How long since anyone saw me this way? “Not today,” I tell him with a secret smile I know he will like. And something about the quirk of his lips then makes me notice how young he is. That’s the only part the goddesses got wrong.
In my imagination, Lucille snorts. I ignore her. “How old are you, Angel?”
“Thirty-three,” he says, and smiles, showing his big shiny teeth. “Not so young, huh?”
When I was graduating from high school, he was headed into what, third grade? I take a breath, focus my gaze on the sidewalk rolling out before us beneath shedding trees. Our feet crunch through piles of crisp leaves. “You’re lucky to be able to travel. I’ve never had much of a chance.”
“Americans always say that.”
“Maybe it’s easier when the countries are close together.”
He lifts a shoulder. “Australians travel. To Europe, to America.”
“True.”
“So why don’t Americans do it so much?”
I think of my own reasons. “It’s expensive, I guess, but that’s not really it. It costs a lot more to buy an expensive vehicle, like an SUV or something.”
“And you like your cars, very much.” He points to the shiny black Suburban parked in front of a small bungalow.
I laugh softly. “Oh, yes. I think travel seems more expensive because it’s not something you have to do. It’s a luxury.”
He looks at me. “Is it?”
“Is it necessary?”
“For the mind,” he says, nodding, and touches the center of his chest. “For the soul. To see what else lies around the world, to see how people do things, to share your own ways.”
I walk beside him quietly for a moment. He’s wearing sturdy Teva sandals, and his feet are long and tanned, with long toes. Graceful feet. Feet that have carried him around the world. “I suppose if more Americans traveled with honest intentions, there would be less hatred of us, wouldn’t there?”
“Sí.” He smiles at me gently, as if he is the instructor and I the student. “Now, how did you come to love Lorca, Trudy?”
There’s genuine interest in his voice, so I allow myself to tell him about Lucille, and the winding path to discovering Lorca one dusty winter day in my sophomore year. Angel feeds me questions to keep me talking, and before I know it we are turning up our street, and stand in front of my house for a moment in the lovely bright morning, talking a little longer.
And for the first time since I met Rick Marino twenty-some years before, I realize I am flirting with someone. I forgot how it felt. There I am one moment, and then something in me turns, and I remember how to incline my head, how to look at him sideways. Something in me is devouring details—his cheekbones, his throat. His skin is so smooth, I want to pet it, rub it.
Now he says to me, “I have music from Spain. Flamenco, too.” His eyes are steady on mine. Open. “I would love to play some for you”—he lifts a shoulder—“some evening. I will cook. Feed your dreams of Spain, eh?”
“I would love that.”
“Good. And perhaps you will do the same for me. Show me your music, your special dishes.”
I laugh, and the sound surprises me. It’s big and green. Genuine. “I’m not much of a cook.”
“I do not think that is true. You are a sensual woman, no? Cooking is a sensual thing.”
It startles me, this sudden richness in his voice, and as if to underscore it, he blinks, slowly, and smiles. If he were my contemporary, if it were any other situation, I would think he wanted me. “Thank you for a good conversation, Trudy.”
“Anytime.”
As he walks away, I find I’m remembering Lucille. Angel reminds me of her—she used to say the same things about travel. A wisp of the girl I was stands to one side, an eyebrow lifted as she reminds me I used to know it myself.
She shimmers a moment in the light, smelling of patchouli and dreams.
* * *
The local Lowe’s is crowded to the rafters. I have come here to buy paint, and there are magazine photos in my hands. It’s wicked to pick out paint for the living room without consulting anyone, but it’s my house and I’m thinking of something vivid for one wall, something I wouldn’t be able to do if Rick were there. Red. Or rather, a red orange, burnt orange almost, to match the gown in a Edwardian painting I have hanging on one wall.
I love hardware superstores. The smell of fresh wood, the rows and rows and rows of possibilities in every aisle. Border paper and hammers and chains; tiles and carpets and lighting fixtures. I never miss a chance to admire the kitchen and bath possibilities. It’s a serene activity, and it adds a lot to my sense of well-being this afternoon. There is a gorgeous Arts and Crafts lighting fixture with stained glass that would be beautiful in my kitchen, and as I turn down the tiling aisle to admire the ceramics, I’m wondering if it would be extravagant to do something like that.
And my soap bubble of peacefulness, so fragile to start with, explodes, because there at the end of the aisle is Rick.
With Carolyn.
It’s the first time I’ve seen her in several months, and I see again with bewilderment that she is ordinary. Even plain. I mean, if you put us side by side and said, “Which is the mistress and which is the wife?” you’d pick me as the mistress every single time.
She isn’t tall; she isn’t short. She’s not fat. She’s not thin. She’s not blond or redheaded or brunette, just that bland color in between all of them. She’s older than me, and it shows that she’s smoked her whole life, in the little lines on her top lip and through her cheeks. Her eyes are good, I have to admit. Susan Sarandon eyes. In fact, she reminds me a bit of Sarandon, enough that I can’t stand the actress anymore, and I loved her a lot once.
The difference is that Carolyn has no sheen. Not even Glamour Shots could make her look good.
Okay, I take it back. She has good breasts. It’s hard not to admire the pear-shaped weight of them beneath her blue sweater. And I think she must be one of those women who tan to a rosy gold. Probably her hair gets streaks in the summer, too. A sun goddess in a bikini.
Still. She isn’t smart, she isn’t accomplished, she’s a failure at marriage, and her kids are running wild all over town, and as I’m standing there frozen, my heart pounding so hard I think it might be possible I will have a heart attack right there, they turn around and see me.
I can’t move. All I can think is that I hope my hands aren’t shaking as visibly as it feels like they are.
Carolyn sees me first and dives behind Rick, her hands on his shoulders, like I’m going to come after her. I roll my eyes. I mean, yeah, she might have reason to be afraid, but really.
“Oh, please,” I say to her. “If I was going to kick your ass, I would have already done it.”
Rick’s face has the expression that reminds me of our sons’ when they were busted doing something they knew they shouldn’t be doing, but they were going to brazen it out in hopes of a lesser punishment. I meet his eyes. Toss my hair out of my face. Pass by close so I can say quietly to his ear, “I hope she likes your vampire teeth.”
Adrenaline carries me around the corner. I head blindly for the paint samples. By the time I reach the display, I’m panting and my hands are shaking so hard that I have to tuck them under my armpits. I practice yoga breathing, and after a minute it helps.
He was holding her hand. He’s always claimed that he thought that was smarmy. And I agreed with him.
Things change, I guess.
“Something I can help you with, ma’am?” a thirtyish boy asks me.
Ma’am. Why not just say old lady? “Maybe in a minute.”
How do people get through this? How can they stand the buffets of humiliation, over and over again? It’s like the endless winds, stopping and starting. Stopping and starting. I want to bow my head and howl, but I just keep doing the breathing. There are millions and millions of divorced women in the world. Some of them have to be happy.
Finally, I can at least look at the samp
les. I choose a poppy shade in a semigloss, the highest quality, and have the boy mix it up for me. It seems like a victory.
On the way home, I realize I have no candy for the trick-or-treaters, and stop in Mo’s grocery. When I carry up the bags of tiny chocolate bars, he says, “So, how’s that husband of yours? I see him yesterday.” He gives me a big smile. “He been bad, huh?”
“Yeah,” I bite out.
“It happens, no? Marriage, she goes up and down.”
I glare at him. “I guess.”
“A little work, you’ll be happy again.”
“We’re divorcing, Mo.” I hand him a ten. “He’s not living with me, okay?”
“You make a place for him, he’ll come home,” he says, and puts the change gently in my hand. “You’ll see.”
“Whatever.”
In my car, I can’t help but sigh. The Iranian KwickWay and Marriage Fix-It Shoppe. Right in your very own neighborhood.
We must get beyond textbooks, go out into the bypaths and untrodden depths of the wilderness and travel and explore and tell the world the glories of our journey.
JOHN HOPE FRANKLIN
17
TRUDY
Annie has awakened and flown the coop by the time I get back. There’s a note on the table from her: no work tonight. She’ll be home early—just went to the movies with her friends. It cheers me marginally. I’ll have some supper ready, in case she wants to eat.
Still determined not to brood, no matter what, I visit Roberta for a little while. Jade has gone to Denver to visit her mother, and Roberta is sorting through old books and papers, separating them into boxes. Her spirits seem subdued, but good. What she seems is a little winded, like it’s all too much. “Maybe,” I say, “you need to just rest a little bit, Roberta. Why don’t we have a cup of tea?”
“Well,” she says, and frowns in a befuddled way at the circle of boxes around her. “I guess that would be all right. Would you put on the water, honey?”
“Sure thing.” I return in a minute and sink down on the floor. “What is all this?”
“Pictures,” she says. “Letters. Can you believe it? I got letters in here back as far as 1935.”
“Is there some way I can help you?”
She blinks as if this possibility has never occurred to her. “Why, I reckon you could.” She points at the boxes. “They’re all labeled, one for each of my children. I’m trying to be fair, so each of them has a piece of the history. I don’t expect Earl to give a hoot one way or t’other, but his wife’s a good woman. She’ll take care of it for the grandchildren. I’ll give Earl something nice of his daddy’s—maybe the watches. Edgar collected them, you know.”
“Yes.”
She pauses with a stack of letters in her hand. “These are some Edgar wrote me in the war. He wasn’t much of a speller, but I got the idea.” The papers start to tremble, and she raises her kind brown eyes. “You know,” she says in her sweet voice, “I just don’t know how I’m goin’ to do this, Trudy. Live without him.”
I reach for her hand, and hold it. “Did he write you love letters?”
She looks down at the letters in her hand. “He did.”
“Would you like to read me one of them?”
Her face crumples, and I’m afraid I’ve said the wrong thing. “Oh, I know it’s silly, that all I want to do is talk about him. I know everybody’s goin’ to get tired of it.”
“I won’t. Why don’t you read me one?”
“All right.” She lets go of my hand to slip out one thin sheet from a yellowed envelope. There are holes cut in it. “See those? That’s from the censors.”
I smile.
Roberta begins to read.
“ ’Dear Berta. Hope this letter finds you fine as you always are. When I get home, I want you to wear that red dress, the one with buttons all up the front. Can you guess what I’m gonna do with them buttons?
“ ‘It ain’t like home here, Berta. Folks take us in just the same as the white soldiers. They’s just as happy to see us. Been a long war for some of ’em. Give your mama my love. Know that I’m thinking about you all the time, sugar-girl. No woman for me but you. (I know how you worry!) Your man for now and for always, Edgar.’ ”
She’s smiling as she folds the letter up again. “I didn’t worry, you know. He was the one that was always worrying.”
I laugh with her, and the teakettle whistles. “Why don’t we have that tea and you can read me some more?”
“All right,” she says in her sweet voice, and she sounds better.
Maybe, I think, all she wants is to live there where Edgar is still alive. I can listen.
* * *
Back in my own kitchen, I feel a creeping sense of depression that I’m determined will not control my evening. Not control one more second of my life. I defrost a package of chicken breasts and put them in a lime-and-tequila marinade, then sign on to the Internet, answer a little bit of e-mail, and then, thinking of Lucille and her travels, and Angel and his encouragement, I go online to look at Web sites of Spain.
My mood immediately lifts, and I play Enya—she of all possibilities—to keep me company. I look at hotels. One is a tenth-century Moorish estate on a hilltop, but it’s fifteen kilometers out of town. Another is in the Old Quarter of the city, but it’s a new high-rise, and if I’m going to visit an ancient city, I’m sure as hell not staying in a room that could be interchanged with any other room in any other city. I need something that speaks to me of Seville and all that it suggests.
I find one, finally, that seems as if it would be just right, in the Old Jewish Quarter. The price is modest, and the pictures show a yellow building with wrought iron overlooking a patio. I bookmark it, and take a break to put the chicken in the oven.
As I’m bending over the stove, I see a flash of Rick and Carolyn at the store. It carries a blade of pain with it, but I straighten with determination and go back to the computer.
Flights. How much would it cost to fly to Spain?
The airline searches require me to look up dates. If I went, when could I actually do it? During my spring break? Not too hot, not too far away, not too close. End of March. I feed in the dates. It asks how many passengers, and thinking defiantly of Lucille, I click one.
The price surprises me. Less than eight hundred dollars, which would probably go down some if I waited until a sixty-day outing to purchase it. It’s a very long flight, however. Denver to London, London to Madrid, then Madrid to Seville. Fifteen hours flying. There’s another option—Denver to New York to Madrid to Seville, but I’d rather fly to London. Just because.
Eight hundred dollars for the plane. Six hundred for the hotel.
Hmmm.
It’s an exercise in forgetting, that’s all, a way to keep my mind occupied. I know I’ll never do it, not alone. What life has taught me is that I wanted to be Lucille, but I lacked her courage.
And as if to chide me, she’s suddenly sitting on the living room couch. She flips the fringes on her shawl. “Oh, I remember some great times in Seville.” She looks at me and lowers her voice. “I slept with a flamenco dancer. Dashing thing. Couldn’t speak a word of English. He’s the one who gave me this shawl, you know.”
For a minute, I blink at her. “Are you real?”
She waves a long hand. “What’s real, girl?”
The first time, I was on Vicodin. This time, I haven’t even had a glass of wine. I close my eyes, and when I open them the apparition or figment of my imagination or hallucination is gone.
I’m disappointed.
Once I had asked her, “Don’t you miss having a husband and children?”
She put her feet on a table. “Sometimes. But how could I trade what I did have for something I don’t know anything about?”
She was so brave, Lucille, and in my recent victimhood, I’ve let her down.
Impulsively, I search for a tours option. The idea of a group frightens me less, but there isn’t much. There are shorter tours, an
d those that cover all of Andalusia, but that’s not really what I’m thinking of. I want Seville. Immersion.
Defiantly, I send for brochures of the city and turn off the computer, humming under my breath, and fix the rest of the meal. Annie hasn’t arrived by the time it’s ready, so I set the table for myself, with place mat and candles and the good silverware. I turn the radio to the classical station, and although I’m tempted to find a book or magazine to read in order to keep myself company, I resist. I eat the meal I’ve prepared so beautifully for myself, by myself.
The phone has not rung. How pathetic that I expected it to, somehow, that I’ve been half waiting for Rick’s call since I came home. But the sun is setting and the hours have gone and he has not called. I stand at my front window and watch the lights come on, thinking of a dozen Halloweens—
A white car drives up and Annie tumbles out, her hair flying in the increasing wind. She waves and runs up the walk, and I smile as she comes in. “Hi. Did you have a good time?”
“Sure.” She picks up the mail. “Any calls for me?”
“Nope.” I perch on the edge of my chair. “How was it?”
She’s reading a piece of mail. “Hmmm?”
“How was the movie? What did you see?”
“I’m sorry. What?”
“Never mind. Are you hungry? I made some dinner for once. Tequila-lime chicken. It was pretty good.”
“Nah, Travis is picking me up in a little while. Didn’t I tell you? We’re going to a party at Kim’s house.”
Oh. “Who’s going to be there?”
She shrugs, sitting down on the couch, and pulls off her shoes. “The usuals, I guess. Everybody from work and some of their boyfriends and girlfriends.”
“Any adults?”
“Mom. Kim is twenty.”
Right. I knew that. “Have you called your dad this week?”
“No, I just haven’t had time.”
“Annie. We have an agreement. He gets to see you three nights a week.”
Her mouth is hard and she strips off thick woolen socks. “Well, I’m sorry, but my schedule isn’t all that flexible, and if you think I’m going to go spend the night at that crummy little apartment where there isn’t even a decent stereo, you can think again.” She stands up. “I’m going to take a shower.”
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