by R. L. Fox
I try to gather my thoughts, and then I say, “Does Devon know?” I’m concerned about Liz’s sister, who is turning sixteen soon. She’s been my close friend and confidante since my relationship with Liz began almost two years ago. There’s something about Devon that comforts me. She and David have been a thing for some time.
“No,” says Liz. “Nobody else knows.”
“Why are you telling me?”
Her eyes meet mine. “Maybe I was afraid David would tell you, or tell Devon. I wanted you to hear it from me.”
“David is getting high? You’re responsible for that, too? What the hell, are you in love with him or something?”
She flashes a rueful smile. “Of course not.”
I can feel the wrath beginning to grow in my heart-hurt ego, and I ask myself, What would a man like Ernesto Che Guevara, whom I had lately begun to read (may peace be upon him), do in this situation? What would he say? Why can’t I be like Che, whose women never got in the way of his personal goals? Why can’t I just let Liz go and be done?
In some dark way I begin to envy David for having gotten Liz into bed without becoming her prisoner. I am bound to her like Prometheus to his rock.
But I can’t think like Che, or like David, and I don’t have a clear idea of what I really want, here and now. There is only Liz, and my mother’s honor, and vague notions about discovering life on other planets, solving the big bang theory and developing a unified theory of everything. These days I’m just the freak on the playground, a victim of uglification who’s fallen on his laughable face.
My sentiments ricochet back and forth between despair and rage. “What about the professor?” I ask bitingly. “Did you tell him, too?”
“Peter is open minded,” Liz answers quickly. “He’s independent, and he gave me my independence. We had a connection that allowed us to thrive, individually.”
“Why David?!” I shout in frustration. “Were you able to seduce him because Devon is a virgin?! Why my best friend?!”
“Please forgive me,” Liz answers uncertainly, and she begins to cry. “Maybe I—”
“Forgive you my ass! Get the hell out of my car!”
Liz freezes, and then slowly turns to look at me.
I glare fixedly at her, screwing up my face with as much contempt as I can muster.
She opens the car door and steps outside. When she closes the door, I gun the engine and, in one swift move, throw the gearshift into reverse and back the car in a semi-circle as the gears whine in protest. I jam the floor shift into first and speed away down the dirt lane in a cloud of dust.
For a moment I’m Steve McQueen in the classic film Bullitt, racing my souped-up Mustang over the hilly streets of San Francisco, as I press my Mazda up curvy Mt. Helix Drive. Several times I almost run my car off the road, or so I construe it as such. At the top of the mountain I stomp on the brake pedal and with tires screeching the car jerks to a stop. I jump out and run up the steps of the nature theater to the summit, to the stone retaining wall near the towering white cross.
I spring to the top of the wall, where one can look down on a vast pulsating blaze of lights, quivering like diamonds in the dark. After thinly considering a plunge to my death on the rocks below, I scream obscenities at the moon to ease the torment that gnaws at my heart like a large, furry rat.
But the wind seems to say to me: “What is the use of suffering, when there is no remedy, no cure for love?” Before long I feel foolish, and I walk slowly, dejectedly back to the car. I’ve fought with Liz before, I tell myself, although not over anything this serious. Perhaps, in time, I will find a way to forgive her. I need her.
I drive leadenly down Mt. Helix Drive and turn my Mazda onto the dirt lane. Liz is walking determinably down the road with hands on hips, a cartoon of the stern wife. I stop the car, and she marches by. I shift into reverse and drive slowly alongside her, bringing the car to a stop again. She opens the door and sits down lightly.
Neither of us utter a word for several minutes. The silence feels oppressive. Finally, we arrive at her parents’ wide-berthed trailer in the Valley.
Liz climbs out of the car. She turns and gives me a sweet look of disappointment. “In eight short months you’ll be eighteen, an adult, Daniel Isaac Rosen.” Then she adds disdainfully, “But you’re still just a baby. Growing up is a virtue, and it costs a lot. I can’t help. You’ll have to do it yourself.”
Before I can reply (I don’t know what I would say) Liz shuts the car door and comes around to the driver’s side. I roll down the window and listen.
“When you start to believe in yourself, to feel something other than self-pity, come see me.” She runs up the front steps of her trailer and disappears.
I sit still for a moment, like a forgotten Buddha statue. I suppose, I am thinking, that Liz and I have been subtly slashing at each other for some time. Now she’s decamped a second time, and the possibility I might never see her again seems real.
As I drive along Main Street, towards my motel, Haydn’s “Piano Sonata in E Flat” plays on the car radio. The music is like a warm summer downpour on my brain. I feel lost without my secret sharer, Liz Santini.
I tilt the rearview mirror downward so I can see myself. My eyes are wily, and for a moment I get the sense that I’m gazing at a stranger who mimics me, taunts me with the knowledge of a preposterous joke. My muscles tense until my breathing grows shallow and my sorrow transforms itself into a frozen, cursed smile. The image somehow informs me that for years, beginning with the onset of puberty, I’ve turned my eyes inward, watching and scrutinizing every aspect of my behavior. I’ve generated a tormenting self-consciousness that paralyzes me, gives me a feeling of unreality, an all-pervasive sense of not quite belonging, of being on the outside looking in.
I lost my genuine self in early adolescence. The realization evokes in me a terrible sadness. But Liz is right, I cannot cry. I can’t shed a tear over her betrayal, or the congressman’s iniquities, or this newfound awareness of myself.
As I re-position the rearview mirror I start violently, for my mother’s face flashes towards me out of the shadows, round and shiny, her green eyes quirked at the inner corners as if she’s worried about something. I’m either so stressed out that I’ve become delirious or my mother’s ghost is actually sitting in the back seat of my car. I notice the white scum of medication that encrusts her downturned mouth, the deep, persistent scowl in her forehead and the hard lines that run downward from her eyes. I hear her slurred words, spoken in a near whisper: “Remember your promise to me, Danny Boy.”
Then suddenly my mother’s face changes, or that’s when I think I see it change. Although still somewhat pale, her face has become younger and more vigorous, uplifted, like the face that had been hers in the photographs taken before I was born, the face of a young woman who knows that no evil can undo her. For me there has existed between the two faces a mystery I never tried to understand while my mother lived, but now seek to explore, and that sometimes has caused me to hate her.
Somehow I manage to pull the car to the side of the road and stop, barely able to take my eyes from my mother’s blanched reflection in the mirror. I’m afraid to turn around and look, for fear of what I might see, nothing perhaps, or ...
As I stare in disbelief, my mother smiles and then laughs softly, such as she had been unable to do in the last few years of her life.
I shiver, and she’s gone.
5
Sarah
Sunday afternoon, July 27
Coronado Island
Sitting at the computer in my room I google Congressman Frank Rosen. I want to know more about the mystery man, the man in the old photograph. My mom is away, attending the Epstein auction with her closest friend, my godmother, Isadora Blair. Isadora is grande dame of the Island, “the only island there is.” She’s the undisputed leader of my mother’s social set. “The girls” also play tennis once or twice a week.
I emailed Ashley earlier today but I haven�
�t gotten a response. I told her that I’d met the mystery man and that my mother’s relationship with him is quite serious. I added that they’re probably getting married before long, and that we are to have dinner with Frank and his two sons this week.
I open a Wikipedia article about Frank Rosen that says he was born in the City of Boston forty-five years ago. That means he’s three years older than my mom. He’s the U.S. Representative for California’s thirty-seventh congressional district, a member of the Republican Party. Frank was raised in the Boston area and attended North Bennet Street Trade School.
As I’m reading the article, Manny hops about on my desk, next to the computer screen. “Pay attention to me,” he seems to say.
Frank’s paternal grandparents, Samuel and Esther Rosen, were murdered by the Nazis at Auschwitz during World War Two. They had sent Isaac, their only child, to New York with a Jewish refugee organization because they couldn’t obtain entry visas for the whole family.
Isaac then lived with an Orthodox family in New York until he found his way to Boston. There he met Amy Murphy, a Catholic, and they married. Isaac went to work in the shipyards, and two years later Frank was born.
When Frank was thirteen, before he was to be bar mitzvahed, Frank’s father abandoned him and his mother. Frank worked at odd jobs to help support the family, and at sixteen he took a full-time job as a sheet metal worker in the shipyards. A year later, Frank’s mother died of a heart seizure aboard a metro bus.
The article goes on to tell how Frank married Mary Pettersen, a Catholic, of Norwegian descent. Frank then moved the family from Boston to San Diego, and he took a job with Tycon International Corp. as sheet metal supervisor. Mentored by Al Williams, President and CEO of Tycon International, Frank studied accounting and political science at SDSU in the evenings, and then law at USD. Al moved Frank along with Tycon, from Cost Accounting Manager to Controller, to Executive VP for Government Affairs after he’d earned his Juris Doctor degree. Al helped finance Frank’s successful campaigns for the California State Assembly, and then the state senate, and ultimately the U.S. Congress.
The article ends by saying that last January Frank’s wife, Mary Rosen, died accidentally from a lethal combination of prescription medications and alcohol.
Wow, that’s a lot to digest, I tell myself. I wonder if my mother is familiar with Frank’s life story.
After Manny goes reluctantly back into his cage, I pick up my diary and walk downstairs to the living room. I’m starting to feel like I need to write something.
But first I pick up the remote and turn on the TV, flipping a few stations until I come upon the National Geographic channel. They’re showing a program about African animals, like zebras, their migratory patterns, like when they go across rivers full of huge crocodiles and everything.
I watch the National Geographic program for a while, but I can’t stop thinking about my dad. I miss him so much. Suddenly I feel the need to write my dad a letter, in my diary. I haven’t written him for some time. I turn off the TV and begin to write feverishly.
“Dear Dad, I hope you won’t be upset when I tell you that Mom has met a man, a congressman, and I met him, too. His name is Frank Rosen. Mom told me not to mention Frank’s last name to anyone or tell anyone he’s a congressman because we don’t want nosy news reporters coming around and bothering us.
“I googled Frank Rosen on the computer and read all about him. His wife accidentally killed herself in January. Frank seems sort of nice. Not as nice as you, of course. You’re always our number one. I don’t know if Frank makes Mom happy, but I think he does. We’re going to dinner with him next Thursday and we’ll meet his two sons, one of whom is seventeen. I’m feeling excited about the dinner.
“I’m also excited about a decision I’ve made. Things are going to be different with me from now on. I’m going to become more adventurous. For starters, I’m going to start dressing a little less conservatively. Don’t worry, Dad, nothing extreme. Instead of knee length skirts, I’ll try wearing skirts that are cut above the knee, for example. I don’t mean miniskirts or anything like that. There’s nothing wrong with allowing the physical beauty God has bestowed upon me to show. I’ve also decided that I’m not going to worry about the moon thing, and you shouldn’t either. By the way, Frank Rosen is on the congressional committee that will recommend to the president what we should do to keep the moon problem from becoming even more serious than global warming. There’s going to be a special session of the United Nations General Assembly soon, too.
“Mom is with Isadora right now, at the Epstein auction. Guess what? There’s only one more week of summer school. I’m doing well, but I’m tired of homework. I lost my best friend, Ashley, this week. Do you remember her? She lives across the street and three houses down. Anyway, everyone at school, including Ashley, thought Mom was just fooling around with Frank, when in fact it’s a really serious relationship. I don’t know if they’re going to get married, but I wouldn’t be surprised. Would you? I think it would be a good thing for Mom and I right about now. I know you’ll understand.
“I’m expecting a good response to the petsitter notices I’ve put up in the neighborhood because most of the people on our street keep animals. I feel the experience will be beneficial since I intend to major in zoology at college, and I need some spending money for the summer. Mom told me about the money from the estate of Grandma Hartford. She will receive twelve million dollars soon and I’ll have a four million dollar trust fund to draw from in small increments when I turn eighteen, but that doesn’t change the way I think. I’ll never go around acting as if we’re, like, heiresses or anything.
“On the contrary I’ve always believed people are rich if they are able to meet the requirements of their imaginations, if they are able to do what they find interesting, like you told me. I see the world as inviting, and I can’t wait to throw myself into it and begin to build my own life, and help to build a better world.
“Manny is doing fine, still hates his cage and all. I let him out as much as possible. I miss you, Dad. Love, Sarah.”
And then I pretend, as always, like I’m addressing an envelope for my letter: “Mr. William Hartford, On the Road to Heaven, #1, Kingdom of God.”
6
Daniel
Monday morning, July 28
El Cajon Valley
Being back at home I suddenly feel about fourteen. For a long time I lie in my old bed seeking a dream that will draw me off to sleep again, return me to the Garden of Eden, that Neverland of essential nature, of teshuvah, where I might choose never to grow up, never to suffer the consequences of tasting the fruits of knowledge.
The truth is that my old room still retains something of its air of impairment. After three days in my motel room, lamenting, regretfully, my mother’s death and then beginning to feel on the cusp of a way forward, again I feel exhausted, befuddled. My insides hurt, my bones, my desiccated heart. Finally, I drift off, falling into a deep sleep, and another dream arises.
“Danny, Danny.”
She’s mine.
I can feel the undersea-soft texture of her skin, the smooth white-hot flesh of my virgin goddess, holy mother of sin’s paradise, pressing gently against my boyish brown body.
I lie beside her on a rich purple tapestry in my bedroom, next to the tarnished frame of my under-sized bed.
Bright sparkling rays of first light shine upon us, filling the room with natural splendor. It seems the crystal sunlight has washed from the Valley all the dark echoes of late night noises and the tragic aura of an early morning fog.
It is good, I think, embracing my goddess in the fantastic light of day. There is no darkness, only the silvery sunrise, and as I hold her fast, kissing her tenderly, tasting the sublime sweetness of her blood and milk offering, I know I will never let go.
I’ve found my new religion. I will be eternally nourished and protected. I am at one with the delicate being of my white goddess, basking in her warmth, rocking peacefu
lly to the rhythm of her lunar-tidal motion.
She passes her velvety fingers over my body, stroking me tenderly, caressing the bare erect center of my burgeoning wholeness, cradling me as though I were an infant—helpless.
Suddenly there comes an unnerving sound, succinct like the crack of a leather belt, only louder, like an exploding cherry bomb or a gunshot: POP!
I start violently. My God-fearing Jewish-Catholic scrotum shrinks. I look up in alarm and see the bathroom door fly open with a clatter, doorknob crashing against windowsill, the large door damming the flow of light and sending my tiny room into shadowy darkness.
In the bathroom doorway, wearing a filthy trench coat, stands a toothless monstrosity with matted gray hair and bloodshot eyes in a face full of hideous ridges of pink flesh. Its lips are red and swollen, ears long and pointed. Hairs sprout from the palms of its hands. I smell its rank breath.
In one outstretched hand, held high as in a Nazi salute, the monster is holding something. I can’t make it out at first, and then I see a red book. With wicked eyes set beneath thick brows, the creature glares at my white goddess and hurls the book at her. The book bursts into flames.
My goddess screams. “Help me!” she cries.
I break into a cold sweat, my stomach sickened. Vomit rises in my throat as my heart pulses wildly. I fear my goddess will be consumed with the fiery pages of the red book, but I can do nothing to help her. A raging tightness seizes my chest and my muscles turn stiff and unyielding. Panting, I struggle to catch my breath ...
I awaken to the noise of someone inside the house. I open my eyes and sit up quickly.
Or have I been dreaming?
Cool beads of sweat emerge on my forehead, settling like drops of Jello, suspended. I’m out of breath, expelling puffs of air as I draw deeply and rapidly.
I’d heard a voice, perhaps, a girl’s cry for help, remote, enigmatic. The sound must have come, I decide, from my dream, the second of two dark dreams this morning. I remember the first, in which my mother’s coffin had suddenly opened as it was being lowered into the earth, and I beheld my mother’s twisted face, turning toward me and gazing at me through eyes filled with indescribable terror.