by Kris Radish
“But I feel like it's all my fault.”
How I wish, Bob, how I wish.
“It was me too,” I tell him. “Never knowing for sure. Waiting for someone else to do something when I was the one supposed to be doing it. It was a we deal, Bob. Both of us.”
In what I can only describe as the miracle of mixing distilled grains with a last glimpse of love, we agree to almost everything. Selling the house, splitting the accounts, me keeping the Palace—which results in a fairly huge amount of tears on my part—the kids' schooling. We decide to take turns going through the “stuff” we have accumulated.
“This seems too easy,” I say as we try to douse the evening with strong coffee so we can at least walk to our taxis.
“There's nothing easy about it,” he responds. “A part of me will always love you, sweetheart. We share those kids, a past, so many years. I owe you the dignity of this. Going out quietly. Getting on with it all. It's part of my penance, you see, but it's not painful at all. Not at all.”
“Not painful?”
“The dignity part. Everything else is making me ache. Of course, it would have to be you who did this. It was always you.”
Is it possible, I think as I balance myself on chairs on the way to the bathroom, that someone else could have been appearing in the bathroom mirrors all these years? Maybe my life has been one of those Blessed Mary events like the kind of miracle where women making punch see the face of the Virgin Mary when they pour the mix into the water. I never felt strong or powerful or in control of anything in my life. How could Bob think that I had a clue of what was happening?
In the end we share a taxi. He rides all the way home with me, walks me to the door while the taxi waits and holds me for a moment. “How familiar,” I think. The way my arms remember their way across his shoulders, the way my head turns to the left when he tips his head, the feel of his breath at the very edge of my hair, the same cologne he has used for fifteen years, the way his heart sounds like a wild horn under my ear. We stay like that for a long time, the taxi driver reading patiently while we embrace. I want to remember. I want to remember everything about this moment and what is essentially the last second of my married life. Through the living room window, I watch him leave and my heart sails just a bit. It sails with him as he goes home to his lover, his new life, with my heart in his pocket at least until he gets to her door. At least.
Dr. C is amazed the following week when I tell her what happened. I almost think she is disappointed that I am getting better.
“I knew you would be fast, because everything was so close to tumbling over when you came in the first time,” she tells me, fingering her coffee cup as if it were on fire. “It's good, it's all good.”
But I want to know if it's over. She laughs when I ask her.
“Oh, I hope not, darling. Can't you see another mountain off in the distance?”
“It's cloudy.”
Then I admit that I'm scared.
She knows this. Dr. C knows everything. We work on a small plan. She tells me I may be flying now, but a couple of good days aren't a sign of nirvana.
“Look what's happened to you in just a few months, Meg. When you stop, when you get to the next point, you have to be ready to crash a little bit. String it all out, say it now.”
I do. Infidelity. Gay son. The Palace. Aunt Marcia's lover. Divorce. Looking for a place to live. A new career. My mother's breasts.
“Shit,” I say, suddenly a bit panicked.
“It's a load. A lot of stuff. None of it bad. Can you see that?”
I have to close my eyes to do it. The breeze kicks up, but I would kind of like a strong wind.
As I leave, I make an appointment for the following week. Dr. C smiles because this was my idea. She knows I'm hunting for a place to live. She knows my mother's tests are due in. She knows I must call my son. She knows.
Elizabeth knows all of this also. She tells me she's in it for the fun. Apartment-hunting. Looking for a flat. She's the one who told me to move to Andersonville, the funky Chicago neighborhood where openness is a must. “Such diversity. You'll never have to go to a movie again. You'll just look out your window.”
I agree that if I am going to change, I may as well get out of PTA heaven. It was never quite the right fit anyway. My cupcakes were never perfect. I just wanted to go home and read. Who cared if the kids had to miss one recess because not enough parents volunteered for playground duty? But I went anyway. I was always there. Smiling when someone showed me a catalog filled with baskets or plastic bowls. I never did fit, but there I was, and now I was cruising the funky streets in Andersonville.
We had five places to look at and Elizabeth was determined that I would choose one of them. I was determined to go one entire day without crying.
“Remember how we all had old bricks and boards for bookcases in college?” she says as I weave in and out of traffic, thinking that I may have to sell my car if I lived in the city. “I had a friend who almost drove herself mad after she was married and up to her ass in kids because she wanted to live alone with her books and bricks.”
This is how Elizabeth talks, rambling on and on about people and places that she seems to think have a connection to what is happening now.
“Screw the bricks,” I say. “It's hot. I'm going for windows.”
We look at three apartments that make me want to weep. All are dirty, small and expensive. I have not done this in a long while. A really tiny part of me wants to go back to my home with grass in the front and a sidewalk that ends up in another little neighborhood where people grill pork chops and bounce balls against the side of a garage. Then that damn breeze kicks up again. It's not a city breeze either. It's gotten here directly from Mexico. I have not mentioned the occasional breeze from the jungle to anyone and I decide to wait before I say anything. I'll know when it's the right time. Even a blossoming woman such as myself can only take so many people looking at her sideways in one day. The breeze, however, is perfect—a woman could almost dance naked through a breeze like this.
“I think it's going to be the next place,” I say finally. We have been drinking water and fanning ourselves with the rental section of the local newspaper. Two men are kissing on the corner when we pull down the street for the next viewing. There's a famous women's bookstore, Women & Children First, down the block, bars, coffee shops, a place to work out. If I don't like this place, Elizabeth might take it. It's sort of what heaven should look like if such a place exists beyond earth, she tells me.
I know right away, even before we go inside. It's the lower apartment, and there's a fenced-in yard that is very private. That's what the ad says anyway. We pull into the skinny driveway and there is a woman leaning against the side of the house in a beige linen suit, reading glasses on the edge of her nose, fortyish, tall, a string of silver pearls bobbing between her breasts. She owns the place. She apologizes for being in a hurry, smiles brightly at Elizabeth, who leans right into her when she talks. “Here we go,” I think, “what was I doing bringing her out in public like this?”
And the house is red. Not a wild red, but a maple-leaf-turning-from-yellow kind of red, with a light purple trim and green doors. There are metal sculptures that could be whatever you want them to be lined up in two roving rows next to the house. Beds of wildflowers. Nice bushes. Looking at this house makes my heart happy. I'm smiling.
Everything is new old. She's redone the entire building, financed it herself, hired her pals to do the work while she runs a huge gourmet bakery. I'd be the first person to live there since she finished construction. The walls inside are a blank canvas. There's a fireplace. That's all I see before I say, “I'll take it.”
“All righty, then,” she responds, smiling. “Any chance you can tell me who you are first?”
I start laughing and cannot stop. I laugh until I can't breathe, and the landlordess, identified only as Sally, starts laughing too. She looks smart. Sally must know I am heading into a new life. She ask
s me what I do, will I live alone, asks for a reference or two, then asks me if I know three people who happen to share an office two doors down from me at the University. They are misplaced women's studies professors who are waiting for their new offices to be finished one building over.
“Small world,” she says, still smiling. “I think you need this place, Meg.”
We finish looking through the two bedrooms, the dining room—which I immediately know will become my office—and the small kitchen—perfect for someone like me whose meal of choice is wine and crackers. I want to sell Sally my soul, write out a check, lick the dust off her sandals, but she tells me she has to make a few calls first.
“I have a partner, and I really have to see if you are who you say you are.”
There's that smart scent I picked up.
Elizabeth watches Sally as if she is about to light herself on fire. I can't imagine Elizabeth giving up her funky house and moving into the upstairs flat, but I'm pretty sure she is at least thinking about it. There is something terribly sexy about the city. Something wild and alive, especially if you are used to wide lawns, garages and all the useless space. It's a world I have only traveled through for a very long time, but I feel the weight of all its promises as I stand in what I hope will be my kitchen and write out phone numbers.
I try very hard not to be distressed about the possibility that Sally the Wonderful might not want a soon-to-be-divorced woman with a teenage daughter living in her light orange bedroom. I try not to be distressed about what I still must do and how I have to sort through all those years of shit and touch all the memories associated with the shit. I try not to be distressed about my first night alone in this new house and all the steps I need to take to make that happen. It would suddenly be very easy to lie down in the driveway.
“You know, I only rent to people who I want as neighbors and friends,” Sally tells me. “It has to work all the way around. I live upstairs. It's a big deal to me.”
Here it comes. I must be too frumpy. She can tell I used to bake cupcakes.
“I think it would be grand to have the energy of a teenager around, even for a little while. You're gorgeous,” she tells me, resting her hand on my arm. “If you promise to invite your friend here over for sleepovers, I bet we can make this work.”
My gawd. She's flirting with both of us. What will Tomas say? What should I say?
“Elizabeth may have to spend the night with you,” I tell her, which tells her everything. “It might be crowded down here.”
When we get to the car, Elizabeth roars. I could probably drive on her energy. I may never need to buy gas again.
“Do you realize how lucky you are to find this place?” she demands.
No.
“Do you know that you are the thirty-sixth person who has looked at it?”
Where have I been?
“Do you know who she is?”
No. Tell me, Elizabeth. She is having this conversation alone. I just turn occasionally and nod. She hasn't even bothered to put on her seat belt.
“She's on the City Council, for God's sake. She's one of the most powerful women in this city. She knows everyone. She's been an activist for years. It's Sally. Sally Flannery Burton. She's written a book. She has lunch with people like Hillary Clinton. She wants you to live in her apartment! Right next door to her!”
“I think she'd rather live next to you,” I finally say.
“Oh, come on.”
“Really. You drooled all over her.”
Elizabeth pulls herself out of it and I pepper her with questions about how long it will take to check references and move and sell my house. I'm more interested right this second in how to get from point A in the suburbs to point B in the city than in living below the Feminist of the Year, thank you very much. Elizabeth assures me it's a done deal unless Sally the Wonderful discovers my felony murder arrest record or decides I won't fit into her backyard barbecue cycle.
We banter like this without even moving the car. Elizabeth suddenly hops out and decides that we need to walk the streets and get the feel of the neighborhood, even though we have both been here before for everything from book signings to wild wine-tasting parties. It's different, we decide, to walk and think of actually living here. She's on fire. I decide to appease her; after all, I did drag her through several apartments from Hell.
“Would you move?” I ask her as we look into windows and order coffee at a small café with a patio in back.
“I've actually been thinking about it. Really. The boys come home about once every month, and they don't stay very long. When I'm down here in the city, I feel as if my feet are on fire. Maybe we should buy our own house? Share the space, you know, up and down. Maybe we should ask Jane too. What do you think?”
“You're asking me—the Queen of indecision?”
“Not lately. Look at yourself.”
“I know this feels perfect for me. I like the hum of the city. I won't be able to hide here. I can meet new people. It feels pretty damn alive down here. You're right. Let's think about it.”
I put my hand on her knee and squeeze it hard. “I have to do this alone first for a while, but what you are saying makes sense. It might happen. Give me this first.”
Elizabeth has her legs crossed at the ankles and her feet are resting on the spare chair. I've always wanted to be like her. Since the moment I met her. I've never known anyone as alive and sure.
“Are you prepared for how much your house will sell for?”
“Haven't thought of it.”
“You'll shit in your pants. It's going to be close to $350,000. Maybe more.”
My mouth flops open. I had no idea.
“What are you saying?”
“I'm saying you have more options than you think you have. Maybe you'll want to buy something. Or take a year off. There are still things you have to decide. Let me roll it over in my head too. As you know, sweetheart, lots of things can happen in a year.”
No shit, Elizabeth. I've even started to swear.
“I'm afraid to stop right now. I don't want a rest really. I want to run. Do you know what I mean?”
“Sure.”
“But I'm also exhausted.”
“I wonder why.”
We spend the rest of the day like this, walking in and out of stores, buying books, just standing and looking around. Elizabeth sees four people in different places whom she knows, and just like that I have the phone numbers of four people who may end up being my new neighbors.
Wow, Elizabeth. Wow.
By the time I get back home, Sally the Wonderful has left a phone message that will set the tone for the launch into the twenty-ninth phase of my new life. The apartment is mine. The yard is mine, one parking spot in the driveway that will have to be juggled to fit into two other schedules is mine and a space at the back of the garage for anything I may want to store outside and a washer and dryer space in the basement, which also includes storage space. Mine.
I share this news with no one, but immediately begin ticking off days in my head so that I can organize what to do to keep pace with my move-in schedule. While I am doing this, a dark van pulls up in front of the house. A man dressed in a blue blazer gets out, pounds a sign into the front yard and leaves very quickly.
“What the hell?”
It is almost dark when I walk outside to look at the sign. Katie is working, I imagine Bob is picking geraniums, and my son is most likely scrambling to finish the summer term and prepare for finals. I am alone on the front lawn, bending down to read the words on the sign. FOR SALE. The sign looks good. It's in a lovely spot and Bob had agreed to find a realtor. I just had no idea it would all happen so quickly.
My house is for sale.
I'm moving.
I'm getting divorced.
Within weeks I will be living in the city.
I own a cottage by the sea.
I hate my job.
I don't mean to cry. I really don't. I'm happy. I am finally p
ushing the world, just a bit, and the world is not pushing me, but when I put my fingers on the side of the sign to make sure that it is straight, something shifts a little bit. There is an ache alongside of the bone that runs from below my neck and down to my belly button that brings me to tears.
It is the root of me, I think, the root of me getting ready for a fast transplant. A move. A new life. And yet the roots, even here, in the center of the lawn I have always hated to cut, even here the roots run deep and linger as I try to pull them out.
Three weeks ago I would not have lain down on the front lawn and cried as cars passed and the neighbors looked out of their windows. A month ago I would never have cried at all. I would have gone inside of the house and busied myself with another load of wash, an e-mail to my colleagues in Brazil or France, who are always in bed when I am at work, or a phone call to my mother.
A year ago I would have gone right for the wine or the vodka. I might have cooked dinner and then read for two hours wondering what time Katie would get home or if Shaun would show up for dinner. Maybe about two A.M., sleepless again, I would have walked through the house and tried to remember what it was like to wake up before dawn and make love.
A week ago, just a week ago, I would never have lain on the lawn with one hand touching the FOR SALE sign, remembering how I caught Katie kissing a boy one night under the porch light when I heard something funny and decided to check. I would not have rolled over on my side and looked through the last light of a July afternoon into windows that I would never wash again and a roof that someone else could now shingle and into the upstairs bedroom, where I would never spend another night.
Never.
I would never have slipped to my knees to kiss the grass and hold a large sign a day ago, a mere day ago, and the thought of what I must look like, bare legs flung one way, shoes another, head on my hand and the sweet knowledge of how glorious it felt to lie with my face pushed against the old dandelion heads and my heart racing ahead of me—finally ahead of me—made me weep even more.
I lay there for a very long time. No one stopped me. Not a soul. And what I felt slipping away was a past that I would remember and eventually embrace and a world that I would now very carefully hand off to the next person who asked for the keys to the front door and was bold enough to walk into my old living room.