane. “Back in a jiffy.”
She shot through the chandelier room, down the hall, and into the half bath. The fly flew in dizzying circles above her head and dipped into the bathroom just before she slammed the door. Clarissa spied the fly, looked for something to kill it with, but came up empty. She washed her face, patted down her hair, and slipped on some Apricot Breeze lip gloss that she kept in the vanity drawer. Iggy’s blue denim shirt hung from the door hook. She pulled it on. The thing swallowed her; the shirttail came down to her knees. But it hid the T-shirt.
As she made her way through the house, the fly in tow, she saw that Iggy and the models had moved onto the back porch. Great. Just great. There goes even a truncated tour.
Jane stood at the kitchen door, looking out into the side yard. “You sure do have a lot of cars.”
“My husband has…” Clarissa paused, trying to find the right word. “Visitors.” She walked over to the refrigerator and pulled out the lemonade pitcher. Jane reminded Clarissa of herself at that age: a little pudgy, nerdy, even the braces. “Do you write? I mean, fiction?”
“I try. But I don’t think I’m very good.”
“You read a lot?” Clarissa poured the lemonade and then walked over to the pantry in search of shortbread cookies.
“Oh, yeah. I’m a big reader. My mom is, too.”
“I tell you,” Clarissa said, spying the cookies behind a jar of pickles, “reading is the best favor a writer can do for herself.” She grabbed the cookies and pulled a jadeite plate from her cupboard.
“No cookies for me,” Jane said, and pointed at her braces.
“Ah, I see.” Clarissa set the bag on the counter. “You know, I had braces at about your age.”
“You did?”
“Yep. I had jaw surgery. Born with a defect, I guess you could say, and we were so poor, nothing could be done for it when I was a kid. But when I got older, I had it taken care of.” Clarissa sipped her lemonade, silently marveling at how adept she was at sanitizing history.
“So, you grew up real poor?” Jane flipped open her stenographer pad, poised her pen at the ready.
“We didn’t have much.”
“That’s what I thought,” she said. “Just like in Listening for Light.” She scribbled something and, still writing, asked, “In the book, Laureena doesn’t know her father. Did you know yours?”
“No.” Clarissa pulled Iggy’s shirt more tightly around her. “He was long gone by the time I was born.”
Jane stopped writing, looked Clarissa directly in the eyes, and said softly, “I’m sorry. That must have been very hard on you.”
A maternal blush stirred through Clarissa. This little girl is
far more confident than I was at her age, she thought. “Hard? I guess so. My mother was a little crazy. Maybe that’s why he left. I don’t know. But, hey,” she said, massaging that old chip on her shoulder, “at least it makes for interesting reading.”
“Your mom? She still alive?”
Clarissa was beginning to wish she’d told her to come back some other day; there were things she still didn’t like talking about. She sipped her lemonade, traced its water circles. “No, she died a long time ago.”
“How old were you?”
“I don’t know. College. Eighteen… nineteen? I don’t do numbers.” A pause ensued—sort of like an intermission in which only the very hardy or very bored return.
A woodpecker pounding on the kitchen siding broke up the silence. “Can I see your library?” Jane tapped her pen on the pad and, not waiting for an answer, headed for the door, engendering a new surge of panic in Clarissa.
“Don’t go out there!”
“I read an article about you and they described it—I can’t remember what it was in—but I thought, That sounds really nice.”
“Don’t you want to finish your lemonade first?”
Jane shrugged and wrote something down.
How could Clarissa tell her no? She was enthusiastic, and young, and bright. Eager, even. Iggy was simply going to have to cooperate, even if it made him mad. “Sure. Hold on one second. Just stay here.”
How Clarissa Burden Learned to Fly Page 4