The Yellow Braid

by Karen Coccioli

  When she recited the closing lines of the poem, she closed her eyes. “…deeply submerged, I am in a world of halcyon darkness where a warm greenness caresses my body in undisclosed compassion.”

  Livia was on her feet clapping when Caro rejoined her.

  Although the night was mild, when darkness settled a stiff breeze came off the ocean. Anticipating the cool-down, Caro had made hot chocolate for Livia and Irish coffee for herself. She filled thermos cups and spread out a fabric napkin with oatmeal cookies.

  At the close of another reader’s poem, Livia asked, “What does languorous mean? I love the sound of it.”

  “Listless, lethargic…or having a dreamy quality to something,” Caro said.

  “Languorous,” Livia repeated the newly learned word. “What a languorous evening this is.”

  Caro smiled. “Or, what a wonderfully languorous expression Livia has on her face.”

  As the readings progressed, they cheered at the good ones and screwed up their faces in distaste at the bad poems, but applauded nonetheless. During intermission they wandered among the crowd. A few people addressed Caro with the knowing “hello” of recognition.

  When they returned to their blanket, Caro zipped up her jacket and leaned on her elbows. She let her head fall back on her shoulders. Above the lampposts that bracketed the gardens and the white Christmas lights that outlined the gazebo, the sky was heavy with stars. “What a lovely night,” she said.

  As Ian took the stage and announced the program for the second half of the evening, Livia leaned over and whispered to Caro, “In the poem you read tonight everything takes place in the dark, underwater. Is that why you feel compassion? Because the desire has to be in secret, undisclosed?” Livia cupped her hand over Caro’s ear when she continued. “Seems like the desire has something to do with sex; I just don’t know what.”

  Livia’s mouth was so close to Caro’s ear that Caro felt her breath and delighted in the chocolaty scent. It was the fragrance of youth. “Desire sometimes implies sexual desire. But it also means a great longing for something, like a person craving to go home after an extended journey away.”

  Livia leaned in toward Caro, prepared to build on her question when Caro put her finger to her lips and, nodding toward the performer on stage, whispered, “Later.”

  In truth, she was hoping Livia would forget about pursuing further discussion. Caro’s own sexual feelings were so confused. Lately, the most innocent bodily gesture of Livia’s stirred Caro in ways that made her want to reciprocate—and also made her crush the impulse. Even now the sight of Livia stretched out on the blanket, her eyelids quivering with sleepiness, caused Caro to tremble. She sat on her hands so she wouldn’t be tempted to stroke the girl’s face.

  Later, when Caro brought Livia home, Nina answered the door.

  “Hi,” Livia said, and gave her aunt a peck on the cheek in greeting. Turning back to Caro, she startled her with a heartfelt hug before disappearing inside.

  Caro declined Nina’s offer for a nightcap. Feeling deliciously alone, she walked down to the beach. The tide was going out, and she walked out a long ways, her feet sloshing in the saturated sand. With every few steps, she relived the sensation of Livia’s arms around her, the brief euphoria that erupted from her heart in little waves and came out in goose bumps on her flesh.

  CHAPTER TEN

  It is not sex that gives the pleasure, but the lover. ~Marge Piercy

  Sheets of pre-made tattoo templates, called flash, covered the walls in systematic categorization of the main styles of tattooing: old school, tribal, ethnic, Celtic, Asian, and fantasy. The specific type often determined whether the work displayed best in black and white or color. Autographed pictures of celebrities who’d gotten their tattoos done at Sean Z’s Tattoos demonstrated the most popular selections.

  Now, as Caro, Livia, and Nina waited for him to call her in, they ogled their favorite stars. Livia wandered across to the Asian section and began scanning the flash with names written in Chinese calligraphy. She found the equivalent of “Livia” in “Olivia” and to her surprise “Nina” was there as well. She was scrolling through the alphabet when Caro joined her. “Yours wasn’t here,” she said.

  “That might be because Caro is short for Caroline.”

  “Oh, I passed Caroline before, and look here—Zach.”

  Caro followed to where Livia indicated on the wall. “That’s not his.”

  “Yes,” Livia insisted. “I saw the exact design over there, too.”

  Caro walked to where Livia pointed, her face leaching of color with each step. The tattoo on the board with Zach’s name, was Marcie’s tattoo.

  Caro felt a stabbing deep inside of her at the sudden souring of a marriage and a friendship. When Zach died, Marcie’s tears hadn’t been a sympathetic consequence of Caro’s grief. Rather, she was lamenting with Caro—a lover, a second wife. Her visionary dreams she’d had weeks earlier of Zach and Marcie together were true after all.

  Livia’s face registered alarm. “What’s wrong?”

  Caro ran out of the shop and didn’t stop running until she collapsed on a bench three blocks away, nearly knocking into an elderly woman. She tried to stabilize her quaking body and swallow her sobs. How blind not to have known what was going on? Then again, why not? They had been her husband and her closest confidante. She’d trusted them. Images of them together made her stomach lurch until she felt she was going to vomit.

  As much as she wanted to, she also knew she couldn’t stay where she was but must return to the tattoo shop; Nina and Livia would be worried. She got up slowly, cautiously, and began walking back to the shop.

  Nina and Livia were outside on the sidewalk, searching up and down the street. When Caro drew within their sight, they ran to her, each grabbing an elbow, and escorted her back to the car.

  Caro cried, “What about your tattoo? Your surprise for Tommy?”

  “Not to worry,” Nina said. “Have some water and try to settle down.”

  The trio was silent except for Caro’s weeping. When she’d calmed down, Nina asked, “Want to talk about it?”

  “Marcie had a tattoo on her ankle of Chinese letters. When I asked her their meaning she said they spelled out her name. But…but it was really Zach’s name. Know how long she got it before he died?”

  Nina took Caro’s hand, and shook her head.

  “Four years. It’s a long time, right? Four years. And how long before that did they really start their affair?” Caro swallowed a fresh attack of tears. “I mean, you just don’t get a tattoo right away. A year…two years…”

  Livia put her hand on Caro’s shoulder. “I’m sorry.”

  “I can’t know what you’re feeling,” Nina said, “but I do know it won’t do any good to torment yourself like this. Do a few months more or less really matter?”

  “I need to go home,” Caro said quietly.

  ***

  Caro telephoned Abby, not stopping to consider the time difference.

  “I know how much you loved your father,” Caro blurted out. “Adored him, but you’re the only person I can talk to.”

  “Mom, what are you talking about? It’s after midnight.”

  “I don’t know how to start. Your father and Marcie…”

  Silence.

  “Abby, help me. Are you there?”

  “I’m trying to think of an answer,” Abby said. “I’m sorry.”

  And then Caro knew. “How is that possible? I’m having a hard time understanding. Believing. You knew and didn’t tell me!” Her sentences came out in uneven fragments.

  “I didn’t know what to say, Mom. Try to understand my position. You’re right, I adored Dad and then to find out that he was a…cheater. The whole thing made me sick.”

  “All the more reason you needed to tell me, for both of us,” Caro said.

  “I thought I was saving you from a lot of heartache. You loved Marcie, and I didn’t want to take that away from you. And then Dad died, and I saw
no justification in telling you.”

  “Bullshit! Bullshit! Bullshit! You didn’t tell me because you didn’t want to deal with me.”

  “That’s not true,” Abby said.

  “Do me a favor, Abby. I just found out that my husband and my best friend were fucking each other behind my back. So cut me some slack.”

  “How did you find out? Why now?” Abby asked.

  Caro laughed, a sour sound. “Marcie’s tattoo. It was your father’s name, and parading around in front of me the whole time. Did you know about the tattoo?”

  “No.”

  “Well…at least that’s something you didn’t have to keep secret—”

  “Wahoo, how great for me. The truth is, you didn’t want to know about any one of us.”

  “How can you insinuate I didn’t want to be a part of your life?”

  “Easy. You shut your eyes and covered your ears. They were never discreet, cozying up to each other in front of the TV, and calling each other, hon…Christ! Didn’t it ever bother you that Marcie wore lace to bed at night instead of cotton?”

  Abby’s observations stilled Caro. True, they were an assault to whatever self-esteem Caro had left about having been an emotionally present participant in her family. More odious was Abby’s meanness in telling her.

  Caro said, “Whatever I chose to see or not see doesn’t give you the right to judge or chastise me. I’m your mother. No matter what, I deserve your respect.”

  “No, you don’t. Respect, like love, is earned. And I have every right to be angry because you didn’t do any better by me than you did them. You were as absent a mother and wife emotionally as they come. Your words, Mom—they were fucking each other behind your back. ”

  “That’s enough, Abby! It’s easy to beat me up time and time again instead of owning up to your own actions. Because let me tell you, it’s getting old.”

  “I never wronged you,” Abby challenged.

  “Ran away for one. Living in the same town was too close. You had to move across the ocean. Would you be living in London if your father was still alive?”

  “Time to get off, Mother. Maybe you’ll get an idea for a poem out of this.”

  “You’re running again,” Caro said.

  Abby hung up.

  ***

  In spite of her anger, Caro understood her daughter’s propensity for running away from her and Zach. She’d learned from the best. Caro was an expert at blindly moving forward through family preoccupations and obstacles, and she would have relied on those same psychological tools again to ease through this conflict with Abby.

  The discovery of Zach’s affair with Marcie, still surreal even several days later, showed her that keeping her distance with Abby didn’t accomplish anything in their relationship and hurt just as much.

  She’d already left a voice-mail for her daughter suggesting another call. In addition, she purchased her airline tickets for Abby’s birthday, compromising with herself by staying away only five days instead of the original plan of two weeks, so as not to be separated from Livia for too long.

  Caro looked upon her affection for Livia, and the girl’s reciprocity, as a blessed gift amid the grief of loss and betrayal over the last months. She seemed to touch something in Caro that was like soothing salve over a bruise. That morning, Caro came across a letter the poet Rilke wrote to his student, which she intended to share with Livia.

  In it, Rilke counseled the young man about the great gift of sadness being a collection of solitary moments when everything within withdraws, and out of which arises something new, a new sense of direction, a new self. And no matter how much you want to believe nothing has changed, he wrote, disbelief is an impossibility. A great deal inside has been transformed.

  The message of transformation motivated Caro to telephone Nina to go shopping for Phyllis’s party. And then there was her appointment with Tommy. On Saturday night she would appear a newly fashioned woman.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Some day you will be old enough to start reading fairy tales again. ~C.S. Lewis

  Tommy held up a color chart to Caro’s head and sorted through the hair swatches for an attractive match. “I don’t think we should go as light as your natural color. What do you think of adding an auburn tint? Add luminance to your pale eyes and complexion while giving you some definition around the face.”

  “You’re not talking red. I’ve had that before and hated it,” Caro said.

  “Heavens no. Red would be dreadful. Like I said, the auburn will act only as a highlight. As for the style …” He combed through her hair with his fingers from the nape up, “…there’s not much to work with. I’d say since it’s so chopped already, the best thing is to take it super short in a style that makes a statement.”

  Caro offered him a weak nod. Her commitment to being a “new woman” was draining quickly now that she was actually involved in the process. She’d forgotten what it was like to have stylists and aestheticians pucker their brows when confronted with her thin hair and washed-out complexion. She groaned inwardly and stiffened.

  Tommy squeezed her shoulders. “You’re going to be fine. Now off with Lily here for your facial.”

  Caro rose obediently and allowed herself to be taken through the earth-colored doors overhung with hand-painted vines and the legend Serenity in italicized script. Once inside, she was pleasantly surprised. The heady scent of herbs accompanied by the liquid strains of nature music made her feel weightless. She breathed without tension, long slow intakes of the perfumed air.

  At the completion of her treatments, she regretted having to re-enter the ammonia-scented world of the salon with its walls of steel and glass and the ring of mirrors in which Caro saw herself in duplicate and triplicate.

  Tommy applied the dye to her hair and eyebrows and sat her under a heating element that looked vaguely like the planet Saturn. In the harsh light that emanated from the encircling bulb Caro was struck by how the dye created a freakish halo around her face resembling car engine oil. Her eyebrows leaked at the edges. The mawkish color accentuated the worry lines between her eyes that had gutted deep in the last few years, a family legacy on her mother’s side. Every woman in the family had them, along with an uneven and vague lip line.

  Would having gray hair even matter if love was of the spirit and not of form? At the very least, coloring the hair eased the pain of having arrived at a certain age. Caro shifted uncomfortably; either way she pitied herself because the result, however successful, would be fleeting and illusory—just like her experiences of love with Zach and Marcie.

  ***

  As Tommy had promised, Caro returned home a finished product and didn’t have to do anything except redo her lipstick and get dressed. When she’d gone shopping with Nina they had rummaged through half a dozen boutique shops until Nina had come across just the right outfit.

  Staring at her reflection in the full-length mirror, Caro felt at home with herself in the simplicity and sparkle of a simple black dress with pearls.

  Nina and Tommy had offered to escort her to the party so she wouldn’t have to make a solo entrance. Livia had called minutes before to say they were leaving as soon as her aunt made a final check of her makeup. What was Livia going to think of Caro’s refashioned look?

  Caro’s self-consciousness about her appearance didn’t supersede her vision of how Livia was going to look. Nina had selected a sea-green dress with spaghetti straps and a cummerbund-style belt trimmed in pink, which took the eye away from Livia’s small bosom and accentuated her tiny waist and straight back. The short length showed off her legs. The outfit was a blend of youthful sophistication.

  When the trio arrived, Livia’s enthusiastic expression reflected her compliment, “You look beautiful. Uncle Tommy said you did.”

  Caro squeezed Livia. “I’m glad you like it.”

  “The short hair is genius,” Nina said to Tommy, and then to Caro, “You look fabulous.”

  “Thanks, but let me see you,”
Caro said and turned Livia around. Nina had French-braided her hair. The wispy bangs and free-floating tendrils bounced at the corners of her eyes, star-lit ovals that this evening appeared to have an ocean of green in them. “I think your aunt and uncle did excellent by us.”

  ***

  Well into her eighties, Phyllis’s sharp blue eyes and quiet elegance were still her hallmark qualities that prompted strangers to take notice, and new acquaintances, to delight in getting to know her.

  Upon meeting Caro, Phyllis had taken her hand and in a warm embrace and said, “What a delight, Caro. Thanks so much for coming.”

  Caro became an instant fan. She had never been the guest of honor at such a lavish gathering—sixty of Phyllis’s closest friends—when she didn’t have to get up at some point in the evening and earn her supper by giving a reading. On this occasion, she was able to relax into the party atmosphere and enjoy mingling with the other guests.

  She’d chatted with several people, but was standing alone when Tommy and Nina came up to her in tow with Livia; a woman and young girl also joined them.

  “Caro, this is Deena Michaels and her daughter, Beatrice,” Tommy said. “Deena and I know each other from high school. Deserted us when she got married.”

  “Nice to meet you,” Caro said to Deena. And then to Beatrice, “Hello.”

  Deena shook Caro’s hand. “And now I’m divorced, so here I am back again. Except that this time, I’ve got company,” she said, embracing her daughter.

  “This is the first opportunity we’ve had a chance to introduce Livia and Beatrice to each other,” Nina said to Caro.

  The girls smiled at each other, and looking at them side by side, Caro was struck by their appearance. They were a case in contrast: for as pretty and appealing Livia was, Beatrice was plain. Her smile was her single asset; it seemed to emanate a warmth that came from her heart.