Pacific Avenue

by Watson, Anne L.

  The curtain opened again on what I knew would be a garden scene. I wondered how I was going to design scenery to change from indoors to outdoors that quickly. I made another note in my script.

  A young woman puppet entered from stage right, and Aswapati again from the left.

  ASWAPATI: Daughter, you are of age to marry.

  SAVITRI: But, Father, no man has asked for my hand.

  ASWAPATI: They do not dare. They turn away from your radiance. Still, you must have a husband.

  SAVITRI: How shall we find him?

  ASWAPATI: You must go out into the world, Savitri. You must find the man who is worthy of you.

  Aswapati stood stiffly at attention, facing the audience. Richard’s voice had been louder as he delivered the last line of the scene, but he still spoke in a self-conscious monotone.

  Martin broke in before Richard and Thu began the next scene. “Richard, bring Aswapati downstage and make him look more troubled. This isn’t just heroics.”

  “Heroics?” Richard’s head appeared around one side of the stage, his face wrinkled in confusion. “I didn’t know he was being heroic at all.”

  Thu peered around the other side. They looked like marionettes themselves—the Indian puppets were controlled partly with strings from metal bands around the puppeteers’ heads.

  Martin looked up from his script. “Heroism isn’t conflict,” he said. “It’s going to meet your fate.”

  “Without fear,” Richard put in.

  “Good God, no! With fear. But going anyway,” said Martin.

  Richard considered that a moment. “How do I make a marionette look troubled?” he asked.

  “Hold the gestures close to the body at first. A person who’s sad or pressured pulls in. Then when he sends her to find a husband, show the thought in an outward movement of his arm as you turn the head. Make it slow at first and then more confident,” said Martin.

  “If the body and head are right,” Thu added, “the audience will imagine the facial expressions.” Richard bobbed back behind the curtains.

  The next scene showed Savitri and her retinue. Several attendants, strung as a group, followed her.

  SAVITRI: I have traveled so far, and yet I have found no suitable husband. I will stop and rest at this hermitage.

  (TEACHER enters from stage left.)

  SAVITRI: (aside) Perhaps the teacher here will guide me in my quest.

  TEACHER: Welcome!

  SAVITRI: (bows her head in reverence) I thank you. (gesturing offstage) Teacher, who are these men approaching?

  TEACHER: That is Prince Satyavan and his father, a king with no kingdom, for he was conquered and blinded. Satyavan is well-named “Son of Truth”—he is a man of great virtue.

  “Take a break,” called Martin. After a moment, Richard and Thu emerged from backstage. Thu eased into the kitchen, and I heard the kettle scrape onto the stove. Richard slumped on the couch.

  “You can’t expect to get everything at once,” said Martin. “Actually, you’re doing well with the puppets. I can tell you’re practicing a lot.”

  Richard nodded. It was true—he’d worked hard. Every couple of days, he traded the puppets he’d taken home for new ones of a different type. He’d work on his own for a while, then with me, then go back to Thu or Martin with questions. I loved the puppets, but Richard went far beyond that. Even now, taking a break, he was unconscious of me, immersed in the Savitri script. His expression was like Martin’s, intense and absorbed. He’d forgotten me.

  Maybe he’d look at me if I were like Savitri, beautiful and brave. But I don’t even want to be like her. All I want is my own home, and the sun coming into the baby’s room through new curtains. Why would anyone love a housewife with her baby and her dumb curtains?

  I rubbed my eyes so hard I saw blue fireworks.

  Thu brought in a tray with a teapot and steaming cups of tea, a welcome distraction. She passed the cups around.

  Martin turned to Richard. “Why don’t you concentrate on the marionettes for a while, instead of trying to get all the different puppets at once?”

  “Okay.”

  “When you practice, do you do the lines or only the motions?”

  “Just the motions.”

  “So, you’re not practicing the lines at all.”

  “Well, I would feel foolish, talking to myself.”

  “Better to feel foolish when you’re practicing than to sound foolish when we’re performing.”

  I was afraid Martin’s candor would hurt Richard’s feelings. But Richard smiled. “I’ll need a script, then,” was all he said.

  “Don’t stick to the script too tightly, though, or you’ll sound theatrical.” Martin grabbed the nearest puppet, which was a glove puppet depicting a dog. “Here, let me show you.”

  “I am so angry!” the dog said, as Martin worked its head and front paws. “My people shut me out of the house. I can’t get in! I have a right to lie in my own bed, not out here in the mud! It’s ‘pretty puppy’ this and ‘baby’ that, but what happens when I’m inconvenient? ‘Out you go, good dog.’ Who in hell do they think they are?” His voice vibrated with fury.

  Once again, I had the illusion that the puppet’s face moved, and every gesture was completely canine. I thought of every dog I’d ever seen, and I felt an echo of all the anger I’d ever felt. Martin stripped the dog off his hand and laid it back on the table.

  “Take any one of the puppets and go through the catalog of emotions with it,” he said. “There are only a few. The basic ones are fear, anger, shame, love, and joy. Get those down, and then you can go on to variations and subtleties. You feel a lot less foolish after you’ve done it a few times. In fact, awkwardness is probably nine-tenths of what’s wrong to begin with. Do the verbal practice with one that’s easy to move, so you’re not trying to get too much down at once.” Martin smiled at Richard to soften his criticism.

  Richard sipped his tea. Steam from the cup curled around his face like dragon breath. He didn’t look upset by Martin’s remarks. He looked interested, professional.

  I picked up a carved wooden fish from the coffee table. “You made this?” I asked Thu.

  “Oh, yes. It isn’t difficult.” She poured more of the fragrant tea into her cup, and gestured slightly toward mine. I held it out, and Thu refilled it.

  “Do you think you could teach me?” I sipped carefully, afraid of burning my tongue.

  “Of course. I’ll be glad to show you. Remind me next time we get together to work on the sets, and I’ll get you started. It would be wonderful if you learned to carve—you could help with the puppet heads and hands.”

  “I never tried it before. I don’t know if I’d be able to do it. . . .” I left the thought dangling.

  Thu smiled. “I never did it before the first time either,” she said. “I’m sure you can do it. You’re very talented. You can use my tools at first, and then I’ll help you find some of your own.”

  The idea of carving was exciting. Drawing was recording, but carving an animal would be almost like creating a live one. I looked at the fish again, wondering if I could make something like that.

  Or when I’d even have time to try. I didn’t practice with the puppets as much as Richard did, but I did spend a good bit of time on it. And somehow I always ended up doing most of the housework, although Richard kept saying he was going to help. And I’d decided to take Tex up on the modeling offer, if he still wanted me.

  “The Baby”—I was starting to think about it a lot now. I needed a name. Richard wouldn’t discuss it, so I started turning over names in my mind. I didn’t want to think up boys’ names and girls’ both, so I thought of all the ones that would be good for either. Chris was one, but I knew a Chris I didn’t like. Robin, Jackie, Kelly, Lee . . . .

  Richard and I gathered the day’s load of puppets and carried them home. We looked like parents already, and the thought made me smile—today we were parents of Prince Satyavan, a dancing girl, a boy hand puppet, and
a horse. Tomorrow’s children might be a frog, a warrior, or a god.

  I made chili and corn bread for dinner. Eating the spicy food, I watched the sky darken behind the misted-up windows. While Richard washed the dishes, I called Tex. He asked me to model Tuesday nights, and I made a note on the kitchen calendar.

  Richard sponged off the table, whistling the music from one of the clown routines. The prince’s gold robes glittered on the chair in the corner. Richard took out the garbage, and I opened a library book about how to be a good mother. It was pretty dog-eared, and I imagined the city being full of wonderful mothers who had read every word. Richard bustled back, letting the screen door slap shut behind him, and took up a puppet.

  TEACHER: That is Prince Satyavan and his father, a king with no kingdom, for he was conquered and blinded. Satyavan is well-named “Son of Truth”—he is a man of great virtue.

  SAVITRI: Satyavan is the one I will marry.

  I blinked. I hadn’t expected Richard to do the women’s voices. And the falsetto reminded me of the man at the cemetery.

  ASWAPATI: Daughter, you must choose a different husband. I have learned from a holy man that Satyavan will die a year from today.

  SAVITRI: Even so, I will marry Satyavan.

  * * *

  “Why don’t you get married?” asked Sharon.

  “I don’t think Richard wants to,” I said. I had picked a time when he was away to make this phone call, knowing how it was likely to go.

  “He does know he’s going to be a father?”

  “It would be kind of hard to hide it at this point.”

  “I don’t think it’s fair to you. Don’t you mind?”

  I felt like crying, but I didn’t want Sharon to hear that. When we were kids, the only time she ever got in a real fight was when I got picked on at school. “Yes,” I said. “But I’m afraid to push it.”

  “Dad and Mom are upset.”

  “I knew about Mom. She wants me to get an abortion. I guess she doesn’t realize it’s too late for that.”

  “Well, Dad thinks you should get married. It’s certainly not too late for that.”

  “Maybe we will someday. I don’t think this is a good time to mention it.” Don’t cry. Don’t let her know how much it hurts that he doesn’t want me that way. “It’s the war, Sharon. He went through some awful stuff. Let it be.”

  “Well, can Sam and I still visit?”

  “Sure you can. When?”

  “Let’s see, it’s April third. Not this month. Sam’s got a conference and a million other things. Early May?”

  I thought about our rehearsal schedule. “May is fine. Do you still want to stay at the Monteleone?”

  “Let me talk to Sam. He might not want to stay in the Quarter. Especially now that you’re out in Gretna.”

  “When are you getting married, by the way? Speaking of marriage.” I felt a twist of jealousy. Why can Sharon get married and not me?

  “Probably after Christmas. Mom wanted us to wait a while longer so she’d have time to organize a big wedding, but we don’t care about that.”

  “Poor Mom. One daughter too fast, one too slow.”

  “She should have had a third one. Then one could be j-u-u-u-s-t right.” Sharon laughed at her mimicry of a record of “Goldilocks” we’d had when we were little.

  “If Mom had a hundred daughters, none of them would ever be right. I gotta go now. Doing some portrait modeling over in the Quarter.”

  “Love you, Sis. Don’t let it get you down—it’ll work out.” Sharon had been in the middle of quarrels between Mom and me more than once.

  “Eventually. Love you.” I hung up.

  I drove across the bridge and found a parking spot in the Quarter. Tex’s apartment on Dumaine was in a quiet, run-down building with a dry fountain in the courtyard. The class was starting as I got there. Waving me to the only comfortable-looking chair in the place, Tex draped a black Spanish shawl around my shoulders and adjusted a light.

  It was hard to keep still for so long. At first I wanted to squirm. My nose itched, but I knew I wasn’t supposed to move. Then, in the light’s halo, I fell into a near-trance. The fidgets dropped away, and my mind drifted back to Richard and the puppets, to the tale of Savitri.

  NARRATOR: Savitri and Satyavan lived in married bliss for one year. And the time approached that Savitri knew was appointed for Satyavan’s death. For three days and three nights, she knelt at the altar in prayer.

  (Curtain opens to show SAVITRI kneeling at the altar. SATYAVAN enters from stage left, hesitates, then goes to SAVITRI.)

  SATYAVAN: My love, it is good to fast and pray, but you must not forget to rest. Are you troubled over something?

  SAVITRI: (rising to her feet) Yes, but I may not speak of it.

  SATYAVAN: Then I will leave you to your prayers and go to the forest for the day.

  SAVITRI: I will go to the forest with you.

  SATYAVAN: Will you abandon your prayers, then, my love?

  SAVITRI: I will never do that. (aside) He does not know his fate. I will not leave him, wherever he goes.

  (SAVITRI and SATYAVAN exit stage right.)

  I had another quick scene change at that point. The altar and the other trappings of an Indian interior had to be replaced by a believable forest. I wondered if I could use Indian music between scenes to distract the audience while I managed the scenery. Even an extra half a minute would make a big difference. I have the same problem as Savitri—needing to buy a little time. Only it’s not quite as important for a puppet show as when you’re trying to save your husband’s life.

  The curtain would open on Savitri and Satyavan walking through the forest. Or maybe it could open on the empty set, and the two of them could walk onto the stage. That would work better—Satyavan could stumble, to show he was ill.

  SAVITRI: We have walked many miles.

  SATYAVAN: Yes, I am very tired. I will rest for a while. (lies down)

  What would Savitri do then? She might stand near him, or she might sit beside him. She knew he was about to die—surely she’d want to touch him one last time. But then she’d have to look up, startled, as Yama, the god of death, appeared on the stage.

  Thu would be operating Savitri, and I knew she’d make her look frightened but determined. Maybe Savitri would flinch a little, but she would stand her ground as Yama came and claimed Satyavan’s soul. This was a prop detail that I had yet to work out—Satyavan’s soul was to be a tiny likeness of him, concealed somehow in his costume. It would have its own string, and be able to be switched from Satyavan to Yama. Maybe Thu would know how to do that.

  Yama would then turn and walk away, but Savitri would follow.

  YAMA: (turning to SAVITRI) Go back, Princess. I go to the Land of the Dead. Go back. Your husband’s time has come, and yours has not.

  SAVITRI: I will not go back. It is my duty to stay beside my husband.

  YAMA: Savitri, you are brave and loving. But your duty to your husband is over. I will grant you three favors, but none may be the life of Satyavan.

  SAVITRI: Yama, I ask that you restore my husband’s father to all that was his, his kingdom and his sight.

  YAMA: I will grant that. And what else do you ask?

  SAVITRI: Yama, I am my father’s only child. Grant that he may have many more children.

  YAMA: Yes, I will grant that. And what will your last favor be, Princess?

  SAVITRI: Yama, grant that I may have many children—the children of Satyavan.

  YAMA: Savitri, you are as clever as you are brave. I have no choice but to release your husband.

  Richard had struggled with the emotions in the play and how to express them. His acting was improving, but he wasn’t going to win any Academy Awards yet. There were still the basic emotion exercises to do with the hand puppet. Maybe he’d do that this evening, while I wasn’t there to make him self-conscious.

  The class took a break and I looked at the portraits. Some of them were awkward, and these were mor
e or less alike. The good ones all looked like me, but not like each other, as if each artist had seen a different Kathy behind my face. I thought that portraits were a bit like puppetry, trying to get to something that was there but hard to see.

  I picked up a charcoal stub and sketched a face on the back of a scrap of paper while the others chatted over coffee. Tex came up and considered my picture.

  “Ever had art lessons before?”

  “In high school I did. It was my major in college, but I didn’t stay there long. I do scenery for the puppet theater where I work. And one of my bosses is teaching me to carve.”

  “You want to take lessons here? You’re not bad at all.”

  “I don’t think I’d have the money.”

  “You could swap for more modeling.”

  I considered it. I liked the thought of having an art class. It would mean being away from home one evening a week—but Richard and I had gone from hardly seeing each other to spending a little too much time together. Maybe a few hours apart would be good for both of us.

  “Okay, I’ll give it a try.” We dropped the subject as the others came to their places and waited for me to take my place.

  But I thought for the rest of the evening about all the new things in my life. Mom was mad because I’d dropped out of school—she kept saying I’d never go back, not with a child to care for. She probably didn’t like being a grandmother anyway, and a black grandchild was just too much to take. Faculty-wife tea: “How are your sweet daughters doing, Virginia?” “Oh, just fine, Sharon is marrying a doctor!” “And what about the cute little blonde?” “She’s living with a black boy in New Orleans. They’re having a baby.” Uh-huh.

  I wished she could at least see that what I was doing now was better than school. In a way, it was like a real art school—carving, drawing, and making the sets and costumes for the puppets. Even better, because I was learning the puppets themselves, and the folklore that went with them, and about the cultures that the folklore came from. Those things were more important than what I’d found in college courses, too. Especially if Martin was right, that the puppets would make people understand each other better.