by Brett Paesel
“Pass the fucking salt,” she’d say at the dinner table.
Erik would pass the salt like he was cool with his fifty-year-old mother making easy with words that didn’t look right on her.
After a soccer game Mom chatted with the coach, Erik by her side.
“I couldn’t fucking believe how you fucking pulled the whole fucking game out of your ass,” she said.
Erik smiled weakly at the stunned coach.
Weeks of my mother’s swearing did nothing to alter Erik’s. It was a fucking standoff.
Prom night, Erik brought his date over to get pictures taken. The date was a wispy, pretty thing Erik had been trying to bag for half a year. Maybe he’d worn her down with persistence, but it’s more likely that no one else had asked her. Whatever the reason, Erik was thrilled that she had finally said yes.
The rest of the family dressed nicely to meet the date. Erik introduced her all around, and she politely chatted with my kid brother, Keir, who was obsessed with coins at the time.
We still have the pictures of Erik and the date in front of the living room window, looking stiff. In one picture Keir stands between them, holding up a Kennedy half-dollar.
Mom passed around her world-famous Japanese pork appetizer. My father made some jokes about the idiosyncrasies of the family car Erik would be driving that evening. Eventually, Erik said it was time to go and the group of us moved into the foyer. Erik reached into the closet to retrieve the date’s shawl.
“Very nice to meet you,” my mother said to the date.
“Nice to meet all of you,” said the date as Erik placed her shawl around her shoulders.
“Have a fucking great time, you motherfuckers,” said my mother.
In my mind we all stood there in the foyer, frozen like wax figures, waiting for a sign indicating that we could all return to our natural state. I don’t know what that sign was, but somehow movement started again. Somehow Erik shuffled the date out the door. Somehow the rest of us picked up our evening routines.
Within minutes we heard a key in the door. Erik appeared in the living room, pulling his date along. He walked over to my mother, who was clearing the pork.
“You win,” he said as the date looked on blankly. Who knows what she thought? But after a pause came relief, as my mother nodded forgiveness at Erik and shot the date a beneficent smile.
Each country a mother inhabits with her child has its own customs. Mother and child establish rhythms, logic, and language that aren’t understood outside that country. At least this is what I tell myself whenever I wonder what the adult Spence will say about his mother’s using his toddler self as a makeup mover.
When Spencer was about two years old, I found it impossible to put my makeup on with him in the bathroom. He would grab my blush and throw it on the floor. He’d chew on the eyebrow pencil. Once, he dropped a brand-new MAC lipstick into the toilet and flushed it.
I started to put on my makeup during his naps. Or I simply didn’t put it on at all, making me look as if motherhood was taking more of a toll than anyone thought. I am not, as my mother puts it, one of those women who can “wear the natural look.”
To her credit, she says she can’t wear the natural look either.
Tired of looking tired, I created a game for Spence and me. He became the makeup moving machine. I’d lay out my makeup in a line along the sink.
“Blush,” I’d say.
Spencer’s arm would appear as he made the growling sound of a machine. The hand moved mechanically up and down and side to side, as it lowered itself toward the blush. When it was finally in place, it opened and clamped around the blush, pulling up in a jerking motion. A series of grinding sounds and moves brought the blush over to my hand, where it was dropped.
Each item of makeup was delivered to me in this fashion. And, although the game extended makeup applying time from five to forty-five minutes, I started looking a damn sight better. I also figured that Spence was getting to know a lot about makeup application. Which is, in Los Angeles, a marketable skill.
At three Spence still enjoys this routine. Though it still seems to take a long time, especially because the makeup moving machine has become a T. rex with claws that are far less efficient than the machine’s clamp. But just recently, I bought a little timer from Target. I figure once I start timing the T. rex, I will be able to bring down the time of makeup application to a cool seven minutes.
On Purpose
When Pat tells me that he just got this great new job as a stand-in for a Nickelodeon show; when he tells me that what’s great about it is that he’ll be putting in a lot of overtime, which means a lot of money; when he tells me that it shoots every week on Thursday nights, so on those days he’ll be out of the house for eighteen hours at a stretch—when he tells me all this, with a smile full of pride, I feel like a woman being buried alive behind a brick wall; like the woman in a Vincent Price movie I saw when I was young.
“It’s fantastic, honey,” he says. “We’ll get health insurance and I’m working with guys I’ve worked with before, so I’ll probably do some voice-overs. This is going to be a boatload of money.”
The bricks are up to my eyes. I peer out at him.
“That’s great,” I say. “You’ll have a lot of fun too, I bet.”
Slap goes a layer of squishy cement.
Pat says, “So, especially on Thursdays, it’ll be kind of pointless to wait up for me. I’ve heard that after the shoot the cast and crew hang out in the Art Department and drink whiskey.”
Brick.
“How long does the job last?” I ask.
“Six months.”
Brick.
“That’s long.”
“Yeah. If the show goes well,” he says, “they may take a couple of weeks’ hiatus and go back into shooting extra episodes. So it could be as long as nine months.”
Brick. Brick. Brick. Buried.
I feel like a world-class bitch, begrudging Pat this fun job that will support the family. Pat has taken on the role of provider with admirable seriousness. I love him for this. I love him for being so grown-up and practical.
And I want to scream, “I’m buried alive here!!!!! Look at me! I’m trapped behind this wall and I can’t get out!”
But like the woman in the movie, I look through a crack in the wall, mute.
I can’t remember why the woman in the movie didn’t scream. Perhaps for the same reason that I don’t now—because she knew that she should be grateful for simply being alive.
And I am grateful, I love my time with Spence. There is a rhythm to our days that I enjoy and he’s better company now that he talks like a pro. But no matter how much I love him, no matter how thankful I am to witness every one of his realizations, no matter how much I melt at the look of adoration in his eyes, I still watch the clock, waiting for Pat to walk in the door at the end of the day.
I know that when Pat comes home, I will have time of my own back. I’ll be able to walk outside, lie on the couch, read a book—just because I feel like it. When Pat is not home, Spence’s care supersedes any longings I have for these little freedoms.
This is why Pat’s great job, with its long Thursday nights, makes me feel locked in; trapped.
When I was in drama school in New York, my friends and I couldn’t afford to go anywhere for spring break. We didn’t even have the scratch to go out for dinner.
Bemoaning this fact, one night, over cheap wine and cigarettes (which we somehow did find the cash for), we fantasized about going to the south of France. We imagined ourselves eating coarse bread with cheese on a hilltop that overlooked a quaint village.
Why not create the south of France in one of our living rooms? a friend suggested. We’d lay a blanket on the floor, have a picnic, and just imagine ourselves there.
I still have the pictures of that picnic. There we are, lying on top of each other on a blanket in my living room, glasses in our hands, ripped French bread in front of us. Our smiles as wide as the
y would be if we were worlds away.
As the first long Thursday night approaches, I decide to create for myself the illusion of freedom. I will carve out an evening in which I can be with adults, talking about adult things. Like the south of France, my imagination will make it an evening that’s all my own—time that doesn’t belong to Spencer or Pat or the preschool. With my son in his bed, isn’t it possible for me to do anything I want in the living room?
What I picture is a weekly salon thing. I’ll invite the most interesting people I know. We’ll lie around and talk about books and art and politics. Maybe we’ll invite fabulous guest speakers, like Bill Moyers, to talk about our place in the universe.
I think about that for a while and, after thumbing through my address book, realize that I have few friends who would participate in anything called a salon. Too intimidating.
Is it a book group? Hard to have one every Thursday. Plus, I still feel rotten about the book group I belonged to a few years ago. I went to the monthly meetings several times, lying about having read the book, too embarrassed to fess up. Those evenings were excruciating, nodding my head, murmuring, “I agree,” every two minutes.
What about a writing group?
As I think about it more, I like the idea. I’ll invite all of the brilliant writers I know. Every Thursday, writers will bring bits of writing in, critique each other, maybe do some writing exercises, bat around a few big ideas. That’s it.
I wouldn’t call myself a writer, so I’m not exactly sure why it’s a “writing group” and not a “singing group” or a “knitting group” (actually, I do know why it’s not a knitting group). When I start thinking of people to include, I realize that Michelle is the only writer I know who’d say yes to being in my group—probably for the very same reasons I’m starting it. But the group needs to be bigger than just the two of us to make it feel like a salon and not just another preschool committee, so I fatten up the ranks with three arty women with time on their hands.
Putting Spence to bed at the beginning of the first meeting is a snap. As I click his bedroom door closed, I breathe in, looking at my gal pals sitting around the dining room table with their pens and notebooks. I’m surprised to see the table crowded with bags of cookies, potato chips, and bottles of wine. I had envisioned a more serious tone, but, hey, let’s make it a party.
I grab a glass from the kitchen and pour myself some wine.
“He’s so yummy I just want to bite him,” says my friend Anne, telling the others about a recent crush. Anne’s black curls bounce as she talks, reaching for cookies.
“You should write about that guy,” says Michelle.
Anne goes on and is just beginning to wind down, when Shannon compliments Mary on her new purse, a beige leather thing that looks like a big envelope. Mary is thrilled that Shannon noticed. She gets up and models it.
Michelle pats the purse.
“Maybe we should write about purses,” she says.
I’m impressed with Michelle’s attempts to remind the clutch of women that we are here to talk about writing. Even though I am the instigator of the group, I am loath to harness the energy. I hate telling people what to do. Not because I lack the desire—I would love to tell everyone what to do—but because my need to be liked is greater than my desire to accomplish anything.
“Okay, did anyone see last week’s Six Feet Under?” asks Shannon, getting up from the table and grabbing her smokes.
She walks onto the balcony and lights up as conversation about the show spikes.
I enjoy the next hour. I turn on some music, the women chatter, occasionally Michelle suggests a writing topic, I have another glass of wine. Spence sleeps through the whole thing.
Eventually, Michelle clears the table and we find ourselves sitting with pens in hand.
“Let’s choose a word and write for five minutes on anything that word inspires,” says Michelle, laying her watch in front of her.
“What kind of word?” asks Anne.
“It can be anything,” says Michelle.
“Does it have to be a thing, like ‘purse’? Or is it something more ethereal, like ‘time’?”
“Anything.”
“Okay. Let’s do ‘time,’” says Anne.
Each of us writes the word “time” at the top of our papers and starts to write. As I write, I am amazed at how long the five minutes seems to be. Surely, I keep thinking, five minutes must be up. Then I think, Well, that’s about “time,” and I write about that. I write about Michelle’s watch. I write about how much time I’ll have to sleep tonight before Spence wakes at six in the morning. I write about how many hours it will be before Pat crawls into bed with me.
“Time’s up,” says Michelle.
We stop writing. A group exhalation happens, as if to mark that the whole thing was quite an effort.
“Now let’s read out loud,” says Michelle.
We go around the circle, reading our five-minute blurbs. After each one the others gush, “Oh, that’s so clever,” “I would never have thought of that,” “You should write a whole story about that.”
After this we break out more wine and continue talking. We talk about what color I should paint my bedroom, bone marrow transplants, frequent-flier miles. We talk about a friend who can’t get pregnant, a mother who has cataracts, and a therapist who says inappropriate things. Mary cracks Anne’s back, and Shannon shows us how she walked as a child before she got hip surgery.
Five hours later, having had coffee and banana bread, we all hug at my door.
The writing group takes care of my empty Thursday nights, and I come away feeling fantastic for having put pen to notebook. But I start to feel the press of something familiar in my chest. It is a thing I first recognized in fifth grade, when I gave a speech called “Seven Days? The Creation of the World as Biblical Metaphor.” The speech baffled my classmates, whose speeches revolved around state birds and extreme weather conditions.
When the teacher asked me why I chose the creation of the world as my subject, I said that I wanted to talk about something important. Giggles from my classmates instantly let me know that talking about something important wasn’t cool. Beth Henreddy’s speech on mud slides, which employed phrases from some Partridge Family songs, had been the biggest hit—followed by Marc Jaslow’s, because he brought in a jar of live bees.
Through the years, I learned to stay silent about the thing in my chest. I learned to ignore the press of needing to say something important. I learned to stay silent about my longing for some sense of purpose. I knew that discussing these things would be a surefire way to clear a room preparing to play a kissing game.
After college I became an actress. My hope was that I could say something important by speaking someone else’s words and looking kind of cute while doing it. I envisioned myself onstage, fist in the air, screaming to the heavens as thousands of audience members stood and cheered. The people listening would be so pumped that they’d run out of the theater ready to feed the hungry, stop wars, and overthrow governments. My purpose would then be clear to me. I would be the fiery smarty-pants actress who changed the world.
I moved to Los Angeles and lost sight of any purpose, reconnecting with it only when I noticed its absence while standing on a soundstage in a purple business suit. I was about to play a dotty real estate agent in a popular TV drama. The director came up to me before a take and told me that if I didn’t speed up my dialogue, she would have to cut the scene. As she walked away from me and I trembled with the anticipation of public failure, I thought, What the fuck am I doing here, pretending to be a fast-talking real estate agent? How does my doing this particular thing serve anyone?
These were not the kind of thoughts I wanted to have while standing in a pretend house, in clothes that weren’t my own, in Hollywood.
This particular moment did pass. I talked fast enough to keep the job. And, later, my search for a greater purpose was partly found in Spencer’s birth.
Clearing the
wineglasses from my table, after another Thursday night writers’ group, I feel the thing knocking in my chest.
I stop clearing and sit. I think to myself, Who am I to think that I have any higher purpose than that of caring for myself and my family? Who am I to think that the knocking in my chest is connected to any real facility for anything greater than being a mother and a wife? Doesn’t caring for and loving myself, family, and friends give me the greatest purpose I can think of?
Absolutely.
Knock, knock, knock.
I lift a half-empty bottle of wine and pour some into a glass. I pick up the glass and walk over to the radio, switching it to a classical station. I turn off the lights and turn on the computer.
This is it, I think. I am going to write something magnificent. I am going to start right now.
I click open a blank document.
My fingers lightly touch the keys as I wait for divine inspiration.
I have time.
I wait.
Then inspiration descends. It fills me up and travels to the tips of my fingers and I begin to type.
SHE WALKED ALONG THE BOMBED-OUT STREET, HER RAGGED DRESS BRUSHING HER KNEES, CARRYING MEDICINE IN THE VIAL SHE HAD RETRIEVED FROM HERR MULLER’S BASEMENT.
I lean back in the chair. I take a sip of my wine.
Yes.
This will be a great book. A book about how a heroine, much like myself, saves the world from a post-9/11 plague.
My mind skips to the review in The New York Times Book Review: “Paesel’s powerful prose thrills and terrifies. This book is an unprecedented first effort. With such depth of feeling, such command of language, such shocking grasp of structure, Paesel moves us to an exalted state.”
I lean forward.
CATHERINE KNEW SHE HAD ONLY MINUTES TO DELIVER THE SPECIMEN BEFORE IT WAS RENDERED USELESS BY THE UNRELENTING HEAT.
I lean back again, listening to the music. I look at the words I’ve typed. That’s a start, I think. I’ll pick it up tomorrow.