In the past weeks, you had confided a lot. For the first time, you were unsure of yourself with a woman. Lillian, as you referred to her (never Lilly), was so completely self-assured, she had you worried. You learned that much of the social life of town revolved around Lillian and her shop. It showed how very isolated you’d been, caring for Meredith, that you’d not met her until that day you walked into her gallery. Every party, art event, and interesting person in town was involved with Lillian. Why would she want you? you wondered.
Why, Elliot? I thought, as you spoke. Because you are warm and lovely. You stupid ass, because you are gorgeous and your hair does this careless thing on your forehead that makes every woman alive want to brush it back out of your eyes. I said none of this out loud, of course, but just listened as you worried over every word you and Lillian had exchanged. You sounded like a lovesick adolescent. You sounded like me.
“Did I tell you she’s been sculpted by a very famous artist who lives in town?” You mentioned a name that I did, indeed, recognize. “It’s a life-sized bronze nude. Right in the town square. Public art. You definitely know it’s her, though, after you’ve met her. Everyone knows it’s her—even though the face isn’t really defined. Her body is so distinctive, with that tiny frame and those big breasts. The way she holds her shoulders back and tilts her head up. The pose is like a Degas ballerina, but you know it’s Lillian. That first day, when she walked away from me with my coffee, I realized she must be the woman in the sculpture. I’ve seen that statue thousands of times—every time I come to town for coffee or the paper. And now, there she was, alive and walking in front of me, her head tilted up in just that way, her behind round and so full.”
You actually said these things to me. Oh, Elliot, could you enjoy torturing me this way? Always it was someone else you rhapsodized about. Someone with perfect features. Or someone who made less trouble for you and laughed more and demanded less. Someone fragile who needed you in a desperate way, as Meredith had. Now, it was Lillian, a woman whose body was so extraordinary it inspired public art. Did you assume it didn’t hurt?
“Come visit us, Judith,” you were saying now on the phone. “Why are you in a hotel? There’s lots of space in the house and the train ride is only an hour. We can go tobogganing with the children. Remember how much fun we had sledding in Chicago when we were kids?”
“I don’t know, Elliot. We’ve got so few days in the city. And they’ve never been to New York. There’s so much I want to show them. Museums and shows. Tomorrow I thought we’d go to Central Park. And then ice-skating at Rockefeller Center. They’ve never been ice-skating, can you believe it?”
“God, remember how we skated at River Park?” you said. “When they’d freeze over the swimming pool in the winter? There was always a fire in the potbellied stove. We’d go every Sunday in the winter, didn’t we?” you asked. “You were such a good skater, Judith. We’d clear a little space behind you so that you could skate backward. I never could do that. I’d skate facing front, like we were dancing, holding your hands while you were going backward, and we’d go all the way around the rink. You never fell. You were amazing.”
“I’d forgotten that. I wonder if I can still stay upright now.” I laughed. “We’ll see tomorrow, won’t we? But I might be too busy holding up the kids to find out.” It was a surprise to hear you say how I danced so gracefully on the ice. That you remembered it.
“Let’s all go to dinner after you skate,” you said. “We’ll come into the city. You’ll need somewhere warm after being out in the cold all day. I’ll ask Lillian where we should go. She raised three kids in New York. She’ll know where to take you.” I heard you shout the question.
“How old are the twins?” she asked from the depths of the house.
“Ten,” you shouted back. “Or are they eleven already?” you asked.
“Eleven,” I said.
“Well, there’s only one place to go, of course,” I heard her reply. “Serendipity.”
“Of course,” you said cheerfully into the phone. Had I ever heard you sound so jolly? “Lillian picked the perfect place. Serendipity. They make this thing called frozen hot chocolate. It’s delicious. They’ve even got peanut butter frozen hot chocolate.”
“They’ll love it,” I said. “I’m sure of it. But can we get something solid into them first? Do they serve real food?”
“The best hamburgers in New York. Seriously, the best,” you answered.
The following days in New York were as perfect as the first. Blue skies, but still cold enough so the snow remained clean and white, piled high where the snowplows had pushed it. The kids bounded out of bed, chattering about the horses and ice rink they were going to see. We dressed in our warmest clothes and boots. I was pleased I’d splurged on a soft red cashmere coat. I loved its black velvet collar and the way the coat flowed around me prettily. I checked the twins for gloves and hats and scarves. Getting dressed back home was easy compared to this.
First, we went to the stables in Central Park, and Miriam got permission from the barn manager to pet as many horses as she liked. I watched her touch the horses’ thick, elegant necks and put her face up to their long noses, feeling the manes brush against her skin as she breathed in their smell. It was an elixir to Miriam. I understood that even the odor of fresh horse excrement becomes sweet when you’re an equine lover. The horses were gentle, charmed by Miriam, as horses always were. She spoke to every single one, about forty, each boarded in a clean, well-kept stall, covered with immaculate winter blankets that fit perfectly over their backs and buckled nicely under their bellies. Miriam inhaled deeply, the barn odors filling her and transporting her, as they always did.
Evan was calm and kind to his sister that day, showing none of his usual impatience and frustration. He also liked horses, but with nowhere near the passion of Miriam. He busied himself examining the brass name plates attached to each stall’s door—on them was engraved the horse’s name as well as its owner’s information. Below the name plate was a small chalkboard with special instructions written in Spanish. Evan liked pronouncing the elegant names, reciting each in what he imagined was a lordly English accent. These Central Park horses weren’t called Charlie or Dolly or Gordon, as were the comfortable quarter horses we knew back home. Instead, the well-bred East Coast thoroughbreds had names like Medina and Chatham of Hudson Valley. The chalkboards said, “Alfalfa solamente por favor.” And Evan recited this out loud, too, rolling his r’s. He liked speaking Spanish, all languages, really, and his teachers at school said he had an excellent accent. He was a born mimic, that boy. When I wasn’t wanting to strangle him because of all the trouble he got into, he could make me laugh like no one else in the world.
We went to the skating rink next. I gave the children a lesson and, using choppy little steps, they each made it all the way around the rink a few times. Then, the California children they were, retreated inside to warm up with the large crowd gathered near the stove. I stayed out on the ice and went around and round, losing myself in the music, and, with my red velvet trimmed coat softly flaring behind me, was pleasantly surprised that I could still skate with such ease. My blades cut into the ice with long, gliding strokes and I felt young and healthy. When I looked up, I saw that Evan and Miriam had come back outside and were standing behind the barrier, watching me.
“Want to go around with me one more time?” I called, as I skated by.
They both shook their heads, but solemnly kept following me with their eyes. I went a bit faster, showing off for my children, and every once in a while, I looked over and saw that their small heads were tethered to me as if with a string. Finally, the music stopped and an announcement came over the speaker saying it was time to clear the ice. The Zamboni, decorated like a turkey with big feathers attached to its back end, was ready to roll onto the ice in order to smooth the nicked surface. I made my way off the rink with the others. Evan and Miriam were waiting for me. They had already returned their skates and put t
heir winter boots back on.
“Wow, Mom,” Evan said. “You’re good. You looked pretty dancing on the ice.”
“Thanks, hon. When I was growing up in Chicago, we skated all the time. It’s even colder in Chicago than here, so there’s lots of places to skate. If we lived in a cold climate, you’d probably be playing ice hockey now, Evan,” I said. “I think you’d like ice hockey.” I sat on a bench and started unlacing my skates.
Miriam stood in front of me and stared down at me with a puzzled look. “What’s up, sweetie? What are you thinking about?” I asked her.
She shrugged, then said, “I thought I already knew everything you could do, Mom. Like your job and cooking and reading tons of books and driving us where we have to go. Stuff like that. I didn’t know you could ice-skate.”
It almost seemed to upset Miriam that she had to move the images in her mind in order to make room for a new picture of her mother.
I shrugged. “I’d forgotten about it, too. But Miriam, there’s lots about me you don’t know. I had a whole life, don’t forget, before you and your brother were born.” I reached up and smoothed a thick brown braid.
“Like what?” she asked, leaning away from my hand fussing over her hair. “What else about you don’t we know?”
Here was a dilemma. Of a lifetime of thoughts and feelings and experiences and joys and sorrows, what would I tell my dear daughter?
“Well,” I said and stood to return my skates to the rental counter, “I’m also a pretty kick-ass roller skater.”
We went down into the subway and got off at East Fifty-Eighth, then walked in the dusk to the address Elliot had given me. There was a long line of people waiting outside Serendipity, and I knew that Miriam and Evan were cold and tired and hungry. I hoped I hadn’t pushed the twins beyond their limit. Then I noticed you, waiting in front of the restaurant, stamping your feet against the frigid weather. You were wearing a handsome black leather jacket with a long scarf wrapped around your neck.
“Over here,” you shouted when you spied us. I grabbed a child’s gloved hand with each of my own and ran toward you. You bent and enveloped both the twins in a huge bear hug. “You found it! Good job, guys. Wait, let me get a picture.” You took your camera from your pocket and snapped a shot of the kids and me in front of the Serendipity sign. “Okay, let’s go inside. You must be freezing.” Then you hugged me as well, squeezing me against the buttery smooth leather of your jacket. “Lillian’s already there, holding a table.” We moved ahead of all the people in line, and as you held the door open for us, I looked back and gave those people an apologetic smile.
It was dark inside, the antique tables were oak and the chairs curly, bent wood. The only light came from the old-fashioned Tiffany glass lamps, which sent rainbows of color onto the tables and walls. You led us through the crowded restaurant to a back room.
“Lillian,” you called out, “they’re here.”
I saw a woman sitting alone at a big table. I couldn’t take my eyes off her. Several inches of thin gold bangles encircled both arms and large gold hoops were in her ears. She wore a leopard print jacket, obviously but boldly fake. When she stood, I saw that the plush jacket ended mid-thigh and that she appeared to have nothing on under it other than sparkly black tights and boots that ended a bit above her knee. On me, the outfit would have seemed a trashy ensemble fit only for Halloween. Yet, with her long, thick hair cascading down her shoulders, and her tiny frame, Lilly looked fabulously put together, someone who turned heads.
Before we left on our trip to New York, I had explained to the children that Elliot’s wife, Meredith, who was still his girlfriend when they’d met her on the visit to the redwoods, had died. They’d known Meredith was sick and I think I gave them a rudimentary explanation of cancer. Then, on the subway that afternoon, I had told them that we’d be meeting Elliot’s new friend Lillian. They hadn’t asked many questions, so I’d left it at that.
As soon as we sat down, Evan looked between you and Lillian and then asked, “Where’s Matthew?”
You picked up a glass of water.
“The boy whose mother died?” Evan persisted. “How come your little boy didn’t come today?”
There was silence. How could I have neglected to explain to the children that Matthew didn’t live with Elliot anymore? To children, other children are the main story. The adults are there only to provide the children with an escort. Elliot, even Lillian, was of little interest to Evan, but the little boy, Matthew, whose hand he’d held through the redwoods and sat next to on the narrow-gage railroad, was who he was anticipating seeing. I think my son was especially interested in seeing a child whose mother had died. Evan was very concerned about death. Up until then, I don’t believe Evan had known anyone whose mother had died. There had been a child in his class at school whose much older father had had a fatal heart attack. But losing one’s mother seemed more catastrophic, and sensitive Evan had obviously given it a fair amount of thought. Perhaps he wanted to see how Matthew was surviving this loss.
Miriam sat next to Lillian. She had politely asked permission first, and was now stroking Lillian’s fluffy leopard jacket and staring longingly at her numerous bracelets. But when she heard her brother’s question, her hand paused in midair and she looked over to you, the wrinkle between her brows appearing again.
After a too-long silence, all three adults at the table spoke.
“Matthew’s having a little visit with his aunt now. Right, Elliot?” I blurted out.
Lillian looked at Miriam and said, as if she hadn’t heard Evan’s question, “Would you like a few of these bangles? I’ve got far too many on, don’t you think? I never seem to remember that less is more.” She started to remove a few bracelets from her arm. “You’re a sensible girl, aren’t you, Miriam? You’ll remember, I’m sure.”
You slowly unwrapped the scarf from your neck, carefully folding it, and then said, “Evan, I’m so sorry Matthew’s not here. This is actually one of his favorite restaurants. But before his mom died, she decided he should live with his aunt Renata, his mom’s big sister. She has kids and a lot more time to take care of him. But seeing you here today, I really wish I’d brought him.” You put your hand on Evan’s shoulder and you two looked at each other sadly.
“Yeah,” Evan said to you and nodded, “that sucks. I bet you miss him. How come she didn’t want him to live with you?”
There was again silence at the table. Lillian was still methodically sliding bracelets onto Miriam’s small wrist.
“Lillian,” I said, “you don’t have to do that. They’ll probably slip off and get lost. And Evan, I think that’s enough questions.”
“No, Evan,” you replied, “you ask really good questions. I’ve asked that same question myself. More than once. But, I finally decided that moms know best, and so I had to accept her decision.”
Evan continued to stare up at you while Lillian kept adding bracelets to Miriam’s arm. My daughter looked down at them, mesmerized.
“Really, Lillian, that’s enough,” I said, too firmly, and put my hand over Miriam’s. Lillian stopped the bracelet transfer, but not before she’d taken three or four more gold bangles from her arm.
“You’re great with children, Lillian,” I said, hoping for a friendlier tone. “Elliot told me you have kids.”
“Oh, yes,” she said and shook her head. “All off on their own now. I’m through with all that, thank goodness. And, dear souls that they are, I must say it’s a relief to have the quiet house we have.” She cocked her head and looked at you. “Right, darling?”
“You don’t think about more?” I asked.
“God, no,” Lilly answered. “I’m much too old. We’re much too old.”
“Old?” I said, looking from one to the other, but of course the question was for you, Elliot. “I don’t think any of us would be considered old, by today’s standards. People our age have children all the time.”
“So,” you said and picked up a menu. “Enou
gh of this discussion. Lillian, you have to understand that Judith thinks no one can be truly happy unless they have a pack of kids running around.”
Lilly looked over at me and said, “Then I suppose we’ll just have to enjoy the grandchildren when they come along, won’t we, darling?” She shifted her gaze to you again.
“Yep,” you said, right on cue. “But now I see some very hungry Californians. How about some burgers? Your mom said she wants you to have something healthy before we get to the specialty here. The Frozen Hot Chocolate.”
“Oh, what the hell,” I said and put down my own menu. “Let’s get dessert first. Then, if we have room, we’ll order something healthy.”
The twins’ eyes widened. This was definitely new behavior for their mother. “Dessert first?” Miriam asked dubiously.
Lillian looked up at me and smiled. “What a clever idea,” she said and called the waiter over, ordering the special Frozen Hot Chocolates for the adults and two peanut butter–flavored ones for the kids.
After the desserts arrived, you and I began talking about travel. Earlier that year, I’d gone to an international child welfare conference in London. I’d been selected to represent my state organization of social workers. Since you knew London so well from your Fulbright days, we chatted about what I’d seen and which neighborhoods I’d explored. The children were engrossed in their wide mugs of the sticky, sweet drink, which was just about the best thing I’d ever tasted. The kids obviously agreed. But I noticed how restless and bored Lilly looked. She didn’t touch her cup, but stared off in the distance while you and I spoke about London.
Love Is a Rebellious Bird Page 17