Far-Flung (2 page)

I called the number. “Hello,” a man said.

“Is this Pilgrim Acres?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“I’m calling about the ad in
Backstage.
For people?”

“Yes.”

“Do you have jobs?”

“What’s your dress size?”

I told him.

“Are you reasonably attractive?”

I said yes.

“Then we have a job,” he said. “If you get here by five o’clock.”

“Five o’clock when?”

“Tonight,” he said.

When I hung up I was elated, and only a little scared. I had never been to Boston, but my mother, who grew up there, had always said it was a “small, manageable” city, and I was sure there couldn’t be as many creepy people there as there seemed to be in New York. And I was proud of myself for having gotten a job in what must have been record time. I packed some of Daria’s clothes—winter clothes so she couldn’t accuse me of taking things she needed—and wrote her a note and went to Penn Station and took a train to Boston. I arrived at Pilgrim Acres at a quarter to five.

The next day I started work. Mr. Antonini, the man who ran the park, said Elaine wasn’t a good Pilgrim name and gave me a list of suitable names to choose from. I selected Ann, but he said they already had six Anns, so I picked Clara. First I was assigned to the Apothecary’s, but then two women fainted in the Bakery, and since I had been in Africa, Mr. Antonini thought maybe I’d do better in the heat and switched me.

A few nights later I was sitting on the back steps of a row house in Medford spraying a hose at a baby standing up in an inflated swimming pool. The baby’s name was Dido, and I was living with his mother and father, Louisa and Curly. Curly taught American history and lifestyles at Medford High School, and Louisa was going to a school to learn how to install cable TV in people’s houses. I had met Curly—he was named after the cowboy in
Oklahoma!
—at Pilgrim Acres. A lot of teachers worked there in the summer. Curly suggested I rent their attic instead of staying in the barracks-like dorms at the park. The only problem was that I didn’t think Louisa liked me very much. Either that or she couldn’t speak English—she spoke only Spanish to both Curly and Dido.

Dido was shrieking from pleasure (I think) as I ran the hose up and down his pink little body. Louisa was at school and Curly was in the kitchen, fixing dinner.

After a few minutes Dido’s pink little body started turning blue, so I took him out of the pool, wrapped him in a towel, and took him into the kitchen. I put a fresh diaper on him, then sat him in his high chair.

The phone rang. Curly picked it up. “Hello,” he said, and then, “No. We have no Lainie here. No Elaine, either. You have the wrong number.”

“Wait,” I said. “I think that’s for me.” I took the receiver out of Curly’s hand. He shrugged.

“Hello,” I said.

“What was that all about?” asked Daria.

“Daria,” I said. I had left a message on her machine telling her where I could be reached, but I hadn’t expected to hear from her so soon.

“Who answered the phone?” she asked.

“That was Curly,” I said.

“Doesn’t he know your name?”

“I changed my name,” I said. “I’m Clara now.”

“Why did you change your name?”

“It’s a long story,” I said.

“Well, then, some other day,” said Daria. “Listen, Elaine, are you all right? I’m worried about you, just taking off like that.”

“I’m fine,” I said.

“Are you sure? I mean, I’m sorry if I seemed inhospitable before. If you want to come back to the city, you can stay here. It’s no big deal. Why don’t you come back?”

“I don’t think so,” I said. “I like it here.”

“Well, Edith called.” Edith is our mother. “She wanted to know what was happening with you, and I told her about this Pilgrim thing and I think she’s coming to see you. She’s performing at some hospital or something. So be warned.”

“Oh, no,” I said. “I don’t think I’m ready for her yet.”

“Are you really O.K.?” Daria asked. “Who’s this Curly person?”

“He’s my landlord,” I said. “He works at the Pilgrim Acres.”

“Oh, speaking of jobs, make sure you buy next month’s
Glamour.
I’m in it.”

“Congratulations,” I said. “That’s great.”

“Yeah, well it could have been better. I’m a DON’T picture.”

It was warm in the Bakery, especially in the long Pilgrim dresses we had to wear, but I liked the job. I started to forget all about the Peace Corps and indigenous fertilizers and New York and Daria, and the simple routine of bread baking—mixing the dough, letting it rise, punching it down, shaping it, setting the moist unbaked loaves out on the paddle, pushing them into the oven, removing them an hour later, and then selling warm slices to the tourists for a quarter—seemed like the best job in the world. Some mornings I’d take an early bus out and just walk around the deserted village, up and down the wooden sidewalks, past the herb garden and chicken yards, across the dirt road and around the Village Green, past the Butcher’s and the Seamstress’s and the Blacksmith’s and the Apothecary’s, then into the Bakery, where I’d start sifting and measuring the flour. Then I started staying later at night: The Bakery closed at 4:30, but I’d walk around in my Pilgrim costume, smiling at the tourists, sitting on the benches, letting them take pictures of me holding their fat fragrant babies, waiting for dark and the fireworks display they had every night. And I’d ride the late bus home, still dressed like a Pilgrim, and walk to Curly and Louisa’s house, and inside they’d be lying on the couch, watching Spanish TV, and I’d walk upstairs past Dido’s room, where he slept in his crib, softly illuminated by the Virgin Mary night-light, up another flight past Curly and Louisa’s room, up, up into the dark, hot attic.

One day when I came back from my morning break, Becky, the Pilgrim who ran the Bakery, told me a woman had come in and asked for me. I knew it must be my mother. About noon she reappeared with a man. They both were wearing jumpsuits and sunglasses.

“Darling,” my mother said. “This is Henry, my manager.”

Henry nodded. He ate one of the twenty-five-cent slices.

“Can you come out for some lunch with us?” my mother asked. “I can’t talk in this place.”

“I’ve got to wait a few minutes. I have some bread in the oven.”

“I’ll take the bread out,” said Becky. “You can go.”

“Thanks,” I said. I took my apron off and walked outside with my mother and Henry.

“Can’t you take that costume off?” my mother asked.

“I change at home,” I said.

“Where’s home?”

“I’m staying with some people in Medford. Should we go to the pub?” I asked. “It’s really the only place to eat here.”

“Can’t we go to a normal restaurant? Henry has a car.”

“I’m not supposed to leave the Village,” I said. “Plus I only have half an hour.”

Henry said he wanted to take a look at the working windmill, and headed down Main Street. My mother and I went into the pub. From outside it looked like an old English pub—thatched roof, gables, and leaded glass windows—but inside it was set up like a cafeteria. We both got a chef’s salad and sat at a plank table.

“I’m performing tonight at the Mansard House, a private clinic for alcoholic women,” my mother said. “I’d ask you to come, but I don’t think I’m ready to perform in front of family yet. I’ve drawn on quite a lot of my unhappy experience with your father, and it might be painful for you.”

“What do you do?” I asked. I couldn’t picture my mother as a performance artist. After she left my father, she decided to become an actress, and I saw her once play Mrs. Cratchit in an off-Broadway musical based on
A Christmas Carol.
She sang a song called “Another Sad Christmas, Another Sad Goose.”

“I really can’t talk about it,” my mother said. “A performance can’t be explained, it has to be experienced.”

“Oh,” I said.

She looked at me. “Darling, I hate to see you like this. All dressed up like a Pilgrim with no place to go.” She laughed, then continued. “No, really. I’m sorry. But we’ve got to get you out of here.”

“What do you mean?” I said. “I like this job.”

“Elaine, let’s be serious. You can’t be a Pilgrim for the rest of your life. Now, the reason I brought Henry along was so he could see you. He’s been very good about helping Daria with her new career, and I’m sure he could do the same for you. I do wish you weren’t wearing that dress. And the wimple! Can you take that off, so he can at least see your hair?”

“No,” I said. “It’s a costume. I’ve got to wear it as long as I’m on the grounds.”

“What if we went out to the car? Does the parking lot count?”

I suddenly realized how annoying my mother was, so I said, “What’s the story with Henry?”

“What do you mean?”

“Are you sleeping with him?”

“Elaine!” my mother said. “What kind of question is that?”

“Who is he? Where did you find him? He looks like a creep.”

“I beg your pardon,” my mother said. “But Henry is not a creep. Henry has helped turn my life around. I’d still be sitting in that roach-infested apartment if Henry hadn’t taken an interest in me.”

“That’s another thing,” I said. “Thanks for selling the apartment. What happened to all my stuff? Did you just toss it down the incinerator?”

My mother laid down her wooden fork and looked at me for a second. “You know, Elaine,” she finally said, “just because you’re having a little trouble shifting your life into first gear doesn’t mean you have to take your frustration out on me. I am no longer the emotional quicker-picker-upper I once was. I am an adult woman pursuing her own life. I had a perfect right to do everything I’ve done, and if you don’t approve, that’s too bad. And I didn’t toss your ‘stuff’ in the incinerator. I am paying for it to be stored in a climate controlled, mildew-free warehouse in Long Island City. So spare me.”

I didn’t know what to say. I wanted to get up and walk out, but something about the Pilgrim costume prohibited a dramatic exit. So I just sat there, and picked at the American cheese slices in my salad.

My mother sighed. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I guess I’m a little on edge. I still get anxious about performing.”

I still didn’t say anything. I felt a little like I felt after I took the aqua pill Daria gave me: I had to concentrate hard to remember that I was myself, sitting there.

“Are you O.K.?” my mother asked. “Are you sure you aren’t ill? Maybe you caught something in Africa. They have some terrible diseases over there, you know. Megan Foster was telling me about her sister who got bit by some fish and started to grow scales. Perhaps you should see a doctor? Are you taking vitamins?”

“I’m fine,” I said. “I have to get back to work. It was nice to see you. Good luck with your performance.”

“Oh, darling,” my mother said. “Don’t sulk. I said I was sorry. Is this some kind of Moonie thing? Have you been brainwashed?”

This time I didn’t answer. I just stood up and walked out.

When I got to the Bakery I felt sick. I sat down in the back room, but the heat from the ovens made me feel worse, so I went out and sat on the shaded back stoop. Becky looked out the Dutch door. “What happened? Are you all right?” she asked.

“I feel funny,” I said.

“You look terrible.”

I stood up, but I felt dizzy, so I sat down again.

“Why don’t you go home?” Becky said. “Take the afternoon off. Just relax.”

When I arrived at Curly’s and Louisa’s, my key wouldn’t fit in the lock. Someone had changed it. I knocked on the door. I knew someone was home because I could hear the radio playing. I kept knocking, and after a while, I used my foot too.

Louisa opened the door, but only wide enough so she could see me. She had the chain fastened. “Go away,” she said. So she did speak English.

“What’s the matter?” I asked. “Why did you change the lock?”

“I know about you and Curly,” Louisa said. “You must go away now, before I kill you.”

“What are you talking about? Where’s Curly?”

“I now understand that you try to steal Curly. That you come into our happy home and try to steal him. But no way. I always suspect you.” Louisa closed the door. I knocked again, but she didn’t answer it. She turned the radio up.

There was a paper bag on the porch containing Daria’s winter clothes. I left them there. I walked up to the corner and went into the bar where Curly sometimes went before dinner, but it was too early. I decided to wait. I ordered a vodka gimlet and got four because it was both ladies’ day and happy hour. I drank two of them, and by the time I finished the second one I knew what I wanted to do.

I got up and left some money and took the T into Boston. I went straight to the Peace Corps offices, and explained my situation to a man in a suit. He was wearing a button that said “THE NEW PEACE CORPS.” This unnerved me since I wasn’t sure if I had been in the old Peace Corps or the new Peace Corps, or what the difference was. When I had finished my story, he didn’t say anything for a minute. We both just sat there.

Then he said, “You did resign, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” I said. “But it was a mistake. I want to withdraw my resignation.”

“You can’t,” he said. “You have to reapply.”

“But that’s absurd,” I said. “Can’t I just go back?”

“No,” he said. “This is all very complicated. You have to reapply, and then, if you are accepted, you’ll have to be reassigned.”

“I can’t just go back to Slemba?”

“No,” he said. “Why don’t you take some time to think about this? It’s probably just culture shock. It does take some time to readjust. Going back isn’t always the solution.”

“But I made a terrible mistake. I don’t know why I didn’t stay. I should have stayed.”

“Why didn’t you, then?”

“Well, I thought I wanted to come back and start a life here and a career and all that, but I’ve realized I don’t.”

“What?” he asked.

“Nothing,” I said.

“The Peace Corps is not an escape. You can’t use it to escape.”

“I’m not escaping. That’s why I want to go right back. If I stay here, I’ll get another job or something, and that will be something to escape. But right now I don’t have anything to escape from. Nothing. So it’s not an escape.” I thought this was a very good point, but the man just looked at me oddly.