by Maria Semple
A fleshy ass dropped onto David’s feet. He quickly widened his stance to avoid his toe up someone’s butt. A slender back leaned into his shins. He scrunched his legs closer, but the person just pushed deeper into them.
Something heavy landed in his lap. Jesus Christ, it was a braid. One of the yoga-chick-slash-strippers had a big one. He had marveled at its lack of hygiene in the dinner line. David lifted the braid with his thumb and index finger and dropped it off to the side. In an instant, it was back in his lap. Once again, David picked up the braid.
“Excuse me,” whispered a woman. “It throws off my alignment if my braid falls to the side.”
“How’s that my problem, Rapunzel?” David tossed the braid off to the side.
“I need it to fall straight back,” she said. The braid-that-wouldn’t-die landed in David’s lap.
“Cut your hair, why don’t you?” David chucked the braid to the side, making sure to yank the woman’s head in the process.
“Ouch!”
“Fuck you!”
“Hey —” admonished someone. “Language.”
“That energy is totally inappropriate,” said another.
The fetid thing once again appeared in David’s lap. He wiped his bloody hand and knee on it.
“What are you doing?” said the woman.
“Nothing.” David spit into his palm and smeared that on the braid, too.
Violet would have found this hilarious. If she were here, this incident would be added to their rich annals of happiness: how the sweat lodge kept getting worse and worse and then . . . the hippie braid fight. Knowing it was being shared with the woman he loved would have made David’s increasing misery almost thrilling. But no, it was just David, alone in the dark with a bunch of strangers.
Fat-lady grunts announced the arrival of Ruth. “O Great Spirit of Life,” she adjured, “we are gathered below in our pitiful little lodge on Earth Mother.” Ruth needed to read that book of Dot’s about using your “inside voice.” If David had whispered that to Violet, she would have cracked up. He smiled. Violet had a zesty, unapologetic laugh. After all these years, it still took him by surprise.
“We shall invite the helpers of the Great Spirit to enter our lodge,” said Ruth, who continued on with some mumbo jumbo. The drum sounded three times, then there was silence. Not even the river could be heard. Did their bodies absorb its roar? The hides deflect it? David couldn’t comprehend the physics of it. A glowing orange orb floated past him. Smooth wood touched his shoulder. The fire guy must have been using a pitchfork to lay down the hot stones. Three more were brought in and lowered into the pit. Sweat dripped down David’s face. A hiss filled the darkness. Wet heat blasted him.
“O Wakan Tanka,” Ruth said, “we thank you for providing us with life-giving rains, which this water symbolizes.” Her voice had become low and spooky, like Sally and her little friends when they’d put on séances.
David closed his eyes. It seemed no darker than before. He opened his eyes to make sure. Indeed, there was no difference. His eyelids fell and, in turn, his body levitated slightly. He knew it wasn’t levitating. Obviously, his body wasn’t levitating. Still, he kept his eyes closed to enjoy the strange sensation.
“We will now begin our four rounds of prayer,” said Ruth. “I will begin, then we will go around one by one, starting with the first gentleman who entered.” That would be David. He smiled as he imagined Ruth’s words entering through his legs and traveling up to his brain that way. “When you are finished praying, you are to say, Ho! Then, as a way of acknowledging your prayer, the group answers, Ho! That will indicate that it’s time for the next person to speak.” David didn’t really understand what he was supposed to do and didn’t really care. “Great Father Sky,” entreated Ruth, “you are the protector of Mother Earth. We call upon your power to heal our hearts. May we be free from danger. May we be free from dis-ease. Until we feel happiness and peace ourselves, we will be unable to walk down your great Red Path. Kindly listen as we go around the circle and pray for ourselves.” Ruth shook her rattle. “Great Father Sky, I ask you, please free me from depression,” she said. “Ho!”
“Ho!” answered the chorus of yogis.
Shit, that was quicker than David had expected. It was now his turn to pray for himself. What did he want? The man who had everything. David liked to tell people that the only thing money couldn’t buy was poverty. Maybe he could lay that line on these new age bozos. Or, better, he could say, “My wife’s back home fucking a Mexican. What does that make her? A . . .” And then they’d answer, “Ho!”
Instead, David found himself saying, “To be understood. Please, let me be understood. Ho!”
Violet thought he was an asshole. Everyone at this retreat thought he was an asshole. LadyGo walked around on eggshells because she thought he was a big asshole. Hanging with Yoko had signed with him because, after meeting with all the top managers, they said, We wanted an asshole on our team. None of them understood: David was no asshole. He was responsible.
“Free me from attachment,” said the man to his left. “Ho!”
“Please,” said a woman, “let me live in a world . . .” She paused to gather her thoughts, then continued, “. . . not without men, but with men who are more in touch with their inner woman.”
David had taken care of Sally since she was two. Their dentist father had died suddenly of a heart attack, leaving the family shockingly in debt. Their mother’s response was a rapid descent into frailty: physical, mental, emotional. Twelve-year-old David had no choice but to quit sports and devote his afternoons and weekends to working. A year later, Sally was diagnosed with juvenile diabetes.
“Money problems,” someone was saying. “I promise I will get everything under control if you remove my debt. Ho!”
It was up to David to take Sally to her doctors, check her heartbreakingly tiny feet for cuts, monitor her blood sugar, ride his bike to the pharmacy to get her insulin, cut the Chemstrips in thirds to save money, fill out reams of insurance forms. And always, the shots. Any kiddie birthday party, David would take the bus to the only bakery in Denver that carried sugar-free desserts. It was down on Colfax and Franklin, the one that stuck day-old doughnuts on tree branches for the birds. He’d buy something for Sally so she wouldn’t feel any more ripped off by life. On Halloween, he would tie ribbons around baggies of celery and deliver them on his paper route with a note that read “When the drum majorette trick-or-treats tonight, please give her this. She’s diabetic.” He’d stay with her at ballet class, long past the age when the other girls got dropped off, making sure she ate, and ate properly. But he never saw Sally as a burden. It filled him with lofty purpose, doing the work of Sally’s pancreas so she could remain a child.
“Free me from fantasy,” a voice cried in the dark. “Ho!”
But everything changed when Sally turned eleven. David had driven her to Dr. Turner to discuss recent advancements in diabetes treatment. The doctor asked Sally about her regimen and David jumped in with the answers. The doctor instructed David to step into his office, where he called the Denver Children’s Hospital and requested a bed for the next week. “It’s time Sally learned for herself how to be a diabetic.” David said, “But I’m her big brother; I want to help her.” The doctor replied, “Help her, you’ll kill her.” David didn’t visit Sally once that week, as she learned for herself to count carbs, prick her finger, read a glucometer, and give herself multiple shots. A month later, Aerosmith offered him the job. David’s first call was to Dr. Turner. He said leaving Sally would be the best thing for her. So David left. She didn’t tell him about the amputation until after it happened, after she moved to LA. He could see the terror in her eyes as she pshawed it as a silly inconvenience. His heart broke for her, so he went along with the charade. A charade he’d kept up for the past ten years.
The drum sounded again. More rocks were brought in. David leaned into their unbelievable heat. It was soothing in the same way that biting down on a
sore tooth made it feel better.
“Now that Great Father Sky has healed our hearts,” said Ruth, “we ask Earth Mother to do the same for a beloved friend. May this beloved friend be happy. May they be physically well. May they feel safe. May they know peace.” The rattle sounded. “To the man out there who hasn’t found me yet,” she said. “You, beloved life partner, may you feel joy. I love you so. Ho!”
It was David’s turn. He had only one beloved friend. “My wife,” he said. “Please help her. She is suffering. Ho!”
Why else wouldn’t she be here? The Violet he knew and loved showed up. The first time he had laid eyes on her, she was sitting in that ticket holders’ line ahead of time. She was a stand-up chick. She didn’t bail. She didn’t lie. She certainly didn’t cheat.
“My children,” another voice said. “Ho!”
Violet must have been suffering. What else could explain her behavior? She had wanted a baby more than anything. But she seemed to be running away from little Dot. That must have been so confusing to Violet. Violet, who was so intelligent and empathetic. Violet, who had said just the right thing innumerable times to all different types of people. This time, Violet was unable to help herself.
“I pray my boyfriend finds the clarity to accept my love,” said someone. “Ho!”
Violet was radiant and honest and impeccable with her word and serious and vulnerable and remembered things you said ten years later and played the piano and could quote Shakespeare and wrote thank-you notes and once even a letter to the boss of the guy at the airline counter who had been especially helpful on their way to Aspen and she kept secrets and listened to what you were saying not just with her ears but with her eyes and also her smile and she left five dollars in the hotel for the maids and knew a hit song the first time she heard one and baked teething biscuits for Dot and grew the most lovely smelling roses and knew how to crochet and spoke four languages and when someone complimented her on her perfume she’d send them a bottle the next day and anytime David looked across a crowded party and saw her talking to somebody he had no doubt they’d adore her just like he did and she never wore makeup and people remembered her for her dinner parties and big crazy words and without her he was just an asshole rock-and-roll manager that’s why the guys from Hanging with Yoko said he was an asshole because they hadn’t met Violet yet and when people met Violet they realized there must be something more to David because why would such a successful and worldly and gorgeous, he couldn’t forget gorgeous, woman be married to David if that was all he was, an asshole? To the uninitiated, David seemed like the star of the marriage. This was the truth, though: people came for David, but they stayed for Violet. And now she was gone.
David wept. Others did, too. More stones had been brought in. Water had been splashed on them. More steam arose. These things must have happened, for Ruth was praying again.
“O Great Spirit,” Ruth said, “we give thanks for the rich bounty that results from the water of springtime. You have heard our prayers for ourselves. You have heard the prayers for our dear friends. Now let us summon the Buffalo Calf Woman to send similar healing to a teacher. A difficult person who has been placed on our path to teach us compassion. The rains of the Great Spirit are not selective. They fall equally on one and all, and so should our love. We now ask the Buffalo Calf Woman to birth this equanimous love and let it rain on this difficult person who has caused us so much suffering.”
David’s head flopped down and landed squarely on the wet braid across his knees. He smiled and up bobbed his head.
“To my father, who beat me,” Ruth said. “I hope he feels safe. I hope he feels free. Ho!”
“Teddy Reyes.” David spoke the forbidden name. “Ho!”
David knew what it felt like to have Violet’s eyes fall on you and you alone. It was as if you’d been singled out for life’s greatest honor. Just minutes into their first date, in line for popcorn, David had felt it, and it made him believe he could accomplish anything. And he had! To meet Violet for the first time was to be seduced by her strange brew of curiosity and high-mindedness. Now Teddy, whoever he was, had gotten a hit of it, too. Of course he was calling. He needed another fix! Maybe he thought he was rescuing the rare, exotic Violet. From her asshole husband.
Because David was an asshole. He was mean to her. The shameful part was, he had only started being mean when she began to show signs of weakness. When she had trouble conceiving, then the remodel, and finally the pregnancy. With no money and no job of her own, David only bullied her more.
In the delivery room: Violet had been in labor for twelve hours, refusing the epidural. (She had been right; her tolerance for pain was high!) Violet, writhing and grimacing. David, horrified at his helplessness. In front of Dr. Naeby and the nurses, Violet said to her husband, “Please, don’t be mean to me anymore. Look at me. See how hard I’m trying? Please don’t be so mean, especially now, with the baby.” Having watched his wife endure such pain, David had already resolved to do the same. But to be called out by a woman in labor, in front of a roomful of strangers, was unendurably humiliating. David rolled his eyes to Dr. Naeby and the nurses. The good doctor smiled, oh-the-things-I’ve-seen, and shrugged. Despite Violet’s plea — indeed, perhaps because of it — David had, if anything, been crueler to her since she became a mother.
What had happened to them? When he met her she was Ultraviolet. That’s why he loved her. Not for the fantasia of good food and laughter and sex that had become their life together. But for her supreme confidence. Her boundless energy. He had found a teammate who, like himself, could take care of business. For their one-year anniversary, right after they had moved to LA, he had bought her a gold necklace from the Elvis Presley estate with Elvis’s “TCB quick as a flash” logo encrusted in diamonds. Sure, even in those early days, Violet would break down when it all got to be too much. She’d cry some mornings. But before noon there would invariably be a call. “I’m okay!” she would declare, and the sparkle was back. The mojo intact.
But this time Violet wasn’t bouncing back. She had escaped into the arms of Teddy Reyes. Poor bastard. He probably thought he had a chance with her! He may have even convinced himself that he understood her. But before Violet was David’s wife, she was her father’s daughter. David knew the stories well. Had Teddy heard them, too? Of the often drunk and always grandiose Englishman driving his erudite little girl around Los Angeles in a convertible Jag, quizzing her on Greek versus Roman gods, or the legacy of Sputnik, or devouring the latest Broadway cast album? Did Teddy know Churchill Grace once sent his daughter to bed without pudding because she didn’t know the exact round in which Muhammad Ali knocked out George Foreman in Zaire? David understood only too well that Violet was an inveterate snob. She would protest wildly when accused of such a thing. This blind spot was her most charmingest of charms. Soon, David knew, the snob in Violet would stir from its slumber and forbid her from spurning her Croesus husband and heiress daughter for a man incapable of scraping together sixteen hundred dollars to fix a car!
The drum sounded. Ruth spoke, “Now we will begin our final round of prayer. Let us commit ourselves to the transformative love we have generated and which connects us to the Great Spirit.”
Right now, at this moment, David loved Violet.
And now he loved Violet.
And now he loved her, too.
The marriage had turned to shit. At least Violet was doing something about it. She was taking a leap. So David would take one, too: no matter what Violet said or did, from this moment on, he would love her as he loved her now.
Ruth shook the rattle. “I promise to slow down and appreciate life’s precious gifts,” she said. “Ho!”
It was David’s turn. “I will love her. Ho!”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Present/Wonderful Moment I’m Hearing Something The Message
The Pietà Ritz-Carlton Elephant Slaying Mas
The Dress Hollow God Is for Poor People
VIOLET CARRIED DOT
INTO THEIR SUNDAY MORNING RIE CLASS. RESOURCES for Infant Educarers, or RIE, was a parenting approach that Violet had flipped over. It was founded in the sixties by a Hungarian, Magda Gerber, and based on the research of Dr. Emmi Pikler, a Budapest pediatrician. RIE held that all babies were born competent, inner directed, and confident. Only by well-intended but misguided parenting in which babies were wheedled, praised, and entertained did they become insecure, overly dependent, and quick to bore. Unlike in other mommy-and-me-type classes, in RIE class, parents were asked not to initiate conversation with their babies, so the teachers could model how and when to respectfully communicate. Thus RIE classes were rather solemn affairs.
“Good morning, Dot,” said Sharon, the serious but gentle teacher. Violet found it demoralizing that a woman in her sixties had a better body than she did.
Violet put Dot down and joined the wall of trendy moms. One man was there, a young tattooed father who took every opportunity to mention that he had directed an episode of Entourage.
Dot stood at the door, watching the group of infants play with wooden toys, plastic kitchen items, and such. She took a deep breath and looked at Violet. Violet nodded. Dot took a deeper, quivering breath.
“Ball,” she said. Violet acknowledged this with a smile. Dot bustled over and picked up the ball.
“What we just saw was wonderful parenting on the part of Violet,” said Sharon. “Dot was able to choose on her own terms when to initiate play. Violet did not order Dot to go play. How wonderful life would be if, as adults, we could take a couple of deep breaths to assess our comfort level before we jumped into a strange new situation.”