The Mother Garden

by Robin Romm

  In the time that I’ve lived here, I’ve gone on one date, a blind date engineered by my sister, Kate. Phil was very nice, in a helpless kind of way. Kate knew him from college. He had thin blond hair and watery eyes that sat too far apart. After speaking each sentence, he’d pause, as if his words needed time to percolate through a fine sieve. But most of the things he said to me were easy to digest, like “I was born in Seattle.” This sort of phrase wouldn’t be in response to a question (such as “where were you born?”), but would serve as an awkward opener. I felt like I was supposed to do something special with Phil’s silences; they seemed coded and livelier than his speech. Though I was curious about his manner, I didn’t want to date him.

  Mrs. Capp, however, has been out numerous times with numerous men, some of them quite young. One I recognized from my graduate program, a squinty young man, Kirk Williams. In class it seemed he was trying to see the projected lecture notes with his front teeth. I can’t figure out where she meets these men because she doesn’t go out much and when she does she wears unflattering pleated skirts and necklaces that hang down, accentuating a tired-looking bosom. I suspect she’s one of those librarian types that men fantasize about. They seem prim, but get them in a dark room and va-voom, the buttons are flying.

  Mrs. Capp was married once to a man named Sal. She’s in her mid-forties now, a little overweight. Sal, I gather, was considerably older. He was a professor at the small school where she earned her master’s degree. Two years ago he died of a stroke. Mrs. Capp speaks highly of him. She sighs at good meals and comments on how he would have loved the lamb, the potatoes, the flavor of the dry wine.

  I get the sense, though, that she didn’t really know him that well. The stories she tells don’t seem specific. When I tell her about Kevin, my ex-boyfriend, I never say, “Oh, Kevin loved comedy films.” Instead, I say that when he was a baby he was born with two thumbs on each hand. The doctors immediately cut off the extras and Kevin still felt sore that no one consulted him about it.

  You might think that living with Mrs. Capp has damaged my ego. After all, I am young, slim, in my prime. I should be the one waltzing off in tight pants on Friday nights. The messages on the phone pad should be for me. But in truth, I didn’t move here to meet people. I came here to retreat. At some point last year, I realized that I didn’t like many of my friends in California. They were just people living boring lives that seemed less boring because they were young and busy. But each of them toiled away at meaningless jobs, showered with water from the same treatment facility, had the same hurt feelings when their lovers broke their hearts.

  It’s not that I fancied myself different from them. It was that I began to see myself as indistinguishable. Rachel Klegman would order a turkey sandwich and I’d want the same thing. She’d buy new shoes and I’d have them already. Stacy Wong would fight with her father and come over crying and I’d realize that I’d had that fight with my own father. Instead of making me feel comforted, one of a great community of souls, I found myself trying to pump my experiences up so that they’d look unique. I’d embellish my trip to the drugstore. I told Kevin that I saw a brown ring of what looked like lipstick smudged onto the floor in the center of the feminine hygiene aisle. I said it looked like a sign, a secret message left by a fugitive. A symbol that he was whole, alive, well.

  “They never clean that store,” Kevin replied.

  And I understood what I was doing. This took most of the fun out of it.

  The East Coast began to look like frontier, the new world beckoning to me with its welcoming, deeply lined hands. It was the only way to extricate myself from the excruciating plainness of my life: Kevin, the jars of chutney crystallizing in the fridge, the relentless Friday-night parties where self-congratulatory med students and budding PhDs got drunk on gin and pretended to forget the rules of social interaction.

  Now I am three thousand miles away, eating pasta and canned tomatoes and picking my toenails while I read. And watching Mrs. Capp fuss with her hair and apply too much rouge, I’m reminded that it’s hell to care about the world the way that she does.

  Satan lingers in the doorway, grinning. “Well, come innn,” Mrs. Capp coos. For a moment he’s frozen in the sunlight, and then, with a loping gait, he follows her into the kitchen.

  I should have known that she was up to something this morning. She was out of her quilted housedress when I woke up at nine and sharply attired in a pair of polyester slacks with navy blue flats and dark beige hose. She’s got on a pair of earrings she bought recently. Large cloisonné ducks. They swing as she moves her thin neck.

  I stop reading the paper and listen. Mrs. Capp opens the freezer and it’s difficult to hear what she’s saying, but I can hear the cadence of her fluty voice.

  “Sure,” Satan says. “Okay.” Ice clanks. Some chairs move. The back door opens. Shuts.

  Satan as a Sunday-morning visitor. It seems appropriately absurd. A blatant metaphor for why I don’t date. Why I pour over the Times (alone) on Sunday mornings, plan my weekends according to books on my shelf, homework, walks, and movies I haven’t yet seen. The freedom of my newfound solitude still thrills me.

  The initial phases were harder. When the graduate school acceptance letter came through my mail slot one Tuesday morning, Kevin was in my kitchen, slurping cereal. I grabbed it out of the heap of bills and advertisements, ripped it open with my thumb.

  Kevin’s face puckered when I showed it to him. “You’re not going, are you?” I looked at his stubbly jaw, the one eyebrow that stood up like it had suffered some great shock.

  “I don’t know,” I said.

  Weeks later, during dinner at an overpriced Vietnamese restaurant, I broke the news. Women with bright teeth and dark, glistening hair sat with men in button-down shirts, leather bags stashed neatly beside their chairs. “I’ve accepted the offer,” I told him.

  His brown eyes, so familiar, so expressive, were utterly blank. I cringed. I knew I’d made a terrible mistake, and one for which I wouldn’t be forgiven. The mistake was not in leaving California. It was telling him here, like this, the smell of steamed mussels between us like a fog.

  “Everything all right?” our waitress asked.

  “Oh, it’s delicious,” I said. I wanted her to stay, to sit down with us and tell us funny stories about herself. “But I’d like a beer.”

  “You too?” she said, turning to Kevin. He continued to stare at me for a beat. The world went still. Then his eyes teared and gaped; his hands flew to his throat.

  The waitress smiled patiently.

  “Kevin?” I said. He opened his mouth and his face turned a strange shade of red, then a deep shade of burgundy.

  “He’s choking!” I told the waitress.

  The following minutes are somewhat blurry. I’d taken a CPR/General Emergency course but so long ago. When had I ever used it? And while he sat clutching his throat, I thought about how guilty I would feel if he died. The waitress pounded on Kevin’s back and then one of the glossy-haired women at a nearby table ran over, wrenched the waitress’s arm away, lifted Kevin to a vulnerable half-upright position, clasped her hands, and BAM, out flew the wad of noodles, onto the white tablecloth.

  I dropped him off at his apartment and he got out of the car without kissing me. The relief I felt watching him go through the dirty glass doors has followed me out here. I’m still glad that Kevin is alive, those pink scars marking his thumbs, the noodles out of his airways. But I’m also glad not to be with him, walking through the glass doors, up the ammonia-scented stairway to his one-bedroom apartment.

  Mrs. Capp and Satan are on the porch drinking lemonade. If I sit on my bed, in the corner of the room, I can see them through the window. And because the windows are so old, the seals broken, the glass rattling in strong wind, I can hear most of what they’re saying.

  “It’s terrible to lose someone,” I hear Satan say.

  “It is,” Mrs. Capp says sadly. “It’s like the world is whisked away from
you. Nothing looks the same.”

  Satan grunts. Mrs. Capp must recognize the irony of explaining loss to Satan, but it doesn’t show on her face.

  “I brought you a present,” Satan says, gesturing to a small pink package. She gazes at it as if it were the correct ending to her sad thoughts. She’s holding the package on her lap and I’m annoyed that I can’t see what’s inside when she carefully edges off the foil.

  What gift does Satan bring on a Sunday morning? Apple chips? Tarot cards? Snakeskin barrettes?

  “So sweet,” she croons. She gets up, sits in his lap, and gives him a long, passionate kiss. She pulls away and Satan looks at her in the same way he looked at the headline on the paper. She rakes her pearly nails down the edge of his jaw, stands, gathers the empty glasses. I hear the back door open.

  I jump off my bed, smooth out the wrinkles in my quilt. She pokes her head in.

  “He’s cute, isn’t he?”

  “Sure.” The chirpiness of my voice is a giveaway that I’ve been spying, but she’s too preoccupied to notice.

  “Oh, gosh, Liza. Come outside and talk to him. I’ve got a really strong feeling about this one.” When Mrs. Capp talks about men, she sounds as if she’s dangling from a fine thread. She seems frightened of falling. Maybe this is why she lines them up one after the other: the next one can catch her if the thread snaps.

  She goes out into the kitchen to refill their glasses. I yank off my pajamas and slide into the jeans and sweater I left by my bed the night before. Outside, the backyard brims with life. The brown grass is turning green again. The large oak tree has its first leaves. Satan smiles at me. I pull up a chair.

  “How’s it going?” I ask. I can tell from the lack of sheen on his eyes that he doesn’t really want me to be there.

  “Good,” he says, wiping the edge of his lip. His limbs are excessively long in comparison to his compact torso. And he’s not particularly good-looking. There’s a lack of symmetry to his face. His eyes are crooked and small, and his mouth and nose are squishy. All of this under a giant forehead, his hairline receding.

  Mrs. Capp flings herself through the door, her face a cramped expression of joy. She’s brought me a lemonade as well.

  “Satan’s a housepainter,” Mrs. Capp says to me as she settles onto her chair. He nods.

  “I was just telling him that our house could use a little painting.” This is true. The peach paint is peeling in the front and half the window frames are a glossy maroon while the other half are dirty white.

  “Sure,” he says, his voice gravelly. “We could probably work out a trade.” He directs this statement to Mrs. Capp and his head lowers slightly. His lids drop over those small blue eyes. Mrs. Capp shoots him a reprimanding glance, but lightens it with a purse of her lips, which, I notice, have a fresh coat of orangey lipstick.

  Satan leans back in his chair and parts his legs. His hands dangle between his thighs. I catch a whiff of his smell. It’s musky, rank, and a little dizzying—the kind of body odor you can’t help breathing in repeatedly, though it seems inappropriate to do so.

  There’s a rising tide of energy at the table and it’s making me uncomfortable. It seems that at any moment, Satan might lunge over the patio table with no regard to the tall glasses of lemonade, grasp Mrs. Capp with his clearly capable hands, and mash those soft features into her powdered neckline.

  “So, how’d you get your name?” I ask. A chill comes over the porch. Satan doesn’t take his eyes off Mrs. Capp. He’s got the fingers of both hands pressed together and he’s doing little push-ups with them. No one has anything to say.

  I have never had any illusions about knowing the workings of Mrs. Capp’s soul, but right now I feel particularly alienated. I knew she was a bit desperate, but there’s an edginess to her need I didn’t see before. Her neck looks more than thin, it seems breakable.

  “We were thinking of going to a matinee,” Mrs. Capp says. She wrinkles her eyes and nose.

  I take the last cookie from the fancy platter on the table. Beside the platter is the CD Satan brought for Mrs. Capp in that pink foil. It’s called Music for the Living: Experiments in Joyful Sound. That’s just too much. Who is he trying to fool?

  There’s a shifting under the table. Satan’s foot, clad in a dirty Converse high-top, creeps up Mrs. Capp’s leg and his knee, in the process, bumps against my thigh. I set the CD down with a thwack. Mrs. Capp raises her eyebrows.

  “Well,” she says, “if we’re going to go, I should put on a warmer sweater. I always get cold in theaters.” She takes the CD and places it on the empty platter. Satan gathers the glasses and follows her into the house. I stay outside, looking at the oak tree trembling in the imperceptible wind.

  After a few minutes, I get up and walk around the house. A large Dodge van is parked out front. Satan’s van. The windows are tinted and a large, expandable ladder is secured to the top. There’s a big dent in the rear bumper. I circle the van and I’m surprised to find a mural painted on the door of the driver’s side. It’s a crudely painted picture of the planet Earth. The continents make a green-brown yin-yang with the bright blue ocean. Underneath it is a red heart with the words one love printed inside. The rest of the van is a sinister gray with a black stripe running along the base. I stand on my tiptoes and peer into the back. As I suspected, among some paint cans and roller brushes, a flannel sleeping bag covers a foam mattress. A tapestry is fastened to the ceiling.

  Who is this man? Where did he come from? How long is he going to stay? Should I be concerned about my stuff?

  For the first time since I moved here, I feel distinctly alone. Not solitary, but unseen. I don’t miss anyone, exactly. Who would I miss? If Kevin were here he would claim to know things he didn’t know. He would say that none of this was our business. He would shrug and suggest that we play ultimate Frisbee in the dog park.

  The street is quiet. I can hear the movement of blood through my body. I look at the peeling peach house in front of me and kick the tire of the van. Nothing happens.

  I go back inside. The door to Mrs. Capp’s room is shut. I stand in front of it, staring at the white paint. I wonder if they’ve managed to leave without letting me know. This seems unlikely. Mrs. Capp doesn’t have a car and the bus stop is right across the street. Then I hear a giggle. Several giggles, a moan.

  I know I should leave. I’m crossing a line by standing here in front of her door. I should go back into my bedroom, read a magazine. Then there is a creaking sound. Some talking. I get even closer.

  “Oh, that’s so strange,” she says. Her voice sounds husky, playful. “Stop it!” There’s a cracking sound, like a horsewhip. A squeal.

  “Like this,” he says. And then the words are muffled.

  “Oh God!” she cries. The sound of rustling. Soon a rhythmic thudding begins. I back away and walk aimlessly into the kitchen.

  Eavesdropping has only intensified the bad feeling. I can’t think of a single thing to do. Satan’s denim jacket is draped on a chair. A pack of cigarettes pokes from the top pocket. I take one with the matchbook and go out onto the porch. Mrs. Capp would throw a fit if she saw me smoking, but it seems safe to assume she’s preoccupied. I inspect the matchbook, hoping it’s from an incriminating place—a strip joint or casino. But the matchbook just advertises a brand of cigarettes. The foxglove that Mrs. Capp planted shoots up from the raised beds and a few purple buds have opened to the sun. I will a silence to take over my thoughts, but before I’m even finished with the cigarette, a voice comes from behind me.

  “She’s a fine woman, that Sondra.” My heart skips, then a hot surge of blood races to my ears. He’s standing in the doorway. I turn to see him adjust his privates through the canvas of his pants. He’s so efficient. A real time manager. If he worked a service job, his face would be lacquered to a celebratory plaque.

  It takes me a moment to register what he’s just said. Fine woman. Who says “fine woman”? What could that possibly mean? Is it a euphemism for a good, easy
lay? And he called her Sondra. I don’t think I’ve ever heard anyone call her Sondra. Not even her mail comes addressed like that.

  “Really a first-class broad,” he says. He must be trying to get my goat. He lights a cigarette and leans lazily against the door frame, crossing his gangly legs. Mrs. Capp comes out in a coral wrap that matches her lipstick.

  “Liza dear, do you think you can help me find my keys?” This must be a cue: she wants to conspire with me to get rid of Satan. She realizes she’s slipped and now she wants a trusty female hand out of the mess. I stamp out the cigarette and breathe deeply. Mrs. Capp turns and I see Satan run a hand up the back of her leg and goose her. She giggles and swats his hand. He grins.

  Inside the living room, Mrs. Capp begins to root around between the sofa cushions.

  “Could you check around, dear?” she says. “Maybe they’re underneath a magazine or something.” I halfheartedly pick up the paper. Nothing. Carefully, I fold it along its creases and set it on top of the unread sections on the coffee table. Mrs. Capp scurries about, lifting picture frames off the mantel, patting pillows, straightening up as she looks.

  “Maybe you left them in a pocket,” I suggest.

  “Well, it seems unlikely,” she says. “But let’s check.” I follow her into her bedroom and almost keel over, the smell of sex is so strong. Her powder blue curtains are drawn and the bedsheets are tangled. Her fluffy comforter is pushed to one side and a condom wrapper lies torn and empty by the foot of the bed. With a swift movement she scoops up the comforter and settles it back on the mattress. I walk stiffly to her dresser and peer at the contents. There are the cloisonné ducks. This comforts me. She does seem the sort to take her jewelry off before a roll in the hay. I touch the earrings. They’re cold and hard. I press the little hooks into my thumb. Her etched night sky box sits next to a glass paperweight with a miniature seal caught inside. On a slightly brown crocheted doily stands a framed photograph of Mrs. Capp’s deceased parents. They look normal enough—her father dressed in military uniform, a mustache curling over his lip, her mother erect by his side, unsmiling.