Charles wasn’t sure which was more astonishing: that Cody had had a hand in creating a piece of art that was this sophisticated or that his ex-wife was amused about the repeal of a fifteen-year injunction against an activity she used to condemn as stimming.
After studying the triptychs a while longer, they walked on until they came to three of Romy’s pieces: black-and-white photographs captioned with handwritten American Sentences.
In the first image, Mrs. D’Amati stood in a pose reminiscent of the Statue of Liberty: one small but strong-looking hand held a cloth napkin pinned loosely to her heart center; her other hand was directed heavenward, fingers arranged in a specific but mysterious shape, a kind of mudra. Her expression was confident, triumphant.
You babblers well may rule the earth, but heaven’s the kingdom of the mute!
Another portrait of Mrs. D’Amati was taken from behind with the camera looking down on her from over her left shoulder. She was sitting, her hand resting on an empty table in the exact shape it would take if she were holding a pen.
When memory fails, cast the truth aside and then unbind the body.
Finally, there was Cody, with his mortar and pestle, grinding.
Charles turned to Alison. “How—”
Alison shrugged. “Don’t ask me.” She chuckled. “I have no idea how ramen noodles made their way into art class, but apparently the grinding rule is kaput too.”
Their son’s face was lit with a soft glow. He was completely focused on his work and on whatever inner conversation that work evoked.
This meditation, over olive wood and wheat, is a voiceless hymn.
None of the photos were traditionally composed; they were conspicuously empty in places, or at least unpopulated. Charles was reminded that there were always vacancies in the construct of a life: blank spaces occupied by the unseen guest, the absent friend.
“I’ve been meaning to ask you,” he said as they looked at their son’s portrait. “How is it going?”
“How’s what going?”
“You know. The conversion thing.”
“The conversion thing.” Alison smiled. “It’s going fine.”
“Good.”
“You know, I think about you sometimes, in class. There are certain ideas, certain aspects that you might like.”
“Really.”
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
“Like what?”
“Like … oh, the whole idea of confining It, Him, Whatever, to a single name: God.”
“What do you call It, then?”
“Oh, so many things. It’s fairly overwhelming. Understand, I’m talking Judaism 101 when it comes to all this, but … there’s El, Elohim, Elohaynu … Yahweh, Ehyeh, Hajak, ’ilah, Jehovah, Adonai, El Shaddai, Ha Shem … It’s intriguing; giving It lots of different names almost has the effect of giving It no name at all—which, really, when you think about it, is as it should be. Does that make sense?”
“It does.”
She sighed. “Or maybe it’s about finding the right name for It? A name you can live with? Maybe that’s another way of getting to belief. I don’t know. What do I know?”
Charles heard Cody calling out to them from the distant past: Gaaaa … He saw him touching Emmy’s head on the ultrasound screen.
“So you’re a believer now?” he said.
“I don’t know that I can say that, Charles. But I decided it might be all right to seek comfort. It might be all right to say Help, because just saying it implies that something is listening—and also because saying it is a kind of comfort in itself. That might be selfish, but it also might be enough. A place to start, anyway.”
“And are you comforted?”
“Yes. I am.”
“Well. There you go, then.”
“Thank you for asking.”
Charles noticed the SOLD sticker on the photograph. “You bought his, didn’t you?”
“You can borrow it anytime.”
“Thanks.”
“Listen, Charles,” she said, putting a hand on his arm, “I’ve got to go, but I’m really glad I saw you here.” She gave him a light kiss on the cheek and then gestured to another spot in the room. “The other photos are over there. Talk soon?”
“Yes.”
He followed her figure through the crowd, toward the double doors, where a tall man with a lined face and excellent posture stood smiling at her. She stumbled briefly on the entrance threshold; he clasped her arm and steadied her; they laughed, his face falling into the shape those lines described. Then he guided her into the hall, not in an overly authoritative manner, but with assuredness. They joined the exiting procession and moved out of sight.
Charles looked at a few more pieces of art and then came to Romy’s last two pictures in the exhibit: matted and framed together, the photos were dual portraits of Cody and Mrs. D’Amati, sitting side by side, not touching, each obviously absorbed in his or her own work—
Speak in tempests of torn paper; I will answer with flurries of loops.
—but also clearly experiencing a sense of intimacy and connection.
Tell me your story in stillness; I’ll answer with a grinding of wheat.
Charles was reminded of an early developmental milestone, one of many items on a list that, in Cody’s case, was never checked off.
Does your child engage in parallel play?
Yes, Charles thought. Yes, he does.
Are You My Father?
Dear Alison,
Since the Art Without Boundaries fundraiser, I’ve found myself frequently replaying our conversation. Your comment about “finding the right name” struck a resonant chord, for that is indeed a huge part of my problem. The word itself is irreparably despoiled, a Trojan horse packed with a garrison of desolate connotations. Regenerating any kind of belief in It/Him/Whatever is really impossible until that central problem is addressed.
So, earlier this evening, I initiated a Web search: The Names of God.
Among the articles I perused in the ensuing cyberspace journey was one on Meher Baba, a twentieth-century Indian spiritual master who claimed to be an avatar of God. His name means “benevolent father.”
The good works of Meher Baba, a world traveler and contemporary of Gandhi, were legion. In 1927, he announced that he would adopt a practice of silence; he maintained that silence for the remaining forty-four years of his life, using an alphabet board and a unique sign language to communicate. Mary Pickford and Tallulah Bankhead hosted parties for him. Pete Townshend was a devotee. He is the originator of the phrase “Don’t worry. Be happy.” There is newsreel film of him twirling his alphabet board with the dexterity of an NBA point guard, washing and kissing the feet of lepers, playfully tossing cashews and raisins to throngs of children, embracing horses.
What drew my interest as much as anything was the man’s abiding facial expression: an irresistibly impish glint in his eyes, a perpetually pleased grin. He looks like the doppelgänger of Zero Mostel.
Given these factors, I’ve decided that the name Baba is acceptable—or, as you so wisely said, “a place to start, anyway.”
My feeling: it’s never too late to try a new approach to learning anything, and just because one has no expectations doesn’t mean one has no hope.
Ali. Alison Nadine Forché. I hope you’re having a wonderful time. If anyone deserves a honeymoon, it’s you.
Give my very best to James. I’ll see you in a few weeks.
Love, Charles
•♦•
He could not believe the turnout.
True, it was an exceptionally beautiful day for this early in the summer, only the third weekend in June: a light breeze, temps in the upper seventies, a slow, stately march of story-inspiring cloud shapes moving up from the southwest. But such weather usually sent Seattleites out of the city to the mountains or to the water or to one of the many weekend summer festivals—not to a Maple Leaf yard sale.
He hadn’t done that much advertising either, only some
hand-lettered posters at his usual neighborhood haunts (Cloud City, the video store, the hardware store); a few more a couple of miles away at the other places he frequented, the QFC on Roosevelt, the library and community center across the street from the mall, the Northgate Village Starbucks; and one more on the bulletin board of the City Prana teachers’ lounge.
No newspaper ads. No street signage.
Where had all these people come from? There had been no fewer than ten customers at a time all morning, sometimes as many as twenty.
One of the first arrivals was a bearded, leather-clad, bandanna-wearing fellow who’d driven up on a Harley. He browsed for a while and then, encountering the children’s section, picked up Cody’s old board-book copies of Brown Bear, Brown Bear, What Do You See? and Runaway Bunny.
“How much?” he asked.
“Take them,” Charles replied.
“What?”
“They’re free.”
Harley scowled, replaced the books, and moved on to inspect a box of electrical supplies left over from one of the storybook cottage’s many remodels.
Charles had given a lot of consideration as to how to best publicize this event, finally coming down on the side of Yard Sale—even though that was a blatant violation of the truth-in-advertising concept. What he planned, in fact, was a Yard Giveaway.
“How about a quarter each?” Charles asked the biker when he looked like he was about to leave. “For the books?”
“Oh. Sure. Okay.”
It became a fascinating lesson in psychology: most of the people who dropped by during those first hours refused to take things they obviously wanted, needed, or were interested in after asking the price and hearing the word free. Among the few items Charles was able to successfully give away were a couple of coffee mugs, a faux-leather desk set whose origins were completely unknown to him, and a stack of partially completed New York Times crossword puzzle books.
Nobody took the furniture, the sports equipment, the never-used wedding presents …
“Come back tomorrow!” Charles yelled amiably as people drifted away, empty-handed. “Everything will be half off!”
As the day progressed, there still remained a sizable inventory. Charles decided he’d better change tactics or risk finding himself at four o’clock tomorrow afternoon with a yard that was still full of merchandise—and a repeat of the wrenching dilemma of what to do with it all.
A young couple started making their way to Charles’s table; they were probably nineteen or twenty years old, and they exuded the unmistakably comfortable but magnetized energy of two people in like and in love. He’d been watching them for some time; they used their voices, but they also spoke in sign language.
The boy was holding a pair of cross-country skis and boots Alison had bought Charles for Christmas one year.
“Hey,” the boy said, setting the boots down and propping the skis against Charles’s table, signing as he spoke. “I was wondering, what size are these?”
“Ten and a half,” Charles answered.
The boy’s hands translated, the girl’s face brightened, and she gave him a playful hip check.
The boy grinned at her. “How much?”
Charles considered. They were probably students, probably poor. The boy especially had that undernourished, tired-and-overcaffeinated look, so Charles quoted him the price of a triple venti latte.
The boy looked puzzled. “For just the boots, right?” he said.
“No, the skis too,” Charles said. “And here …” He walked them over to the clothing department and pulled out the ski jacket Alison had given him that same year. “I’ll throw this in too. It looks like it’ll fit you.”
“Seriously?”
“Seriously.”
A look of delight broke across the girl’s face. Her expression was so purely radiant, for a moment she reminded him of Dana. Thank you! she said to Charles, using a simple sign that he recognized and remembered.
You’re welcome, he signed back.
As they walked away, the girl took the boy’s arm. Her hands moved with a wonderful grace and rapidity as she spoke, her voice denasal but clear and expressive: “I promise you, babe, you’re gonna love cross-country. I know it’s not snowboarding, but nobody gets a compound fracture doing Nordic …”
Charles checked his watch. Three thirty. Only a half hour to go.
Tomorrow would be a shorter day, not only because it was Sunday and he expected a smaller crowd, but because Cody would be with him. And although Charles planned to set Cody up at a table in a semiprivate area of the yard and provide him with plenty of timed noodle-smashing and magazine-tearing opportunities (alternating with snacks and lunch), he didn’t want to test the limits of Cody’s patience.
Charles wondered if Pam Hamilton would be dropping by again. She’d been here early this morning and stayed until the sale opened.
Isn’t that yard sale of yours coming up? she’d asked during those last, student-less days of school when teachers cleaned out their classrooms for the summer and attended a few mandated end-of-year meetings.
Yes, it is, Charles answered. Next weekend, he added. Saturday from nine o’clock until four; Sunday from ten until three.
Sunday.
Yes.
This coming Sunday.
That’s right.
Isn’t that Father’s Day?
Is it? I hadn’t realized. Charles wondered if business would be adversely affected by the holiday.
Do you have someone to help you?
Help me?
Your poster said the sale included a lot of furniture. Do you have someone to help you get everything outside?
Charles hadn’t considered this. An extra set of hands would probably be useful. He supposed he could ask Gil from next door …
What time does the sale start again? Pam asked.
Nine, Charles replied.
Okay, Pam said, considering. I’ll be there at six thirty.
Six thirty?
Actually, six.
And she was, toting a cardboard traveler of Starbucks coffee and, surprisingly, a baker’s dozen of Krispy Kreme doughnuts; Charles had figured her as more the yogurt-and-granola type.
It would indeed have been difficult for Charles to manage the furniture on his own; it would also have taken twice as long to get things set up. Without Pam’s help, he never would have been ready by nine o’clock. It always amazed him: time passed so quickly before a deadline was met; so slowly afterward.
At seven thirty, they were hauling the combination changing table/bureau out onto the lawn when Cody arrived promptly and as planned with one of his caregivers, the only customer to be granted early-bird status.
Charles had arranged this stopover, a brief and hopefully not-too-upsetting blip in the schedule before Cody headed to Kirkland for his weekly riding lesson.
There were still lots of items to get outside, but in preparation for Cody’s visit, Charles had made sure that the box of children’s books had come out early.
“Hey, Cody!” Pam said. “How are you?”
Cody dropped his chin to his chest and signed, Hello, Pam! Since he was three, he’d been greeting her with an exuberant signing of the word pony.
“Come on over here, son,” Charles said, leading him to the front porch. “Take a look at these. You get to take the ones you want to keep.”
Cody plopped down in his habitual odd manner—long limbs folding and collapsing quickly, a marionette with cut strings—and immediately went to work. The caregiver stood guard while Pam and Charles continued to haul things outside.
Fifteen minutes later, Cody stood up, suddenly, decisively, clasping a stack of books to his chest.
“All done? Find some good ones?” Charles asked. He was pleased to see that in Cody’s save pile were Caps for Sale, On the Day You Were Born, and Are You My Mother?
Some of these books, Charles knew, had torn pages and teeth marks. He and Alison had both reprimanded Cody again and again, gentl
y, firmly, but to no avail. No biting, Cody! No tearing! Books are treasures! Now, in retrospect, seeing the possessive and reverent manner in which Cody cradled the books, Charles wondered if they’d misunderstood; perhaps Cody’s literary vandalism wasn’t an expression of disrespect but rather his way of demonstrating an intense affection—and then, later, after he’d lost his words, an even more intense anguish.
Cody turned and started back toward the van.
“Thanks for bringing him by,” Charles said to the caregiver. “Bye, Cody!” he called to Cody’s unresponsive figure. “See you tomorrow!”
“Bye, Cody!” Pam added. “Adios, cowboy!”
They finished setting up by eight thirty, a whole half hour early.
Grateful for her help and company, Charles found himself hoping that Pam might stay longer—he could fix her a cup of tea, give her chance to relax; she’d worked so hard—so he was disappointed when she said she’d be taking off, meeting a friend for a walk around Green Lake and then heading to a yoga class.
She certainly was an active person.
“Oh. Well. Thanks for your help, Pam.”
“You’re welcome, Charles. Good luck with the sale.”
Next door, right on schedule, the Bjornsons’ garage door rumbled open and the current Best Hit—“Desperado,” by the Eagles—crescendoed dramatically.
“Morning, Charles!” Gil called, emerging from the garage. “You’re up bright and early for a Saturday. Yard sale?”
“That’s right.”
“Well, Erik’ll be here soon. We might have to take a break and stop over.”
“Please do. I’ll be here.”
“Was that Cody I just saw leaving?”
“It was.”
“Shoot. Sorry I missed him.”
“He’ll be back tomorrow, most of the day.”
“Oh, good! Erik would love to see him.”
All that Saturday, the Bjornsons provided a soundtrack for Charles’s customers. Charles kept expecting them to come over (there were some old tools of his father’s that he thought Gil might like), but they stayed put, looking up every now and then to wave but mostly elbow-deep in the Mustang’s innards, apparently at a critical juncture, a surgical team performing a multiple-organ transplant.
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