Literacy and Longing in L. A.

by Jennifer Kaufman

  Maybe Fred’s right. Maybe I have no business meddling in his family’s problems. But I know that I can’t get on that plane. So I’m just going to go with that and take care of Bea and Harper and let Fred do whatever he’s going to do. Maybe when I get back to my apartment, he’ll be standing there waiting for us. I actually hope he’s not.

  Border Crossings

  “Where am I going? I don’t quite know.

  What does it matter where people go?”

  ~ A. A. Milne (1882–1956), When We Were Very Young, “Spring Morning”~

  Normally at this point I would go on yet another self-indulgent book bender. Hell, there’s sure reason enough to do it. But I just don’t feel like it, even if I could, which I can’t, because I have houseguests.

  On the way home, I tell Bea that, as it turns out, I can’t just pick up and go to Mexico on the spur of the moment. Bea is silent for a minute and then says, “I hope I’m not the cause of troubles between you and Fred. We could have gone to a motel.” How can I tell her what’s really going on—that her son’s a jerk. Maybe the truth is best.

  “I just got an assignment and can’t leave. I’ve worked it out with Fred.” I bat away my mother’s old rhyme in my head. Oh, what a tangled web we weave when first we practice to deceive.

  “Well, I’m glad things are okay. Lord knows, along with everything else, I wouldn’t want that on my head,” Bea says.

  “Absolutely. You’re going to love my place.”

  Bea makes herself right at home. She offers to go to the market and make Salisbury steak and mashed potatoes, but I don’t have the strength for it. So she’s making pasta for dinner. She doesn’t have a lot of options. I have some spaghetti and canned sauce, but she’s added onions and garlic and the whole place smells great. I’m tempted to open a bottle of wine. Maybe later.

  Just as I’m about to collapse on the couch, the doorbell rings. Who could that be? Why didn’t Victor buzz me? There’s only one person who has a pass and key to my apartment. Virginia rings the doorbell as a courtesy, but in about two seconds the doorknob is going to turn. Either Virginia or Camille is having a meltdown. As I pull the doorknob she’s pushing from the other side. I can now hear the screams loud and clear. Not a good day for baby Camille. And I’m so drained. But she did just rescue me.

  “What’s wrong with her?” I ask. Virginia enters in her usual exasperated state when her child is inconsolable. All her paraphernalia is hanging on the stroller; Camille’s face has turned purple and tears are streaming down her face.

  “I feel so awful. I banged her head when I was getting her out of the car and she was so cranky anyway. Andy’s been working late so he’s no help.” She hands me the baby. “I’m getting some ice.”

  Then she sees Harper and Bea. “Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t know you had company. You never have company.” Nice, Virginia. I do the introductions.

  “This is Bea and Harper, FRED’S mother and niece.” Code to Virginia to keep her mouth shut about Fred.

  “Oh, so nice to meet you both…” She looks at me like “what’s going on?”

  “They’re having a few problems with their house, so they’re staying here tonight. Fred had to go out of town.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” Virginia says, trying to be polite, but she is distracted by Camille’s incessant screaming. Meanwhile, Harper is edging closer and closer to the baby until she timidly reaches out her hand and strokes Camille on the shoulder. Camille gazes at her with wonder, fascinated. Babies always seem to respond to young children’s faces. Harper starts giggling and smiling and Camille makes a few little hiccups and then stops crying.

  “Can I hold her?” Harper asks. Virginia nods okay, grateful to have someone else take over. Bea fusses around, adjusting the baby in Harper’s lap as Harper holds out her finger and Camille grabs it. “Look, Grandma. She’s holding my hand.”

  It is now almost dinnertime. Camille is quietly playing with Harper on the floor and Virginia has just had an in-depth conversation about organic hair dyes with Bea. They’ve gotten to the whole Harper Lady method thing and I can tell Virginia is digging it. I’m setting the table when I overhear words in whispered tones like “trashed,” “all my dishes,” “Harper’s bedspread,” “druggies.” The whole dreadful story.

  “Oh my god,” Virginia responds. “I have a whole set of dishes in my garage I can lend you.” Yes, indeed. Now is the time to open the wine.

  I wonder what Fred is thinking right now, if he’s had a flash of conscience. I check my e-mail. Nothing. I check my cell phone. Nothing. This whole thing is pretty incredible. Fred always takes care of Fred. Oh, maybe that’s not fair. He did help Bea. But I keep asking myself over and over, how could he just abandon them now?

  After my third glass of wine, Camille falls asleep and, as we all sit down to dinner, Bea raises her glass and says, “I’d like to propose a toast. To Dora. For taking us in. The Bible tells us that a faithful friend is the medicine of life. And that’s what you are. And we love you.” I am touched, a little drunk, and a little depressed. It’s starting to hit home about Fred.

  Virginia, who’s also a little smashed, chimes in, “To Harper and Bea, wonderful new friends. We love you too.” What is she doing? It’s not like her to be this effusive.

  After dinner, Virginia and I clean up while Bea gives Harper a bath.

  “Now I see what you like about her. She’s so unusual and lovely. By the way…where’s Fred?”

  I knew she’d corner me sooner or later.

  “He’s a piece of shit. He left them to deal with all this stuff. Can you believe it? It’s over for me, that’s for sure. And don’t say you’re glad.”

  “I’m really sorry, Dora.”

  “I hate him.”

  “Okay. I got it.”

  I go on, I can’t stop myself. “You know where he is right now?” I whisper loudly, “He’s sitting on some beach having a margarita. That’s what was so urgent. He’s a selfish pig.”

  “Oh, dear. He has such a nice mother. And Harper is so unspoiled.”

  “Yeah, he’s the black sheep. I guess every family has one.”

  Virginia gives me a knowing look. In our family, Dad’s the mutton.

  Meanwhile, I hear loud whining coming from the guest room. Harper, clad in pink thermal jammies, runs into the kitchen, with Bea following. She clutches her blankie and looks unhappy.

  “Are you okay?” I ask Harper.

  “My head hurts.” She pouts.

  Bea strokes Harper’s head. “It’s been a long day, sweetie. You need to go to bed. Say good-night and thank Dora.”

  “No.” She drops on the floor.

  “Now, Harper. You’re nice and clean and the floor’s dirty. Get up and let’s get to bed.” Bea has a slight panic in her voice. She knows what’s coming.

  “No. I’m not going to bed. I’m not tired.”

  “Honey, it’s nine o’clock. Way past your bedtime.”

  “No.”

  “Okay. I’m counting to three and then you lose TV for a week.”

  At this point Harper starts wailing.

  “No. I don’t want to lose TV.”

  “Well, then get up and let’s go to bed.”

  “No! No!” She’s wailing and tears are streaming down her face. I don’t know why, it’s insane, but strains of the saccharine good-night song from The Sound of Music dance in my head as I envision the Von Trapp children merrily pirouetting off to bed one by one. “So long, farewell, auf Wiedersehen, adieu…”

  Bea tries to pick up Harper, but it seems she’s made of lead. Bea can’t budge her. The baby wakes up and starts to scream. I try to comfort Harper and she kicks me in the shin. Virginia rushes over to Camille to pick her up.

  “Now look what you’ve done, you woke up the baby!” Bea says, mortified. “Why are you being so naughty? I don’t know what’s wrong with you!”

  “I want my mommy,” she sobs. “I don’t like you. And I want to go home!”

 
; All of us look at each other. It’s obvious now what’s going on. Bea melts. She starts to cry as well and sits on the floor and hugs Harper.

  “We all miss your mommy. And we’ll go home tomorrow. You’ll see. Your room will be perfect in no time.”

  My god, this has turned into a catastrophe. And that bastard just left them like this.

  “Do you want me to read to you?” I say. “You can come into my room and sit on my bed.” No reaction. She’s still crying. “I have jelly beans. All colors.”

  “Okay,” she says as she starts to get up. Bea is still on the floor, her eyes filled with tears, and Camille is still howling.

  “I think we’ll be going now,” says Virginia, holding the screaming baby and pushing her stroller out. “Really nice meeting you, Bea. I hope everything works out. I’m so sorry.”

  “I’m the one who’s sorry, Harper isn’t usually like this,” Bea says, getting up.

  “I think she’s very brave,” Virginia says, looking at Harper.

  “Bye, Ginny. I love you, see you later,” I say.

  Harper is standing next to me sucking her thumb. I put my arm around her and we walk into my bedroom.

  “Where are the jelly beans?”

  “Right here.” I grab a jar from my dresser. Do these things get old? I think they’ve been here since Easter. Too late now. I open the jar and hand her the whole thing. We settle on my bed with the jar between us. They taste okay to me.

  I have a shelf in my bedroom filled with special books from my childhood, and before dinner I grabbed a few, thinking we could read them later. I pick up Now We Are Six, tossing aside Virginia’s dog-eared, high-school copy of Winne Ille Pu, for Latin junkies.

  It’s so strange about Milne. He was a sourpuss like Dr. Seuss. I’ve decided that from now on I’m going to ignore disappointing autobiographical details. I’m not going to let the fact that Christopher Robin thought his dad was a stiff take away from the charm and gentle humor of the verse. His poems are funny, reassuring, and comforting. Not at all “quaintsy-waintsy,” as Dorothy Parker scoffed in one of her New Yorker reviews about A. A. “Whimsey-the-Pooh” Milne, who apparently was her “literary mortal enemy.”

  I read a few lines to Harper and then she says, “Let me.” I hear her little wispy voice as she reads, “The End.”

  “But now I am Six, I’m as clever as clever.

  So I think I’ll be six now for ever and ever.”*

  Ripping Off Rudyard

  My little old dog:

  A heart–beat

  At my feet.

  ~ Edith Wharton (1862–1937) ~

  The next morning, Bea and Harper are up by seven. I can smell coffee brewing in the kitchen before I get out of bed, and then Harper lightly taps on my door. She says they’re ready to go home whenever I’m ready to take them.

  Bea has found my flour and meager cooking supplies and has thrown together an impressive breakfast of hotcakes and powdered sugar.

  “I’m sorry there’s no syrup,” I say to Harper.

  “That’s okay. Grandma found sugar.” She’s clearly delighted.

  After breakfast, Bea washes and puts away all the dishes while I get dressed. I find her sitting out on my terrace squinting into the glaring sunlight. The potted pink and white peonies, my favorite flower, are exploding in extravagant, frilly blooms and are lined up like Easter bonnets along the wall. I tell her that she can stay with me until the mess is cleaned up. Bea smiles at me kindly.

  “I have friends who will help us through this. You don’t need to worry so much, Dora. I didn’t get to where I am without a little vinegar in my veins. But yesterday, I tell you, I don’t know what I would have done without you.”

  “Have you talked to Fred?” I ask. It occurs to me that maybe Bea knew the situation with Fred all along.

  “No. I haven’t. But I know you two had a disagreement and I’m sorry about that. I hope we can still be good friends.”

  “I’d like that, Bea. I’ll get the keys and take you home.”

  I have a hard time dropping them off. The place looks like a disaster and the cleaning crew still hasn’t arrived. I can tell Harper is hesitant as I hug her good-bye. I ask Bea again if she’d like me to stay. She says no. It’s obvious she doesn’t want to impose any more. I hope they catch those bastards.

  I get back into my car and try to figure out the route home. I can’t face getting back on the freeway today. Then Brooke calls.

  “Hey, Dora. Good news. You have another assignment. It’s Top Dog Poetry Contest on Venice Beach and the editor wants you to cover it.”

  “Now, why would he pick me…” I say knowingly.

  “You got it. You’re our shaggy dog stringer. You’ve found yourself quite a little niche—no one here gives a shit about animals, and you know how people are about their dogs.”

  I briefly think about Brawley and Palmer. Not in that order.

  “Let’s see. ‘Plus je vois l’homme, plus j’aimie mon chien.’ ” Okay, I’m showing off a little.

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  “It’s Pascal. It means, the more I know of man, the more I love my dog.”

  “Like my date last night, and I don’t even have a dog.”

  “Want to hear another one?”

  “Save it for the piece. I’m up to here with dogs. My neighbor’s Lab howls all night and I’m seriously considering dog court. Or poisoned meat.”

  There’s no time to change my clothes. By the time I get to the Dog Beach Zone near the boardwalk, a crowd of people are already shepherding their dogs to a small, flagged-in arena flanked by dozens of booths selling pet-related paraphernalia. It’s like a canine revival meeting minus the hallelujahs. The event organizer is a preppy young man in his early thirties with a Lands’ End kind of look. He is rousing the crowd with invocations to dogdom using buzzwords like common bond, devotion, bravery, and unconditional love.

  I meet my photographer, a wiry, chain-smoking, balding loser with three cameras slung around his shoulder and a bulging dirty canvas camera bag hanging on the other. In the Times hierarchy, a freelancer, such as myself, is lower than dirt and the assignment is filler at best. This guy is making it clear that he’s just here to get a token shot. I introduce myself and he looks around.

  “This is stupid. I’m outta here.”

  “You need to stay at least until they start reading. It’s a poetry contest,” (you slob).

  “Looks like a bunch of fleabags to me.” He snorts.

  I ignore him as the organizer steps up to the podium.

  “Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, mutts and hounds, puppies and pointers, and all the rest of you highfalutin, verse-spouting, muzzle-faced mongrels. Ha, ha, ha. I know you’ve all worked very hard on your poems, so I’ll just get the ball rolling. Here goes. ‘Ode to Rose.’ ‘Good dog, good dog, you make my days complete…I think of you in the morning and when I go to sleep.’”

  Oh my god. Is this for real? The photographer snickers and shoots a couple pictures.

  “That’s it for me,” he states.

  I look around at the waiting contestants with their dogs. A young woman’s trim little Doxie with a glossy chestnut coat has dropped to the ground and is furiously scratching his neck and ears. Nearby, an elderly man’s cloddy English sheepdog has his head planted in a schnauzer’s butt. The schnauzer’s neck and back hairs start to bristle and then he whips around and clamps his jaws on the dog’s neck, at which point the owners leap into action, trying to separate them.

  The organizer ignores the scuffle, finishes his poem, and introduces the next entry. This poem is just as maudlin as the one before; the dog’s cute though. It’s kind of a short, stocky terrier mix with a Fu Manchu mustache trailing on either side of his snout. He sits at attention and gazes adoringly at his owner while she reads her embarrassing poem. I’m thinking that I can’t possibly quote this in the article. I’d be the laughingstock of the newsroom. On the other hand, that’s probably what they want.
I’m not making fun of these people. No, I’m not. Even though they can’t write their way out of a paper bag.

  I endure four more moronic odes to Buddy, Gypsy, a mongrel named Elmo, and a whippet named Stick. Then, what turns out to be the winning poem knocks me for a loop. An elderly woman leading an enormously fat, wheezing English bulldog starts to read.

  “Brothers and sisters, I bid you beware.

  Of giving your heart to a dog to tear.”*

  Wait a minute! What is this? I know that poem. It’s Kipling! It’s Rudyard fucking Kipling! I look around. No one’s saying a word. She reads on and finishes the poem.

  There is wild applause, barking, yapping, straining on leashes. It seems I’m the only one who knows. Now what? I’m obliged to interview her because she’s the first-prize winner (a twenty-five-dollar gift certificate to PETCO), but what to say? Do I turn her in? Do I give her a knowing wink? She looks so nice and honest and sweet. She’s crying as they hand her the award. Now she’s giving her acceptance speech.

  “…And I want to dedicate this award to my late husband, Charles, who wrote this poem and who loved this dog more than his life.”

  Okay. I need this story to be good. I really want my job back. If I out her, will it make this a better story? Probably. But I can’t do it. Who could do it? Brooke. Brooke could do it. Fuck Brooke. I’m not doing it.

  I briefly interview the woman, who tells me about her husband, who taught high school English for thirty years. Makes sense. And then I go home to write the story. It would be so easy to belittle these people or to turn this into a hokey, small-town Garrison Keillor vignette. Then again, I hate Garrison Keillor and his faux, twangy down-home voice. I decide to try a different tack. I go to my bookshelf and pick out a collection of poems by Thurber, Lord Byron, Elizabeth Barrett Browning, John Cheever, John Updike, and others, all of whom were well-known dog lovers and praised the legendary relationship between dog and master. The material is rich with sentiment and humor, like Byron’s epitaph to Boatswain, his dog, born 1803, died at Newstead Abbey in 1808. The last two lines of his tribute are