Silent Bird

by Reina Lisa Menasche

  “Pilar, it is not what I prefer. I prefer to not see you upset so much about this child you do not know. I do not understand your sudden obsession.”

  “It’s not an obsession. I just want to stay informed. This is your village, Jeannot. Your home. If something happened to her…if she was assaulted…don’t you want to know?”

  “Well, of course! Not that I can do anything about it. I hope she just ran away. Anyway…why this one child, why now? You do not even know her.” He ran his fingers through his hair. “Listen, it has been a difficult day, yes? Let’s do something pleasurable. Let’s go out.”

  “Did you ask your parents about her? Do they know what is happening?”

  “Mon Dieu!” More infuriated than I’d ever seen him, he stalked away to the piano bench. He sat down, straightened some sheet music and then just sat staring at me.

  I felt like hiding my backpack under the couch.

  He asked, “Did you develop your photos yet?”

  “No, I…I probably didn’t get any pictures of her or those…boys, anyway. I was”—like a deer in the headlights?—“Never mind. You’re right; I’ll bring them to a shop tomorrow.”

  “Good. Maybe that will help.”

  Help with what? My obsession?

  “Tell me, Chérie,” Jeannot said more gently. “I have one question, and I want you to answer truthfully.”

  I waited with a bad feeling in the pit of my stomach.

  “I was thinking about all of this. You know: what you said about my father the other day…his comments about foreigners, and now this child and whatever has happened to her. I know you do not mean to offend me. I am not offended so easily. But I have to ask you…Is this sabotage?”

  I flinched. “Is what sabotage?”

  “This. All of it. The problem you are having with my parents and my village and maybe even with Thérèse. What is happening to us? To you?”

  I opened my mouth. Then shut it. Surprisingly, he hadn’t mentioned my panic attacks or my late period or me not taking the damn test or me not really wanting to have sex. And I wasn’t going to remind him.

  “Because think about it,” he went on. “We are fine, we are happy, everything is wonderful, and then I ask you to marry me and you start acting…different. You seem distant”—His voice trailed off—“and you have a panic attack. Now you are worrying about this ‘hate crime,’ as you call it. As if it is personal or my family’s fault, as if the police are not capable of making that determination all on their own.” He ran his fingers through his sweaty blond hair. “Are you unhappy with me?” he finished plaintively.

  I shook my head: of course I wasn’t unhappy with him.

  He got up, went to the kitchen for a bottle of sparkling water, and handed me one too. When he returned to the couch, our legs touched and he put his arm around me. I leaned my cheek against his shoulder, wishing I knew how to stop the slipping away. Was this sabotage? Did I secretly want Jeannot’s love to disappear?

  He said into my hair. “I want to understand, Chérie. But—”

  “—you don’t.”

  “No. I am sorry.”

  “I don’t mean to cause problems,” I whispered, lifting my head from the embrace.

  Jeannot touched my chin until I faced him; then he cupped my face in his palms. He kissed each falling teardrop as if tasting the rich and forbidden. “Je t’aime. Je t’aime à la folie,” he said.

  I love you like crazy.

  For a long time we continued to kiss, eyes open. And what we were doing was good, right: inevitable and healthy. We lay on the couch, and I felt myself melt and mold into his long, angular body.

  Then his hands began to wander.

  They found my breasts and squeezed gently before easing the way past the wire fence of my bra. He breathed into my ear, his hands crawling toward the crotch of my shorts; and he murmured, “Nice shorts—but they belong on the floor”—and before I knew it, I was thinking of bathtubs again.

  “Jeannot. Stop!” I shoved him away. Hard.

  He just about fell off the couch—from his surprise, not my strength.

  Oh God, I thought. “Please, I don’t want to do anything right now. I’m sorry.”

  “Ah, bon,” he said. Meaning “Oh.”

  He sat up, alert, as if hearing something I hadn’t said.

  “You could have asked me to stop. Why did you need to—”

  “I know.”

  “Chérie. What is wrong?”

  “It’s difficult to explain. I don’t feel…”

  “What? Sexual? Is sex the problem?”

  “No! I do feel sexy…with you. You’re a wonderful, sexy man, and I love you.”

  “But?”

  “But I don’t”—Why can’t I look at him— “desire it so much lately. I have become”—What? Blank? Afraid? Confused?

  Jeannot let out a loose chuckle. Then the amusement drained from his face.

  “Since when? Can you tell me that, at least? How long have you not desired it much? A week? Two weeks? Three? Since I gave you the ring?”

  Shocked by his words—or mine—I couldn’t answer.

  He folded his arms over his chest as if trying to protect himself from a blow. “What a stupid fucking idiot I am.”

  “Don’t say that. It's not you!”

  But how convoluted and lame all of this sounded—even to me. Of course “it” was him! We were engaged; he was my lover. Who else could it be?

  “I cannot believe I have been trying to make love to you without your interest. All this time.”

  I had gone too far: this was not what I wanted or even meant. “Jeannot, this is my problem; I would have it with anyone. I’ve always had problems with…desire, or with relationships. That’s why I never thought of marriage. Something is wrong with me.”

  He inhaled sharply.

  I forced myself to continue. I was concentrating so hard on the truth, it made my eyes burn.

  “I feel—free to express myself physically when...a relationship is new. Not serious. But later…it changes. I remember when things went wrong with my college boyfriend, Tommy. It was the same as now: panic attacks. I thought that was just with him. I didn’t expect it to ever happen again, not with you.”

  When my speech was over, the man I loved sat there like another arm on the couch. Wooden.

  “I want us to work,” I pleaded. “I love you. Doesn’t that count?”

  A miracle, please.

  Jeannot simply stared at me, eyes wide. “Mon Dieu. I had no idea.”

  I nodded. That was fair enough.

  “Have you ever seen a psychologist? Like the doctor in the hospital recommended?”

  “No.” It was only a small lie: I barely remembered the psychologist I had seen as a little girl and the one in high school had been as confused as I was. “But I will see somebody now, if it helps.”

  “Then I will locate someone for us.”

  “Us?”

  “We are a couple now, yes?”

  “Yes. Thank you,” I said, and I meant it more than I’d meant anything before in my life.

  “Are you scared, Pilar? To see someone about this problem?”

  “Yes, a little.”

  “Me too.” He smiled faintly. “So why don’t we try to relax for a while? We can enjoy each other without worrying about sex.”

  Hearing the word “sex” said so bluntly should not have shocked me—or any young woman, much less one with my history. But it did.

  I am frigid, I thought, keeping my face blank. But how can I be both a slut and frigid?

  Jeannot continued: “What do you say we do massages for a while to help you relax? We won’t Allow sex until you feel better?”

  “I think…that is a good idea.” I paused, fighting the lump in my throat. “Jeannot?”

  “Oui?”

  “I want you to know that—I lied. I have seen a psychologist before. A couple of times, in fact.”

  He nodded.

  “You are not angry
?”

  He shook his head. “You will trust me, eventually. That I do believe. We will trust each other.”

  I was still staring at him when he did an amazing thing. He pulled off his socks.

  “Too hot,” he said, wiggling his toes.

  And suddenly—inexplicably—I felt a burst of something winged and irresistible: a taste of joy? Of love? I was restless with emotion—with regret. And longing. I threw my arms around him and laughed.

  “What is it?” he asked, laughing too.

  “Nothing. Just that I love you very, very much.”

  “That is not nothing, Chérie. It is only the sun and the moon.”

  “Believe me I don’t want to have…a problem.” Say it! “A sexual problem.”

  “Oh, I do not think you have a sexual problem.”

  “No?”

  “Sex involves the brain, Pilar. What we think. That is our most important sex organ. You have a sickness of the mind, or spirit.”

  Wow. Who needed a psychologist? I wished more than ever that Jeannot spoke English. Maybe if he spoke English I would know what exactly to say to him. But French…French was the distant landscape that gave me relief from problems. How to use it to describe things I’d never told anyone in any language?

  As we got ready for bed, he began singing a tune I recognized from the piano. No words, just la, di, da, which sound awfully alike in both French and English. Stark naked and singing and humming, Jeannot slid between the sheets of our bed. Still humming, he watched me pull on my T-shirt. And when I climbed into bed beside him I noticed his response, physically, in the most reassuring way I could think of.

  I actually felt relief. I might not desire sex exactly, not enough, not the way a lover should. But the need for Jeannot to desire me was so tall I couldn’t see over it. I was a young child again, welded to whatever path brought me comfort—and shame.

  Cha-cha-cha.

  IV

  The high school is nearly empty when I show up for counseling. The secretary who got stuck working all summer sits under some plants in the corner, her glasses dangling from a chain around her neck. She says hello, cranes forward her neck and pushes on her glasses to stare at me, and the tendrils of the spider plant are nothing compared to how far out her eyes bulge.

  I knock on the psychologist’s open door. Dr. Minfield waves me in. Unshaven with smudges visible under his glasses, he looks tired. Tired and hungry; he’s busy devouring a pastry as I cross the room and sit. To my surprise, he doesn’t stop eating to start our session. I know he’s going to ask me about TAG; TAG, who has been high on the Doc’s agenda lately. And I am so tired of the questions yet not at all tired of coming to this office. I wonder how Doc feels about me, if he’s as happy as I am when we’re together. He notices my legs at least. That I know.

  When every crumb of the pastry is consumed, he leans back, folds his hands behind his neck and sighs. “Sorry to spring this on you, Pilar, but I'm going to have to take some time off. At least a month, maybe longer. I've got, well, some personal things to attend to. Things I didn’t expect. So we’ll need to conclude our sessions together. I usually like to give my students more notice. I am very sorry about that.”

  I did not expect this. I close my gaping mouth and ask, “Are you stopping with everyone, or just me?”

  “With everyone, of course. Don’t be silly.”

  “I’m not silly. Just hurt.”

  He flushes, holding the bridge of his glasses with one finger to keep them from sliding off his nose; I’m tempted to go into the other room and snatch the secretary’s chain off her neck.

  “Come on, don’t be like that, Pilar. I work at two schools, and the other one is much busier. But busy or not, I do need to take time off there too. This is not personal. Everything is not about you. We’ve discussed that.”

  “Right.”

  “I’ve enjoyed our talks,” he says softly.

  “Really?”

  “Really. You are a bright, creative girl with a great sense of humor. Why shouldn’t I?”

  Because I’m a kid, I want to shout. And because you like me. You think I’m cute. You want to jump my bones as much as I want to jump yours.

  “We’re practically friends, aren’t we?” I say instead. “And friends watch out for each other. I can tell you’re upset.”

  “Thank you for your concern. It’s very kind of you. But please don’t worry about me.”

  “Am I right? Are you upset?”

  “Hey, I’m the counselor here.” He tries a smile and fails. “Okay, smarty-pants, I guess I am upset. You’re very perceptive.”

  “Are you married?” Again, a question on impulse and, again, I don’t expect an answer.

  But Dr. Minfeld says, “Not anymore I'm not.”

  “Oh. Really? You’re getting divorced?”

  “Yes. Yes, I am getting divorced, not that I should be talking about this to you, young lady.” He stands. “I really must say goodbye now. I don’t think this is a good time for you to be here.”

  Because you want me. And I want you! What's so bad about that?

  When he holds out his hand, I initiate our ritual handshake: fist, palms, thumbs, fist. Finally he does smile, big and bright: very un-psychologist-like. My heart isn’t beating right as I throw my arms around his neck.

  At first he doesn’t do anything to stop me. He just stands there, frozen, letting me do the hugging. Until finally he thaws and curls his long torso to hug me back. I can feel his heart thundering, too. Sounds like our hearts are dancing madly together: a high-speed cha-cha-cha…

  Except…we shouldn’t be doing this. He shouldn’t be hugging me, and I shouldn’t be hugging him, this nice guy who has tried to help me. I shouldn’t press my body against his. That’s what’s wrong—the fact that I know what’s right and wrong, yet I do the wrong thing anyway. I want to do the wrong thing.

  Suddenly disgusted with myself, I yank away. “Don’t worry about me, I’ll be fine,” I say, and grab my backpack and nearly run past the buggy-eyed secretary and her spidery plants, out of the summer-dead school office into the heat-dead real world.

  Slut! Pilar IS a slut. To taunt me, my mind uses the voices of the kids at school, kids who already know about me; guys and girls who know that I slept with a teacher. How disgusting; the biology teacher wasn’t even young and handsome like Dr. Minfield.

  Even TAG won’t talk to me anymore. Slut!

  So what do I do when my friends and enemies know about me, and TAG, and now the cutie-pie school psychologist? What would any moron with a reputation like mine do?

  Try to seduce him too: that’s what!

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  I

  “Sweet dreams tonight,” Jeannot said as we lay in bed.

  It was the next weekend, seven days before his big concert. Saturday night, the heavy syrupy scent of mimosa wafting in…and no sex for us just yet. No massages either though we’d been cuddling and kissing a lot. Just innocent romance and sleep: what could be better than that?

  “Sweet dreams and no sleepwalking, I promise,” I said, and held onto him like a kid learning to ride a bicycle.

  II

  “Every rose has a thorn and every thorn has a rose,” Mama says, reaching out to touch my pigtails. “You know what that means?”

  “No, what?”

  “Well, you know that roses have thorns. That’s why we have to be careful touching them. And I’m saying that thorns have roses too. It means that even something ugly or painful has its nice moments, and vice versa. You understand?”

  “Yes,” I say, though I don’t. Ugly and painful things are never nice. Why does Mama say they are?

  “In Ladino it sounds like this. De la rosa, sale el espino, del espino sale la rosa.”

  “Ladino’s funny,” I say, giggling, and she giggles too.

  “No, you’re the funny one! But, Pilar, I bring this up because I’m trying to say we should accept misfortunes, even ones we don’t understand. Some things a
ren’t meant to be understood.”

  “Oh,” I say. Not understanding.

  “Do you have a picture you want to show me, honey?” she asks suddenly. “Your latest one from school? Your teacher called and told me about it.”

  That drawing is still in my book bag. It’s next to a box of newly sharpened pencils, a book on turtles, and some brown leaves that I have decided to save and put back on the trees in the springtime. I hope that Mama will not get sad when I show her my picture, just say she likes it and hang it on our new pink refrigerator. Miss Guest looked sad and asked a lot of questions: Does your father live with you? When was the last time you saw him?

  “How beautiful,” Mama says. But she’s frowning at it; at the three people on a beach near a forest filled with large rabbits, multicolored birds and happy-looking trees. “Pilar, there are no mouths again. You didn’t give anybody a mouth. Shouldn’t you finish their faces?”

  “Um”—I think so hard my head hurts—“I guess so. Except then they’ll get The Bad Eye.”

  “Bad eye? Honey…is this because of that healer we went to?”

  I wait, trying to guess whether she wants me to say yes or no. The healer was so old her eyes looked yellow and her mouth puckered like a baby’s. She had knuckles as swollen as tree trunks: full of bumps and knobs and spots. And her clothes! The lady wore a long gown and robe like pajamas but with a small woolen hat. She wore a pretty golden brooch and a belt around a belly bigger than Santa Claus’. Even if she wasn’t jolly. In a dark room full of chattering parakeets in cages, I sat on thick red carpets and listened to her chant:

  “For the heavens, and the earth, for the ocean and the sand, and for the sand, and for the seventy of the Sanhedrin, for those who swear in truth for the Synagogue and the Lord, may the evil eye leave you!”

  After the prayer the lady poured water into a pan, threw in a fistful of salt, and washed my arms and legs with a cold rag. It tickled. I tried to be still, tried to be good, tried to make everyone happy by letting them do what they wanted. But I didn’t know why I was supposed to bathe in salt when I usually have to bathe to get salt off me. Like after a day at Robert Moses beach when Mama says I can’t sit down to dinner unless I shake my towel first and then march straight into the bathroom.