Clara at the Edge

by Maryl Jo Fox

  Clara leans back, trying to clear her mind for sleep. Drowsily she recalls another desert, the one in New Mexico that she and Darrell visited in 1951, the year before Samantha was born. Outside Santa Fe, they went to Bandelier National Monument, full of Anasazi cave dwellings and inscriptions. Darrell immediately clambered up the ladders to the cliffside dwellings while she explored the ground area.

  Off to one side was a tomb, a dug-out rectangle with an incomplete human skeleton still in it. She was amazed any of it was left, but this was Native American ground, protected by law. She bent down to stare at the bleached crumbling bones, the cracked skull, vacant eye sockets, the strong jaw clamping the crooked yellow teeth together in their terrible death grin.

  It was the empty skull that interested her—its contents eaten long ago by worms that feast on jelly eyes, harp-like ear bones, chewy nose cartilage. A carpet of skin had covered the skull and sausage-like brain, its two hemispheres wired to a jangle of memories and sensations that answer the question, “Who am I?” Without the jiggly stuff, the bones meant nothing to her. The bones could better be used as drum sticks to beat on stretched hides, calling the gods of death to have pity on us—to pass us by, let us live forever or take us now.

  She climbed down a rough ladder into an underground kiva, a circular prayer room used for spiritual purification, and sat cross-legged on the ground. The sounds above her were muffled, the space shadowed and cool. In the kiva, she felt peace and simplicity, the way she wanted life to be with Darrell.

  Above ground again, she stared at the bones of a small dead bird lying nearby. A few frazzled feathers lay near it. The skull was severed from its spine by its predator and then abandoned. Its beak was open, as if yawning in death; its wilted claws clutched the air. Furtively she picked up the bird’s skull, wrapped it in a Kleenex, and put it in her purse. She couldn’t explain why she did this. She felt sorry for it, even as she left its body headless in the desert.

  One time not long before he died, Darrell opened her small ivory jewelry box on the dresser, looking for a misplaced tie clasp as she changed the sheets. The fake ivory jewelry box was her only keepsake from her mother, given when Clara was sixteen.

  “What are you doing with this bird skull?” he said. His tone was mild, bemused, his eyes alert as he turned from the dresser to watch her changing the sheets. The sheets were white and fragrant and fluttered the air as she shook them out before fitting them to the mattress.

  “I don’t think I could tell you why,” she said. “I got it that time we went to New Mexico. Remember?”

  “It was a wonderful trip.” He sat down beside her on the freshly made bed. He brought the ivory box with him. They peered in it together.

  “See how its beak gapes so horribly open, like it still begs for food, like it’s still hungry?” she asked softly. He nodded. “That’s how I feel. Nothing is ever enough. I’m ravenous every day for you and the kids. I love our life so much that I can’t bear to think it will end someday. I can’t believe I even have this life.”

  He laughed softly, setting the box on the bedside table. “But we’ve got a long life together. It’s not ending anytime soon. I’m ravenous too.” He buried his face in her neck, falling back onto the bed with her, both of them laughing. He could always get her to laugh.

  In due time, she spread her arms on the bed, grasping the blankets, sighing deeply as he entered her, and she came quickly. Then, after much silly murmuring and more laughter, the second time around she rode him as he watched her face clenched in ecstasy. She opened her eyes just before she cried out, locking her eyes with his in blank absorption. She shrieked. He roared.

  As the bus approaches the irrigated farmland outside Twin Falls, so green after all the gray desert, she blows her nose and tries to compose herself as they pull into the Greyhound depot, basically a countertop in a strip mall. She walks around to stretch her legs before claiming her bag that sits warmly on the concrete. Inside, she asks about getting a cab to the local airport with the grand-sounding name, Magic Valley Regional Airport. The bored ticket fellow says, “Phone’s on the wall, ma’am. Phone book on the chain.” As if swimming underwater, he returns to his Game Boy before the next person shuffles up.

  She catches a plane to Boise, then Chicago and New York. The trip is a blur of bad food, bland seatmates, a bad movie, and layovers that leave her headachy and exhausted. Lenore, unusually docile the whole way, stays in her bag. Finally at nine p.m., Eastern time, the plane lands at JFK. Surprisingly, Lenore gets through security the whole way with no problem.

  Her cab driver into Manhattan (she’s splurging, to feel safe) is surly with a pronounced accent and a bristling beard. The cab smells of hair grease. He courteously loads her bag into the trunk, but after she’s settled in the back seat, he looks once in the rearview mirror, then looks away as if no one is there. She looks out the window as his tape deck blares mournful Middle Eastern music. The ride in from JFK is bewildering and scary to her: all the big, dirty buildings and bridges, the jammed traffic, all the people still on the streets, everything dark and everyone impatient, honking or swearing or dashing in front of the cab, her cabdriver leaning out the window and cursing at them in heavily accented English, making precipitous lane changes, escaping collision by a hairsbreadth. This new environment—light years away from Eugene, with its rampant greenery, and from Jackpot, with its open skies and sagebrush clumps light as kites in a windstorm—clears her mind in a hurry and makes her watchful for her very life. She frowns at the cab driver. I’m here, I exist. Don’t look in your rearview mirror as if no one is in your back seat. Do you hear me? She’s had enough tiring encounters for one day, thank you very much.

  She’s frightened but doesn’t want to show it. Primly but assertively, as if she’s in the classroom, she says, “Young man, I need to be as close as I can to the Metropolitan Museum. But I can only pay eighty dollars a night. Do you know a suitable place?”

  Silently, he looks at her through the rearview mirror. She waits. Wonders if he does not understand English. Patiently, she repeats her request.

  He seems amused, impatient. “Yes, I am thinking, madam. I will take to Bridgeport Hotel. Hotels close to Metropolitan very expensive. This one further away, but nice. They know me there. They give nice discount.”

  She is taken aback by his kindness and looks at his name posted on the protective screen by his head. “Thank you very much, Mr. Mahmoud Hashin.” She says his name deliberately, as if committing it to memory. He nods stiffly at her in the rearview mirror. His eyes, like hers, are large brown pools.

  The rest of the ride is silent. Suddenly the city seems friendlier. Her spirits rise, thinking of what might happen in the next few days. She can go to the opening with Arianna and Frank. Stella will come later, after visiting her relatives in Chicago. Will Haskell come? Abruptly, she realizes Frank and Haskell will be worrying. She’ll call them tonight. What was she thinking, doing this?

  Things are happening way too fast. She’s scared. Lenore has seized control of her entire brain. She can’t control anything anymore.

  Mahmoud Hashin pulls up to the Bridgeport Hotel—downtown, in the 20s, a dingy building, but in New York. That’s all she cares about at this point. Mr. Hashin takes her bag into the lobby, leans across the counter, and speaks confidentially in a foreign language to the muscular dark-haired man who has his feet up on the desk. The man nods and sleepily shoves a piece of paper toward her to fill out, then gives her a room key, his face a mask.

  Mr. Hashin says, “I take bag to room.” She protests, saying she can carry it. He looks at her. “Please. I take care. You remind me of mother.”

  They take the creaky elevator to the third floor, avoiding each other’s eyes now. Carrying her bag, he walks to the room near the elevator. She hands him the key, and he unlocks the door, steps inside, and turns on the light as if he’s done this kind of thing a million times. She’s momentarily terrified that she let him into the room.

  She
looks around, her heart beating hard. The room smells musty, unused. A thin double bed covered with a schoolroom green bedspread patterned with pineapples nearly fills the room. A bruised tan dresser, small bathroom, old corroded fixtures, dripping faucet. A lone picture on the wall of a palm tree on a desert island. Mahmoud Hashin stands rigid near the open door.

  She turns to tip him, rifling through her purse.

  “Please. No tip. Not necessary. Have nice sleep. You are safe here.” Mahmoud Hashin gives a slight bow.

  Clara finds herself returning his bow. He walks toward the door and turns around to look at her. Slightly inclining his head, he brings his right hand to his heart in a gesture that seems very kind. Moved, she returns the gesture.

  “Thank you, Mr. Hashin.”

  He smiles ever so slightly, bows again, turns with great dignity, and walks down the hall. For a moment she watches him, then steps back, locks and bolts the door. She leans against it, only then letting out a breath she must have been holding ever since she boarded the bus in Jackpot.

  Once more, she wonders what she’s done. She’s running all over the country, with barely a moment’s notice each time, as if some foreign force has invaded her body and commandeered her brain. This after staying planted for years in Eugene like a tree. “I’m causing damage, raking over people I love, all for a pile of photographs.” She stands beside the door, massaging her forehead. “I’m losing the good sense God gave me. If I’d stayed in Jackpot, I wouldn’t need any photographs of lilac stains. The house would be right in front of me.” In her exhaustion, she forgets the lilac stains are all burned up.

  She walks into the bathroom and looks at herself in the wavy mirror. Her face is distorted, as in a semi-funhouse mirror. Pronounced bags under her eyes, brought on by this extraordinary day, make her look a decade older than she is. The wrinkles on her face have deepened. Her sprightly gray hair looks dry and strawlike.

  In slow but mounting panic, she sees her cell phone is still turned off. She turns it on, sees all the messages. She calls Frank, then Haskell. She tells them the name of the hotel, how she got here. Both men are flabbergasted, then alarmed.

  “Mother, how could you do this? At least you’re safe. What were you thinking? Taking off again with no warning. We’ve all been frantic. You’re beginning to make this a habit, for God’s sake.”

  Clara begins to cry. “Frank, don’t be mad. I don’t think I can stand it. Haskell and I had a big fight last night after the wedding. I guess he hasn’t told you. I didn’t want to see him for a while, so I just took off. I didn’t want to disturb your honeymoon. And I don’t want any of us to miss the exhibition. Of course I know we won’t, but well, I thought I’d have a lark, and it’s been a nightmare. But I had the nicest cab driver. He found this hotel for me, even though it’s a dump, but I’m pretty sure he got a price reduction. The bedspread has pineapples on it. The faucet is leaking. I hope I can sleep. The walls are thin. So far it’s quiet.” She feels disoriented.

  Stella takes the phone. “Clara, thank God. We were so worried.” Clara apologizes for interrupting their honeymoon.

  “Don’t worry, hon,” Stella says. “We’re fine, now we know where you are. You’ll see Frank the day after tomorrow. I’ll join you the day after that, from Chicago. It will all work out. We’re juggling red-eyes into Kennedy.”

  “Good plan.”

  Frank again. “I don’t like the sound of that hotel you’re in, Mother. I’d feel a whole lot better if you’d call that photographer, Arianna what’s-her-name. I have her card somewhere. Maybe you can stay with her. And then we’ll really feel all right. Do you have her number?”

  “I do.”

  She calls Haskell.

  “Clara! My God! I never dreamed you’d get on a plane before we talked!” He sounds a bit frantic. “I’ll drop off the RV somewhere, catch a flight. I’ll see you as soon as I can. The fight was just silly. We can work things out.”

  Her eyes are closed. “I don’t know why I did this, Haskell.” Her voice drops to a whisper, as if someone is listening behind the wall. “I think I’m losing my mind. I’m doing these crazy things.”

  “Nonsense. You’re fine. It’s just been very intense lately, with your son getting married, and you and I meeting unexpectedly, things developing so fast.” Now he sounds far calmer than she. They say goodbye.

  She sits on the bed, hunched over her thighs to contain the shock of the day. In Lamoille Canyon, she thought she loved him. Since then, she’s tried to tear down this idea any way she can. He’s too urban, too rich, treats her like a child. She’s not used to anybody being protective of her. He wouldn’t stay with a no-frills person like her anyway when he’s got a gazillion beautiful women—blah, blah, blah.

  Why does she even need a man at her age?

  Why not? She wants to extract every drop of life—if she’s still sane, still able, if there’s still time. Well, he could be a friend. She’s sure of that. A good friend.

  She looks at her hands. Will she ever find that quiet place in her head beyond the throbbing veins, the kiva she internalized from Bandolier?

  She’s a failed aspirant.

  Or a hard sell.

  She looks around the hotel room. All the upset started when the house burned down and she had to get the pictures. Then in Scotty’s car, the purple wasp became Lenore, strong enough to bring Clara to her knees about Samantha’s death. This antic entertainer—pushy, hypnotic, strange—took hold of her soul at hello and is taking her on a rampage. Almost made her crash Scotty’s car in the desert! Stamped on her foot! Hurt her breasts! Won’t let her wasp/bee stings heal! But where is the pest? Frantically she looks around the barren room. Trapped in her suitcase? She unzips it. Nothing. Ah! There she is, hiding in the crease where the bedspread rises to cover the pillows. Clara sighs in disappointment. The creature’s not done with her.

  No sounds from other rooms, only the constant dull roar of traffic and sirens. She must be the only one on this floor. Her pulse quickens. Desperate people will invade her room, carry her off to an unmarked grave in some deserted place. She rifles her hair to clear her brain. For once, she decides to heed Frank’s suggestion. Despite the cabbie’s help, in this huge city she’ll feel better staying with someone she knows.

  She calls Arianna, even though it’s almost eleven. Arianna’s response brooks no nonsense. “Clara! I’ll be right over. You’re not with Haskell? Nevermind, you’re going to stay with me. No sense in paying a hotel bill. Besides, that hotel is not in a good area. I’m catching a cab right now. Give me Frank’s number. I’ll call him on the way over.”

  Feeling small, Clara holds herself very still on the edge of the bed and clasps her knees. She’s turning herself and everyone else inside out. Taking her bags, she goes downstairs to settle the bill.

  In Arianna’s building, the large industrial elevator groans and stops at a fifth floor loft. A dark, miniscule kitchen has forties’ plumbing, tiny old appliances, and a bathtub next to the refrigerator. She’s never seen a bathtub in a kitchen before. A ten-foot-high window offers a modesty drape of bright Indian fabric to prevent complete disclosure. The ceiling—at least twelve feet high—dwarfs her. Arianna leads her down the short hall past a small living room with a Murphy bed, past a half bath with a toilet and washbowl. So one does bathe in the kitchen!

  Arianna’s studio is the largest room by far, photographs wall to wall, mostly black and white. Work tables, chemical baths, blackout drapes, clotheslines hung with photos crisscrossing the room in an orderly tangle, a single bed hugging a wall.

  “I’d like you to sleep in the studio, Clara. It’s closer to the bathroom. I’ll take the Murphy.” Arianna, in a stained shirt and jeans, pushes up her drifting glasses, anchors unruly hair behind her ears, studies her unexpected guest as if looking for signs of derangement. Her voice softens. “Would you like some hot chocolate after this amazing day you’ve had?”

  She’s grateful for the offer but declines. “Maybe tomorr
ow. Right now I think I need to fall right onto that bed.”

  “Right-oh. Let me know if you need anything. Towels in the bathroom, hang your clothes over there.” She points to a portable garment rack hung with her own clothes. She wants to reassure Clara she’s not offended by the late-night change of lodgings, though secretly she is. Her work has hit a glitch, and she’s irritable. Even so, an older woman running off to New York for the first time—alone—catches one’s attention. She gives Clara a hug. “What a dear, brave woman you are.”

  Clara looks intently at her. “More like crazy.”

  “Not at all,” Arianna replies briskly. “Adventurous is the word. See you in the morning.”

  Clara unzips her small wheeled luggage bag, hangs up some clothes, and makes her way to the bathroom. Even the bathroom has a high ceiling. The sound of running water in the washbowl makes a hollow echo as she washes her face. It’s like she’s in a dream or on a movie set. At least this bathroom won’t go wandering down the highway like her other bathrooms have for the past two months, starting with her own house.

  Brushing her teeth, she stares into the mirror. “So where do you live, lady?”

  At the Bridgeport Hotel, she listed her address as Desert Dan’s, Jackpot, Nevada. She has no street address. She smiles, her throat tightening. She’s unwittingly made herself homeless—in the few weeks with Haskell, doubly so. No letters could reach her in Lamoille Canyon. Nobody knew she was there, not even Frank. Meaningful mail, though, is a dead issue for her. All her important friends are either dead or she’s lost track of them because they moved closer to their kids. She rinses her mouth. She’s homesick. Let us count the ways. Her belly aches with it.