by R. L. Fox
“You have more confidence in our species than I do, Daniel. Take nothing for granted, I always say. Now what about that game of chess we planned ages ago? I haven’t forgotten how you trapped my queen with your knight and ended my middle attack.”
Mr. Christie rises and saunters into the house. After a minute or two I hear the sweet sound of a female voice with orchestral accompaniment. It’s Puccini’s “O Mio Babino Caro,” emanating softly from the two stereo speakers that hang above the patio.
As I listen to the lovely aria, my eyes focus on Rattlesnake Mountain in the distance. I begin to imagine that I am able to see the congressman’s house (The Gables) clearly, and that I am able to look into a window and watch as my mother folds her clothes and places them in her suitcase, preparing to leave my father. She seems aware somehow that I’m watching her. In this absurd daydream it appears that I have found the courage, before it is too late, to tell Mr. Christie the truth about the congressman. Mr. Christie then convinces my mother to come to his cottage in Suncrest, where the three of us can live contentedly—
My reverie is broken as Mr. Christie returns with the chessboard and pieces. I stand quickly and move the card table, placing it between our chairs. We arrange the pieces on the playing board. As I contemplate the real purpose of my visit, there’s an uncomfortable measure of silence. Then I find myself blurting, nervously, “Were you in love with my mother, sir?”
Mr. Christie raises his eyes and calmly looks at me. He reclines and draws reflectively on his pipe, the outer bowl of which is carved into the likeness of the head of Zeus. Clouds of smoke drift upwards with a sudden liveliness. Mr. Christie’s thicket of white curly hair takes on a jaunty look, as if it has not yet learned to grow old.
By all indications, the squinting of his heavy-browed eyes, the smacking of his fleshy lips on the stem of the pipe, and the slow recurring nod of his head, Mr. Christie is about to embark on a statement of profound importance.
And so he begins, “The loss of a loved one, my dear Daniel, should cause us to strive the harder to rejoin her in that World-to-Be—and to be worthy to stand in her saintly presence. Your mother and I comforted one another from time to time, and if that is called love, then so be it. I have nothing more to say about ...”
Mr. Christie’s voice trails off, and a pensive melancholy seems to overtake him. He reaches out and gently presses my hand. “Your grief cries out to me, from your tender heart, Danny Boy. Know that my eternal friendship is sincerely offered.”
The smooth intonations of Mr. Christie’s voice pacify me. “Thank you, sir,” I say, and after a brief pause, I add, “It’s not only sorrow I feel about my mother’s death, but anger as well, towards my father.”
“Your father put an end to my friendship with your mother, God rest her restless soul. But she loved him dearly.”
“Mr. Christie, I want to go home. The congressman, strangely, has asked me to come home, but I don’t know if it’s the right thing to do. My savings are gone. Going home may help me get Liz back. But I want to go home for an entirely different reason.” I clear my throat and continue, “I want to know why my mother ... of blessed memory ... well ... took her own life. I need to know if my father was responsible. I think he may have done something that caused my mother to, uh ... I want the world to know the truth about my father. He’s an evil prick!”
Mr. Christie’s dark eyes beam as he looks soberly at me. “Nothing soothes the mind as much as steady purpose, my boy, on which the soul may fix its intellectual eye. You may never know for certain why she did it. You must accept this at the outset.”
I let out a long sigh. “Then, I should go home, sir?”
Mr. Christie hesitates a second, and then says, “I never asked your mother about your father. Perhaps I should have done so. But I think you’ve answered your own question, Daniel. The Ancient Greeks knew this all too well—they alluded to it beautifully in their tragic literature: Evil must be encountered, not evaded.”
Mr. Christie looks grimly down at the board. “Your move, son.”
3
Sarah
Friday afternoon, July 25
Coronado Island
About a block from my house I stop walking again, abruptly, as my jaw drops and I stare in disbelief up the street. Suddenly the shameful image of a black Lexus, parked in our driveway, has become real. I can hardly believe it, yet there it is, right before my eyes!
Wait, I tell myself. Why would he, the mystery man, be visiting my mother in the afternoon like this? Unless ... my dream has come true! Obviously my mother wants to introduce me to him today, which can only mean that their relationship is truly serious. In fact they’re probably going to tell me they are engaged already, that they’ll be getting married almost immediately, which means I’ll have a dad again and we can all live happily ever after and my friends will understand why—
I bolt like a deer, dashing madly up the sidewalk, charging across Fifth Street, half an eye to the traffic, ignoring the horn of a passing car.
I have to get home, see if today ... please, God ... today, let it be true ...
The sidewalk seems to pull at me, slow me down, my sneakers hitting now and then on the uneven pavement (step on a crack, break your mother’s back) and when I finally reach the front yard I drop my books on the grass.
Breathlessly, I bound up the wood steps and onto the front porch, hardly pausing before opening the door and rushing in. Hurrying past his hat and his coat in the entryway, I proceed straight into the living room.
Where I find my mother’s blouse and bra sitting in a heap on the floor. “Mom,” I call, as I walk to the kitchen. But they aren’t in there, either.
I go back into the living room, and then I hear my mother’s voice: “Sarah, is that you? Go upstairs, darling. I’ll be up in a minute.”
They’re in my mother’s bedroom!
Oh, God, have I merely caught my mother and the mystery man on a typical day of another supposedly secret encounter? I have arrived home earlier than expected.
My heart sinks as I run upstairs. I open my bedroom door and seize my flower poster, hanging on the door with its stupid bright array of colorful shapes and patterns, and tear it to shreds. I crumple the paper and throw it forcefully in the direction of the trashcan next to my desk. I want to rip apart all my posters and glossy magazine photos of Malala, The Beatles, Selena Gomez, Nick Jonas and Taylor Swift.
Teardrops flow freely from my eyes, rolling down my cheeks. I gaze at the reflection of my face in the hand mirror I keep on my bookcase. When I cry I look like the pig-baby in Alice in Wonderland. My cheeks are flushed. I feel warm all over.
I look at my diary, white and marked on the front cover, in blue ink, “Sarah’s Diary – Private.” I think about writing something, like always. Almost as soon as I’d learned to put letters on paper, I began to rely on the written word as an outlet for emotions like anger and fear and sadness. I want to be a great poetess, like Emily Dickinson or Maya Angelou.
When I was a kid, seven or eight, I started my first poetry notebook and every night I would read my latest creation to my mom and dad. I wrote about the people in our neighborhood and I made up little lives for them. Once, when I had the flu I wrote poems from the points of view of the various parts of my body, the pain those parts felt and what they would do when they were better, like ballet dancing and singing and eating candy bars. But when my dad died, two years ago, I sort of took a break from writing poetry.
At the moment, I don’t want to think too deeply about what’s happening with my mother and the mystery man. It seems I have room for only one feeling at a time, and right now that feeling is disappointment. There sure isn’t anything cool in my life to write about.
While I’m waiting for my mother to come upstairs, Manny chirps incessantly. I open his cage and bring him out, perched upon my hand. He bows his head guiltily, as if he’s being scolded for some mischievous deed. I hold him to my breast and gently stroke his feathers. Some
times I like to think Manny just might be the earthly manifestation (I love that word) of an angel God has sent to guide me, sort of like one of the three angels who, in the bible, visited Abraham.
“Manny, you and my dad are the only ones I can trust,” I say, putting him down on top of my dresser. Then I begin to imagine what Manny would say if he could talk.
He looks at me with one eye, his head cocked. “What’s eatin’ you, kid?”
“Oh, nothing, it’s just that my mother’s a floozy, I haven’t got my period yet and I lost my best friend. Nothing big, Manny.”
“Why all the fuss over getting your period? There’ll be inconveniences. What’s the hurry? And give your mother a chance, see what happens.” Averting his eye, Manny stands on one leg and stretches a wing behind him. “Your friend will be back, I know.”
My dad bought Manny at a pet shop on my ninth birthday. We named him Man-O-War, like the species of bird that flies above the seas, never in its lifetime touching down to earth. I suppose my dad preferred the name because he was a jet pilot in the Navy, but I don’t like to think about that.
“You don’t understand, Manny. I want to be normal. I want to fit in.”
“That’s tricky.”
Pretending to converse with Manny is my little secret. Only Manny and I know about it. It started when I found out my dad had died. People, like my mother, would think I was psycho, mad as a March hare if I told them about it, so I don’t. I’ve also created a fictional story about Manny’s mother and father, about their being from Colombia in South America. That’s why I started studying Spanish two years ago. I want to read Gabriel García Márquez in the original language. Before Manny was separated from his family in the pet shop, Manny’s sister told him that their mother was a distant relative of Márquez. I can’t decide if I believe it or not.
With Manny cupped between my hands I enter my closet and shut the door. Sometimes, as now, I feel the need to humble myself, like when saints kiss the wounds of lepers. But I’m not doing it for God’s mercy or anything.
In the darkness, I sit on the floor in a corner behind clothes on hangers and wait for my mother. Manny hops about with his scratchy feet.
I’m still crying a little. I can’t help it. I know it’s all right because feelings, like crying and laughing, just happen. My dad told me so.
I recall how my dad would make me laugh when he tucked me in at night. He would always read me a story, and sometimes he began by reading the last sentence of the book backwards: “After ever happily lived they and ...”
“Oh, Daddy,” I would say, and tap his head and he would begin the story anew. Sometimes I would climb on him, like on the monkey bars at the playground. My dad was so strong.
In those days my mother would help me get dressed. “Put this on, or I’ll have to tickle you,” she would say. I hate to admit it, but I really miss that. And I miss when my mother used to comb my long hair, except for those times when it hurt a little. If I became afraid in the darkness I would slip between Mom and Dad in the middle of their bed and feel happy and safe. They were my castle and I was the queen.
Suddenly the sound of my mother’s voice interrupts my train of thought. “Sarah? Darling, where in heaven’s name are you?”
The closet door opens and my mother stands in the light with a smile, chuckling. “Whatever are you doing in there?” she asks. Why are you crying, sweetie? Come out of there and give me a hug.”
“I’m hiding, Mother, can’t you see?” I say, sarcastically. “Maybe I want to be left alone. I don’t feel like doing anything today. My body wants to sleep but my brain won’t let it. My brain is getting too crowded.”
“What’s troubling you, dear?”
I shrug my shoulders, separating my hands woefully. “Well, just the usual. I’ve lost my best friend, I’ll never get my period and, yes, mother, it was bound to happen: the whole school knows about the secret affair you’re having. They’re even saying I’ll probably grow up to be a floozy just like you.” I bury my face in my hands and begin to sob.
“Oh, Sarah.” My mother gets to her knees and puts her arms around me, helping me to my feet and hugging me warmly as we exit the closet. “I never meant for it to happen like this, darling. You have to believe me. I wanted you to meet Frank all along, but I had to make sure it was best for you. That’s why I waited until today. Now c’mon, put Manny in his cage and come downstairs and meet Frank Rosen. I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised.”
I blurt, “You weren’t going to let me meet him today, were you? You’re just saying that because I came home early and caught you both!”
“No, no, you have it all wrong, sweetheart. Please believe me. Have I ever lied to you before? Even once? Frank came here today to meet you.”
My mother is right; she’s always been truthful. I can’t deny that, even if I tried with both hands. But somehow it seems different this time. I sense something is wrong, that something strange is going to happen, although I don’t know exactly what. Adults are such good liars. I can’t tell anymore what the truth is, and what isn’t.
It’s certainly not the same kind of lie as when I show my mother one of my horrible drawings. She’ll say, “That’s excellent. Very pretty. You have creative talent.” And I’ll reply, “Mom, don’t just say things.” That’s different. Now, I don’t know what to do, or say.
Finally, after a moment of silence, I decide to give in. I have no choice, if I want to save my own life. “Okay, Mom, I’ll be down in a second to meet him.”
My mother, smiling, says, “That’s my Sarah.”
As I put Manny in his cage, I tell him, “Wait here, and I’ll let you know what happens. I don’t know what I’d do without you, Manny.” Perched on his swing, he looks up at me with a sort of sly grin on his face.
In the bathroom I blow my nose and wipe my eyes dry. My cheeks feel feverish so I splash my face with cool water. I take the ponytail tie out of my hair and shake my head vigorously. Then I run a comb through my hair. Although my mother likes them, I refuse to wear flower clips or butterfly barrettes because I think they make me look immature.
Tugging at my top, I try to make my chest look flatter. My body has been changing and in a weird way I feel embarrassed. I sort of wish my body would return to being like it was before: no soft curves, no roundness, no thighs, no breasts, no hips, just “Alice from Wonderland.” I see myself as “Alice,” in a way, and a part of me wants things to stay like that. I gaze at the reflection of my face in the bathroom mirror. “Alice through the looking-glass” smiles back, and I pretend for a moment that I can shrink and grow big again at will.
But I’m reminded, by the newest part of me, that I’m not starring in a Lewis Carroll story. I’m starring in my own life, which from here on in is going to be different. I do want to grow into a woman, a sexy woman, and happily I am doing just that, except I feel frightened. I smooth my skirt, close the door to my room and slowly descend the stairs.
Before I’ve reached the last step I hesitate, as I realize that in the next moment I will meet the man who might change our lives forever, the man who might save my troubled life, in this, the worst of times.
I take a deep breath, exhale and turn slowly around at the bottom of the stairs and see him, Frank Rosen, the mystery man. No way can he be this handsome, I tell myself.
As Frank approaches I’m struck by the fact that I’ve seen him before ... yes, there’s no question about it, he looks a lot older now, but Frank is definitely the man in that black and white photograph I discovered yesterday in my mother’s bedroom. He’s the man seen nestling faces with my mother like they were madly in love or something. What does it mean? Was Frank my mother’s boyfriend before Daddy? In the photograph my mother appears to be about the same age as when she married my father, some sixteen years ago.
Grinning widely, Frank extends his right hand, in an apparent offer of a gentlemanly handshake. I, glowing, reach out to shake his hand, but Frank instead bows graciously and
gives the back of my hand the appearance of a soft kiss. He’s more handsome than any other older guy I’ve ever seen, even George Clooney, my mother’s favorite movie star. Frank has thick black hair, neatly groomed with an arrow-straight parting, and piercing blue eyes. He’s wearing dark slacks and a long-sleeved sport shirt.
I blush as never before when I look over at my mother, who’s still seated on the sofa. She has tears in her eyes. “Frank is a very good friend of mine. We’ve known one another a long time.”
“Hello, Sarah,” Frank says. “It gives me great pleasure to meet you. I must say that in person you’re as pretty as your mother and even prettier than I might have imagined, after seeing your photograph.”
I giggle. I can’t help myself. “Thank you, Mr. Rosen,” I say.
“Please, call me Frank.”
I nod, but there’s no way I’m calling him that. An uncomfortable moment follows, when no one speaks. Frank seems to be gazing earnestly at me, in a fatherly sort of way. Now, just as when I looked at the photograph, I feel drawn to him. He seems strangely familiar, as if I already know him.
Then I begin to realize how ridiculous I’m being.
I will never forgive myself for secretly rummaging about in my mother’s bedroom yesterday afternoon. I found the photograph underneath a stack of paperwork in the gray metal box my mother keeps at the top of her closet. I had hoped to find something, anything that might provide a clue as to why my mother has betrayed me for the first time ever. Perhaps I did find a clue, a piece of the puzzle, but I have no idea how it fits.
“Let’s go, shall we?” says Frank. “Your mother is waiting.”
I follow Frank into the living room and take a seat next to my mother. The air in the room seems thickened by my own sense of excitement, and at the same time the cat gets my tongue.