by Nina Solomon
Eventually, Grace settled into the rhythm of his abandonment and return, the ebb and flow of the tidal shifts in his appearances. She began to prepare herself for each leaving, holding down the fort with a force equal to his withdrawal, so that by the time Laz handed her the final pink slip, she would have already filled his position.
SHE PUT THE photograph into the cabinet and closed the door. With the dust and fingerprints on the plastic obscuring the image underneath, it looked as if Laz were really fading.
3
A PERFECT MATCH
Tuesday was Marisol’s day off, so Grace could get ready at a more leisurely pace, rather than rushing around in an attempt to leave evidence of two lives. Actually, editing herself was becoming more of an issue, as she was often leaving too many things out and felt that this, in and of itself, could lead to suspicions.
When she and Laz were first married, it had taken Grace some time to get used to the idea of having someone in the house doing the cleaning. Her father had always been the one to do the dishes and the vacuuming in her family. And Laz, not one to pitch in with the household chores, had found Grace too disorganized for his liking. Disorder rattled his nerves. After returning from vacations, Grace would habitually leave her suitcase on the floor for weeks until she eventually ran out of clean clothes. She was lucky if her clothes were right side out in the closet or if they were on hangers at all.
Laz was the type of person who liked the food in the cabinets lined up according to size, and his neckties hung on an automated rack, arranged in a color spectrum. Once he realized that Grace would not adopt his organized ways, he suggested that they hire someone full time. Having Marisol around had made Grace feel self-conscious at first, and she used to dust and do the dishes before Marisol arrived. But eventually she, too, came to rely on this externally imposed order, until she felt she couldn’t get along any other way.
TUESDAY MORNING, AS she used a lipstick brush to scrape a small amount of her favorite lipstick out of its tube, leaving only enough for one more day, she decided it was time to restock. She’d been wearing the same color of lipstick for years—when Laz had first kissed her, when he proposed, and when they were married. She usually bought makeup in triplicate in order to avoid the scrutiny of the makeup artists at the department stores; she felt that they looked at her as if she had no idea whatsoever how to apply foundation or eyeliner, let alone mascara, poor clueless dear.
When Grace went off to college, her mother took a part-time job at the Estée Lauder counter at Bonwit’s in order to fill the void in her life due to what she referred to as her empty nest, even though Grace lived at home and commuted daily to Barnard. Known to make surprise appearances in Grace’s room with Q-Tips or sponges, Grace’s mother reminded her of a bird of prey swooping down with a ten-pound vanity case. Her lesson: It’s all in the application, a matter of having the proper tools; the art of creating another self comes with practice. Her mother hadn’t spent nearly as much time trying to teach her to contemplate what she was trying to conceal, as she did trying to perfect her ability to do so.
Mid-November was almost peak season for shopping. As soon as Grace entered the bustling world of Bloomingdale’s, where her mother had first espoused her most intransigent myths, she was transported back to childhood with the accompanying full range of insecurities. She rarely went to department stores, always feeling lost in the shuffle without the guidance of a weathered shopper such as her mother, who could assuredly negotiate the aisles. The first floor, with its gleaming black-and-white tiled floor, was hallowed ground for Paulette—a place for transformation and the hope of redemption in every department. Just beyond the revolving doors, where shoppers and fragrances competed for air space, anything was possible. And if need be, it could always be exchanged.
As Grace stood in front of the glossy white Clinique counter, listening to the cosmetologist—with her chocolate lip liner and white lab coat—explain that they no longer carried Grace’s shade, she was confronted with the dismal possibility that there was no perfect lipstick, no perfect husband, except in memory, like the Bonne Belle Lip Smackers she and Chloe had mailed away for in seventh grade—Cherry 7-Up. Just the perfect lipstick for the moment like that Heraclitean river that you can’t step into twice.
HER EXPERIENCE AT the cosmetics counter was considerably more upsetting than Grace had anticipated. As she walked up Lexington Avenue, she began to feel what she could only identify as a modicum of panic, so she decided to hail a cab and go directly home.
She turned on the television and switched the channel to CNN. Just as she was putting on the kettle for tea, she heard a headline that caught her attention and went into the living room: Kosovo Controversy—Fact or Fiction? The voice of the reporter droned on like an annoying buzz from a fluorescent bulb. A journalistic account of his harrowing experience in a Muslim concentration camp has come under scrutiny, as new evidence is mounting against . . .
Grace heard the title of Laz’s book and reached again for the remote control. Laz had always said there would be people out to discredit him. But now, locked in her own mercy mission of self-preservation caused by his disappearance, she couldn’t afford to become distracted by Laz’s misery—self-inflicted or otherwise. She didn’t want to feel sorry for him. In order to orchestrate his absence, and evaluate their marriage and her place in it, she found it necessary to maintain complete focus and a measured stance. She would tune out news reports and avoid the papers. Laz’s troubles may now involve a national scandal, but in her home everything would be preserved, even Laz’s reputation.
As she pointed the remote control at the television to switch the station, she thought of her mother, who had read an article in Prevention magazine about the dangers of infrared rays. She had seen her mother duck and weave, accusing her husband of zapping her on purpose when he was changing channels, to avoid being caught in the line of fire.
On the next channel was a holiday fluff story about a company called Heaven Scent that could re-create any fragrance. Grace rarely wore perfume and was reminded of the Little Kiddle perfumery she’d received as a hand-me-down from an older cousin. She recalled using the medicine dropper that came in the kit and working with the precision of a scientist to create the perfect balance of apple blossom, lilac, and lily of the valley. When she’d gotten it just right, she spilled it all over the kitchen floor, and her father was forced to take his dinner into his study for weeks because of his highly developed olfactory sensitivity. Once in a while, Grace would catch a whiff of that same fragrance when she was in the unlikeliest places, such as the Port Authority Bus Terminal, and feel a childlike sense of disappointment that her perfume had not been unique at all.
The television program then gave the name of a company that could match your lipstick color to your outfit or to your poinsettia, if you so desired, by your sending in a sample of the color—even a swatch of fabric—to a cosmetic lab. Sunblock, shimmer, or flavor could be added to achieve an individual lipstick that could even bear the user’s personally chosen name.
Grace scrambled for a pencil and wrote down all the information for the lipstick company along with the Web site address: www.aperfectmatch.com. The fortuitousness of the sequence of events surprised her. All was not lost, as her father would say, and she went into the bathroom to get the tube of Velvet. She rolled it up, hoping there was enough left. Perhaps it was possible that everything past could be recaptured.
Grace went into the study, sat down at Laz’s desk, and turned on the computer. She liked the musical tone emitted as she logged on. Laz had insisted they buy the most up-to-date model, the newest progeny loaded with the latest software, but somehow it was considerably slower in booting up than her old black-and-white Power Book, which she rarely used and at which she was only semi-proficient. Grace much preferred pen and paper, preferably pink paper, which always lifted her mood. It reminded her of her high school days, most of which were not all that memorable, but as was Grace’s tendency, she lo
oked back at most things with a generous quantity of nostalgia.
Actually, she preferred pink to just about any color. She once inquired at her gynecologist’s whether her brand of IUD came in pink instead of the generic-looking white—a pink shimmery material would have done quite nicely.
Once the computer booted up, she typed in the password. It was easy to remember—their wedding anniversary, now only eleven days away. As she waited for the modem to connect, she thought about the night before Laz had left. Grace had felt him stirring in the middle of the night and she’d put her hand on his shoulder. He had turned to her with what she had construed as desire at the time—but now saw as urgency—and had pushed himself inside her until she knew he’d come not once or twice, but at least three times in rapid-fire succession. She was used to his high level of desire, but in retrospect she wondered if he had been making up for lost time in advance.
Invalid password. Please enter the password again. Grace thought she must have typed it in too hastily. Then she noticed the problem. Instead of their own screen name, it read GUEST. Grace thought back to the last occasion when someone else may have used their account, but drew a blank. She must have pressed the wrong command. She switched the name to gingko. The first time Laz had kissed her, the gingko trees that lined the street she lived on were like a bright carpet of yellow paper fans strewn across the pavement. Only a few weeks later, the street would smell rancid from the tree’s overripe seeds littering the sidewalk.
She heard the whirring off-key notes as she was connected to the Internet. She typed in the Web site address of the lipstick company and waited for the page to appear. She hadn’t received a single e-mail, not even a weather update from her father, [email protected], who sent group e-mails and newsletters frequently; they concerned such topics as the shortage of rain in the South that might send the price of orange juice skyrocketing or the threat of global warming.
The lack of mail was disheartening, and Grace suddenly felt like running out and joining FriendsoftheFriendless.com. She was comforted by the thought that it would not be long before she would once again have her lipstick, along with an e-mail confirmation to boot.
She watched the screen as the images popped into view like paper flowers opening when dropped in water. She read the heading utterly confused by what she saw. What do you desire in a perfect match? A questionnaire followed, along with information on how to register, in flowing pink script. It was a dating service. Grace looked at the address, realizing she had inadvertently typed the letter a before perfectmatch. She found her mistake only mildly humorous and was about to log off when one of the questions caught her eye. Can you describe your perfect match in three sentences? If so, then he or she is only steps away.
Grace was curious to see if she could describe Laz with such precision. She began to type and found that rendering Laz was easier than breathing. “He would read Oblomov aloud in bed with champagne and many breaks.” Why get out of bed, if Oblomov doesn’t? he had said, and how could Grace argue? She remembered the breaks more clearly than she remembered any of Goncharov’s words—mostly the sound of Laz’s voice, the rumple of warm white sheets. She continued typing: “When he smiles, there is no hunger for anything else. And when he leaves, he always comes back.”
Three sentences. Succinct and to the point. She was pleased with herself, as if the sheer act of accomplishing the task would somehow bring him back. But as she reread her words, she found herself growing uncertain. Maybe three sentences were not enough. She attempted to type another line, but stopped. Did these three sentences say it all? She rubbed her eyes. She felt the beginnings of a headache. The screen grew fuzzy. No words came.
She selected the lines she had written and pressed the delete key, when suddenly her session was interrupted. She ran to the wall jack, plugged in the phone cord, and picked up the receiver. It was Kane.
“Me, again,” he said.
Grace noticed the receiver was sticky and held it away from her ear. Laz liked to eat while he was talking on the phone; this was probably honey from a peanut butter sandwich. She’d tell Marisol tomorrow.
“Hi, Kane. How are you?”
“I’m getting fed up with your husband. He hasn’t answered a single one of my e-mails.”
“I don’t think he got any e-mails. I was just on-line. Maybe you sent them to the wrong address.” She had a passing thought about the unexplained “guest” she’d found on her computer and quickly dismissed it from her mind. She was about to relay the whole story about aperfectmatch.com to Kane, partly because she knew he would get a kick out of it, but mostly as a diversion from the subject at hand, when she got another call and told Kane to hold on.
Grace pushed the talk button on the handset and heard a dial tone. She pressed the button again, and in the split second while she waited for the connection, she thought that she might have just missed Laz and cut off Kane as well, but then she heard Kane’s voice singing to the radio in the background.
“In a cheery mood, Kane?”
“Always when I talk with you, sweetie.”
“Careful, Laz might get jealous,” she said, but even she knew how preposterous that was. Laz had never once shown even the slightest amount of jealousy. Kane became silent—a rare occurrence for him. She wished the call-waiting would beep again.
“So, are you going to go up to the lake for Christmas?” Grace asked, suddenly noticing that she was sweating even though she hadn’t been warm a moment ago.
“No, my sister’s having the clan over,” Kane answered. “But I’ll be up at the lake for New Year’s.”
Each year, Kane drove them up to the mountains to a Christmas tree farm near his cabin. Grace loved Christmas—she would get so caught up in the festive decorations around the city that she wished they could keep them up all year long. Her parents and the Sugarmans had always celebrated Christmas, even though they were Jewish—a nonsectarian, watered-down version, with potato pancakes just to hedge their bets—but they drew the line at having a tree, which they thought was somehow sacrilegious. But to Grace, the lights and the smell of pine were the most special parts of all.
Her first Christmas together with Laz, he’d insisted on a nine-foot Douglas fir that was too large to fit inside Kane’s Jeep and that had to be tied onto the roof. It had taken a long time to cut down, and Grace’s fingers had gone numb from the cold even though Laz had given her his sheepskin gloves, which were too large for her and so well-worn that they’d assumed the contours of his hands.
Kane’s house was a mile away from the tree farm, and when they returned to the house, he lit a huge fire. They were ravenous, but the only thing to eat in the house was a box of stale Wheat Thins, some crisp apples, and two cans of salmon. Everything else, including a six-pack of Moosehead beer, had iced over.
“How about we all go skating?” Laz suggested, after their meager lunch. He stood up, wiped his hands on his jeans, and looked out the window.
“It hasn’t been cold enough,” Kane said. “It still needs a few more weeks.”
“Come on. Let’s test it.” Laz didn’t wait for an answer; he was already pulling on his boots. “Who’s coming?”
Kane shook his head.
“You guys worry too much,” Laz said as he walked out the door.
Grace watched from the frost-covered window, pressing her fingertips to the glass as Laz walked along the perimeter of the lake then ventured out farther onto the ice. Finally, Kane followed him out and stood by the side, calling him back. Laz stopped walking and began to stomp on the ice with the heel of his boot as if to indicate that it was ready. Kane walked partway onto the ice and pointed to the window at which Grace was standing. Laz turned and waved. Grace waved back, but in her head she was thinking over and over again: please don’t fall. When Laz and Kane returned to the house, Laz wrapped his arms around her.
“See, Gracie believes in me,” he said. As he lifted her into the air, Grace watched her handprint melting on the frosted windowp
ane.
On the ride home, Grace took off her boots and curled up under a woolen blanket that Kane kept in the backseat, and closed her eyes. Laz was in the front with Kane. Every so often, Grace felt Laz’s hand rubbing the soles of her feet, which would clear away her mental image of the ice cracking beneath him. The sensation of having the soles of her feet stroked made her nose tickle—becoming one of Grace’s time-tested signs of true happiness.
SO WE’LL SEE YOU Saturday, right?” she asked Kane.
Still holding on to the hope that Laz would soon return, Grace had planned a small gathering at Sky Rink on Saturday, the week before their fifth anniversary, for thirty or so of their friends and family. Nothing fancy, just pizza and a hero from Ralph’s.
“I wouldn’t miss it,” he answered. “Five years. Unbelievable. Tell Laz to call me when he gets in.”
“I will.”
“Grace?”
“Yes?”
“You know you don’t even need to ask. I’ll always be there for you.” Grace knew there were missing links in the conversation. She had intentionally dropped them like a stitch in needlepoint, to achieve the desired pattern. She knew Kane wouldn’t press her further than she was willing to go.
“Actually, I’d love it if you’d make a toast.”
“Anything for you, Grace.”
Her nose began to tickle as if she were about to sneeze.
4
INNOCENTS ABROAD
Grace was not in the right frame of mind to teach her class, but it was Wednesday, the night Chimera Books, a used bookstore in the west eighties, had been generous enough to allow Grace to use their back room to teach her ten-week course on bookbinding. Laz had done a reading there when his book first came out, the room filled beyond capacity, some people sitting on the windowsills or the stairs. Bookbinding was a term Grace used loosely in the course description that she placed in The Westsider. She believed that most of the students came for the swirling, marbleized endpapers and especially for the gold leaf, which was as magical as butterfly wings for Grace. She had learned the art of bookbinding from her father, mostly creating blank books, to be given as gifts. Occasionally, someone would bring in a flaking family heirloom to class, which would require more guidance than Grace could provide. In those cases, Milton was called in for a consultation.