by Gabriel Roth
Off the freeway, Maya winds her way up a series of complicated hillside roads, past houses that become increasingly eccentric the higher we go. Corrugated-metal shacks and solar-paneled ecotopias nestle next to cliff-hanging glass-fronted dream homes. She pulls up in front of a miniature ranch house with something provisional about its construction, as though it were a sketch for a house to be built elsewhere.
Maya has described Aunt Veal as a hippie, which led me to expect a bosomy earth mother. But the woman who stands in the doorframe holding the screen open is skinny and angular, all nose and elbows. She wears clunky metal jewelry and a complicated black garment with a low neckline that displays the broad gulf of her cleavage. Her real name is Gail; the nickname derives from a speech she once made in a restaurant describing to five-year-old Maya how her mother’s osso buco had been raised and slaughtered, a speech to which Maya responded with fascination rather than outrage.
“C’mon in, you guys,” she says, as though we lived up the road and came for dinner once a week. The front door leads oddly into the kitchen, which opens to an underfurnished living room with a view of dirt and cedars. The house smells of creosote and dog. “So you’re the computer geek, huh?” she says, to see if I’ll take offense.
“Actually, we prefer the term socially maladjusted technology adept,” I say.
She smiles marginally. “I used to date a guy who worked in the computer lab at Stanford,” she says, the college’s name provoking in me, as always, a burst of regret. “Nowadays computers are a business thing, or a toy gun, but originally they were a way to expand your mind.”
“Sure,” I say, because what else can you say when someone tells you something you already know?
We sit in canvas chairs on a deck overlooking the shallow canyon and eat stir-fried vegetables. Aunt Veal rests her feet on a large, senile golden retriever. The hot tub, mercifully, remains covered. We talk about my company, and about what I’m planning to do with all the money I’ve made. Aunt Veal suggests I start a foundation, one that would form the basis of “a real antiwar movement.”
“Hey, I’m not Bill Gates,” I say. “I could barely pay the overhead on a foundation.”
This doesn’t satisfy Aunt Veal, who seems to be imagining herself as director of her own foundation. “It’s up to you to keep him honest, hon,” she says to Maya.
“Oh, I do,” Maya says, getting up to use the bathroom.
It’s not clear how much privacy Maya’s absence affords us, since the bathroom shares a wall with the deck, but Aunt Veal nevertheless shifts into a confidential tone. “So,” she says, “you’re serious about my niece?”
“I’m just trying not to scare her off.”
“Because she’s been through some rough stuff.”
“I know,” I say. “I think she’s incredibly brave.” This is one of those true things that come out sounding insincere. The exchange is cut off by the toilet flushing, and we wait in silence for Maya to return.
When our plates are empty and resting on the deck next to our chairs, Aunt Veal produces a tin from which she withdraws a pipe, a lighter, and a little pouch full of marijuana. Maya’s smile is familiar and mildly exasperated. Aunt Veal prepares the bowl and takes a couple of long, profligate tokes that suggest a big stash and a secure connection. When she has exhaled for the third time, she offers me the pipe.
My chief experiences with marijuana, as with most drugs, came via Danny Keach, who during his first year at CU-Boulder brought various narcotics back to Denver every few weeks. I think he felt inexperienced at college and liked having me to initiate. Under his auspices I took mushrooms, which were interesting, and Ecstasy, which seemed to solve some deep flaw in my character, but I never saw the point of marijuana: I have no desire to focus more deeply on my involuted thoughts. But I’m a guest in Aunt Veal’s house, and the offer of a pipe is an archetypically friendly gesture, so I take a small hit and let it out quickly. I don’t even feel it. I extend the pipe to Maya, but she just wrinkles her nose. Aunt Veal takes it instead and says to Maya, “Shouldn’t even break it out around you.”
When she passes the pipe back I take another little hit, mostly air, to demonstrate that I’m not just imitating Maya, and then return it. “That’s enough for me,” I say, and my sudden awareness of the complex buccal manipulations required to pronounce the words makes me realize that it is in fact too much.
Maya asks Aunt Veal about her jewelry business, and Aunt Veal says she gets all the custom she can handle from her website. She gives me a significant look, and I’m not sure if it’s because she wants me to be impressed that she has a website or because I embody the spirit of the Internet in a more general way. “I can totally help you with that if you have any problems,” I say, a remark that wasn’t quite justified by the conversation leading up to it. The others let it go. Already, I’m the stoned person everyone indulges and ignores, like a child at the grownups’ table. I wish there were some antidote to marijuana. I look at the view, almost as shrubby and desolate as the landscape around Denver. As the sun hits the far side of the canyon I’m reminded of the way it used to drop behind the Rockies, too quickly, and something bleak occurs inside me. I realize I haven’t been following the conversation for some indeterminate span and hope this hasn’t been perceived as rude. Aunt Veal is in the middle of a monologue. “He was all the way up there, you know, and it worked for a while,” she says, perhaps referring to an IT person she had hired to fix her website. I almost say I can totally help with your website but stop myself and run a quick test: Are you certain that your proposed remark will fit naturally into the conversation? If not, say nothing. “Yeah, that’s too bad,” I say instead, and they both look at me for a second and carry on talking. The air feels very still, as though we’re at the bottom of a grave. Aunt Veal says, “You guys are just starting out, you haven’t had to deal with this stuff yet,” and I wonder what stuff there can possibly be that I haven’t had to deal with already. And Maya—what hasn’t she dealt with, much too early? As she adjusts her sunglasses against the glare I see the phantom hands of her father on her shoulders, and I wonder whether my fixation on his abuse of her reflects something perverse about male sexuality in general, or about me in particular. I should start paying attention to the conversation. Aunt Veal says, “Yeah, you’re like your mother in that way,” and Maya says, “Yeah, you’ve said that before.”
“How is she like her mother?” I say, exposing my wavering attention. I have a constant fear that because I will never meet her mother I will never really understand Maya herself.
Maya and her aunt wordlessly agree to make this conversational detour. “Daphne was a pretty cool customer,” Aunt Veal says. I’ve never heard Maya’s mother’s first name and am pleased that it’s Daphne, which makes me think of mythical water nymphs and the pretty redhead from Scooby-Doo. “She didn’t let her feelings show. That’s why men fell over themselves for her.” I do recognize this in Maya, the way she squints at the world, as though saving her responses for a critique to be published later. “She was kind of a mother to me more than a sister, what with our mother being basically out to lunch all the time.” She’s using the phrase metaphorically, rather than suggesting that Maya’s grandmother had a lot of lunch engagements. “That was how I made it through high school, was thanks to your mom.”
The light is pale by now, and Maya, in a sweatshirt, rubs her arms to warm herself. Aunt Veal got Maya’s mom, and who did Maya get? No one. “I just wish she’d been around to take care of you,” I say to Maya. Something feels odd, and I realize it’s the first time I’ve referred to Maya’s traumatic history in front of a third party.
“Yeah, I wish that too,” she says. No one knows where to go from there.
Finally Aunt Veal says, “She would have done it. You should have seen her when you were born, she was so in love with you, she would have done anything to keep you safe.” After the long silence this comes out sounding sentimental. I begin to wonder about the validity
of the counterfactual: Who knows if Daphne would have taken care of Maya or not? Mothers often turn a blind eye to their children’s abuse. Perhaps she would have been complicit. Perhaps she would have participated. Why am I thinking these things?
We get up to leave soon afterward. I try to stage a meaningful goodbye, complete with expressions of gratitude and affection, but Aunt Veal stays on the deck instead of seeing us to the door. Maya doesn’t seem discomfited by this. By the time we’re in the car it’s officially dark. On the drive down the narrow unlighted roads I grip the door handle and watch the broken yellow lines pass underneath us like a filmstrip. Maya watches the road and communicates nothing; her facial muscles shift only in response to subcutaneous reflexes. This removal of ordinary social animation is something you rarely see on people who are awake, and it seems to suggest that I do not exist. We roll over the bridge, windows up, and through the empty streets of San Francisco, stopping at red lights for ghost traffic. Did I ruin things by bringing up her childhood? Is there a way to apologize without repeating the original mistake?
At least I can reassure her of my benevolence. Back in my bed I resume the strategy of gentle and sympathetic questioning that I initiated last night. The call-and-response once again seems to lull us into a state of trust. “Is this OK?” I ask before I enter her, and she says yes, a beautiful full-voiced yes that infuses my chest with warmth.
Lying atop her, my hips pronated to generate clitoral friction, I prop my upper body on my forearms and gaze down at her. Her eyes are three-quarters shut, and she’s emitting delicate little grunts, and to all indications she’s in the early throes of sexual transport. And then, in a normal speaking voice, she says, “You can be rougher if you want.”
I am practiced at fighting down the malevolent creatures that come swimming through my gut at such moments, with their waving tendrils and spiky fronds. There’s no time for panic. But how to respond? How much aggression is called for? I could ask for more information, but evidently she’s tired of respectful communication. This is a situation that demands instinct and spontaneity and getting everything right without planning a strategy or weighing the available evidence. I clutch at a hank of her hair and pull gently, but now my balance is precarious. Plus am I acting out the incestuous rape of a ten-year-old? I can’t do this. I finish much as I had begun, but with more vigor and less eye contact, and then I say something about having to pack in the morning and we go to sleep.
The flight to Denver takes three and a half hours. I’m in a window seat, in business class, watching the flight attendants. One is a bony blonde, close to forty, with a powerful smile and an amiable demeanor that allows her to dispense with the honeys and sweeties that most flight attendants her age begin to introduce into their repertoire to compensate for the fading of their physical allure. The other, a brunette with a soft face, watches her senior colleague and tries to mimic her charisma. I’m not sure it’s learnable but I respect the attempt, especially since she could still coast on her gorgeous pink skin and lazy Southern diphthongs. I spend the flight looking back and forth between the western United States below us and these women walking purposefully up and down the aisle. I’m trying not to think about last night.
The guy next to me is good-looking in a way that seems to project the adjective good-looking. After stowing his overhead luggage he sat down and smiled politely, to indicate that he wouldn’t try to talk to me, then turned his attention to the Sharper Image catalogue. Now, during the lull before the final beverage service, he starts chatting to the younger stewardess, complaining humorously about the ratio of cheese to crackers on the snack trays. The blonde, on her way back from the cockpit, stops to see what the hilarity is about, and soon he’s entertaining both women with elaborations on this unpromising theme. He starts doing emphatic little gestures with the cheese; he goes to slam it down on his tray table in mock frustration, but he can’t really slam it or the table would whack him in the knees, so he does this restrained little fake slam. The flight attendants laugh anyway, leaning against nearby seat backs in on-a-break postures. I pretend to read the in-flight magazine. He’s ridiculous, this guy—everyone looks ridiculous when you watch them flirting. But there’s a chance that he’s about to sleep with two stewardesses, so who’s ridiculous now? Plus you have to admire the way he’s making use of the materials at hand—he’s done a good six or seven minutes on the cheese and crackers. (It helps that the thrust of his argument is sound: you really do need another cracker.) Now the blonde asks him what he’s doing in Denver, and I can’t tell if she’s making conversation or opening the logistical negotiations that will culminate with these three in a hotel room together. If it’s the latter, would that be the zenith of his traveling career, or is this what the world is like for men with quarterback arms and geometric chins? The lives of others are a perpetual mystery.
I wanted to rent a car at the airport, in case I need to get out of the house at some point, but my mom insisted on picking me up. The last time I came she met me at the gate, but now you can’t get through security without a boarding pass. Irrationally I look for my name on the hand-lettered signs held by the limo drivers, but no, there’s my mother, standing off to the side and waving shyly. She looks older than she did when I was twelve, a development that still surprises me. I bend down to hug her and she throws her arms around my neck.
“Well!” she says. “How was your flight? Are you thirsty? Did you drink water on the plane?” (The dehydration that results from air travel is one of my mom’s preoccupations.) She is impressed that all my stuff fits into a carry-on, although I’m only here for two nights.
She leads me through the parking lot to her SUV. I offered to buy her a car, but she refused; the house was enough, and not having to make mortgage payments enabled her to trade her hatchback for this hideous Nissan. “I’m so glad you could come!” she says once we’ve pulled onto the freeway. “You must be so busy these days!” The fact that I have millions of dollars and no job makes my mom uncomfortable: she doesn’t know what I do all day. Nor do I, really.
“I’m just sorry I missed your real birthday,” I say. (It happened three days ago; tomorrow’s the party.) The dull clouds emit biblical shafts of light, reminding me how much I hate Denver’s melodramatic weather.
“How are things with Maya?” she says. I’ve only told her a little, but apparently she can tell it’s serious.
“Everything’s great,” I tell her. It’s true, if you filter out all the stuff I don’t want to think about right now and couldn’t tell my mom even if I did. But I have the urge to say something more, to tell everyone how important Maya is. The newspapers are printing the wrong headlines, focusing on the inconclusive reports of weapons inspectors and intelligence agencies when they should be describing her sense of humor and beautiful little breasts. “I’m kind of totally in love with her,” I say, because it’s also true.
Mom glances at me nervously before her eyes flicker back to the highway. “You will make sure she signs something, right?” she says.
“I don’t know what you mean,” I say, although I can feel understanding blooming like a rain cloud.
“Oh, I shouldn’t say anything,” she says. “And I’m sure if you’ve picked her she must be a wonderful girl. It’s really wonderful, Eric—I’m so happy for you! I just mean, well, you’ve worked so hard, and it would be terrible to lose all that. I know something about how women can be.”
To the west the mountains look tapped out, as though the last minerals have been extracted and there’s nothing left but piles of dust. I calculate the number of hours until I get back to San Francisco and see Maya again, away from my mother and her anxiety: forty-three. No, it’s an hour later here: forty-four.
“Mom, I’ve been seeing her for six weeks,” I say. “We’re not getting married for a while.”
Mom turns off the highway and heads toward the subdivision in which she chose her new home, a freestanding manse surrounded by identical siblings, all painted
the same lilac with purple trim, out in the windy grassless plains to the south of the city. I haven’t been here since the closing, when my mom wept and one thin strand of my life’s accumulated fear and guilt was severed. I asked her if she wouldn’t prefer something closer to town, something cozier, something that’s not identical to every other visible structure. She talked about the absence of noise and crime and dirt, but I suspect the property’s true appeal was less tangible. My mother fears hotel beds and used clothes and public swimming pools, objects with a history of occupancy by strangers. Moving into a new-construction home, as the developer’s literature put it, was like an exorcism.
I follow her inside and swing the surprisingly light front door shut behind me. The hall, with its elevated ceiling and pretentiously sweeping staircase, looks almost exactly as it did when we came here with the talkative woman from the sales office. My mother spent her life in houses that were too small, and the idea that she might finally have enough room made her giddy and scattered.
She heads straight into the kitchen without offering me a tour, and, unprompted, begins to make grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup, a meal I have always loved. I want to sit at the kitchen table, from which I have watched her cook thousands of meals, but there isn’t one: the table is in the dining room now. Does she usually eat there, or does she take her food into the living room and watch TV? The stainless steel refrigerator is decorated with magnets in the shape of pumpkins, but there’s nothing for the magnets to pin up. As she greases and flips the sandwiches, we talk about her work, about that jerk Wade, about the party tomorrow. Neither of us wants to talk about Maya anymore, which means there’s not much to say about my life.