Laughing Down the Moon (15 page)

“You know,” she said, “whatever you were thinking about, you had a huge smile on your face the entire time you were gone.”

“I’m sure I did.” I let the mystery hang in the air. I was not going to jinx this Shiloh thing by talking about it just yet. It was like an unopened gift sitting under the Christmas tree. I wanted to savor the packaging, the bow and the hope.

Our Solschristice tree greeted us. It was now upright, half-burned and bedraggled, braced up in the tree stand opposite the fireplace.

“Good job, Patrick,” Veronica said. Trisha, still in her down jacket and gloves, looked askance at her.

“Do you really think we should still have it in the house?” Trisha’s eyebrows arched in question over her bright blue eyes. She had her gloved hands on her hips and was tipping her head from side to side, looking at the poor pine. No one answered her, so she backed up, looked at the tree again, dropped her hands from her hips and said, “Well, I guess it would be really disrespectful to put the tree through all that pain and anguish and then just toss it out in the alley. We better keep it.” She pulled off her gloves and jacket and draped them over the banister.

“I knew you were a Pagan at heart, Trisha,” Veronica said, beaming.

Trisha dropped herself into the big armchair, which still sat in the place I had shoved it when the tree was on fire and said, “Yeah, I probably am.” She grinned.

We carried on with our dinner and our Solschristice celebration with more gusto than we usually had on our hybrid holidays, partly I think because we wanted to show the tree a better time than we already had. In between laughing and talking and listening and allowing myself impossibly short daydreams about Shiloh, I sent out silent thanks to God, Goddess and Mother Earth for giving me such exquisite friends.

Chapter Nineteen

Pollination

I watched Shiloh’s penny slice into the koi pond and hoped her wish would come true. I didn’t tell her that my own penny missed the pond by six inches thanks to my phenomenal lack of athletic ability. This would be a great place to be if a person had a really bad cold or the flu. The moisture made the air palpable—how good it would feel as it filled sick lungs and clogged sinuses. I wondered how many people had the same thought. I looked around for phlegmatic children and hacking senior citizens. This conservatory could be a petri dish full of bacteria. Well, at least we wouldn’t run into germaphobic Mickey.

We stood surrounded by orchids that would make Georgia O’Keeffe teary-eyed and most lesbians distracted. Shiloh had agreed on a second date. I had thought at length about where to go. I wanted her to experience the setting for our date as much or nearly as much as I would, so I had thought in terms of scents, sounds and textures. The big Minnesota Zoo was the first place to come to mind, but as some of the scents would be less than fragrant, I thought of the conservatory connected to Como Zoo in St. Paul. Shiloh thought it was a solid suggestion, so we moseyed through the light-dappled fern room. I held her arm even though the flagstones were even and smooth.

The conservatory was warm, and I felt even warmer in Shiloh’s presence. Her laughter over my descriptions of the plants and blooms made me feel like a child seeking to impress her favorite teacher. We took turns breathing in the scent of every flower we could reach. By the time we’d sniffed our way through one of the conservatory wings, Shiloh decided it was time to sit and talk. A few birds resident in the great domed, glass building joined our conversation. We sat almost facing each other on a semi-circular stone bench surrounded by orchids.

“You have pollen on your nose!” I said laughing, and Shiloh brushed it off with the sleeve of her cayenne pepper coat.

“How rude!” she exclaimed, smiling. “You do too, but at least I was polite enough not to mention it!”

I laughed with her, leaned over and touched the tip of her nose before wiping the tip of
my
nose, just in case.

I pulled my phone from my pocket with the intention of taking Shiloh’s picture, then hesitated. I would be able to look at the picture, but we’d never be able to reminisce over the picture
together
, would we? Isn’t that what most pictures are for? They’re to serve as reminders for a couple to say, “Oh look—our first date! Look at how short your hair was! I was so nervous—Look at how I’ve twisted my coat ties into a massive knot!” Then the couple laughs together on the way to the bedroom for some “remember when” lovemaking.

“Shiloh?”

“Yes?”

“Would you mind if I took your picture?” I decided I wanted to have a visual reminder even if we couldn’t look at it together. I could always describe the picture to her when we were ninety years old, sharing a room in an assisted living apartment for lesbians. There probably wouldn’t be any “remember when” sex at that age, or would there? At any rate, Shiloh’s beauty was so enhanced by the surroundings that I had to capture it. She pressed her lips together, which brought lively color to them and said yes.

On the phone’s screen, Shiloh looked small against the giant palm leaves. As I backed up to get her whole body in the frame, she grew even smaller. She didn’t face the camera square on, so I captured an angled shot of her face with her black hair a strong contrast to her delicate features.

Later, when I downloaded the picture to my computer, my heart ached over her indisputable beauty. With the picture large on my screen, I noticed that perhaps accidentally and perhaps not, her thumbs and fingertips met and formed a definite heart in front of her abdomen. I sucked in my breath and held it behind a huge smile. The smile faded as fear poked at me like a garden hoe investigating weeds. I had gotten this involved with other women just to have the tender young relationships yanked from the soil, hadn’t I? Yes. But if I were honest with myself, I hadn’t felt this strongly for any of those other women. I looked at Shiloh’s picture again and smiled despite my worries. I hoped her heart was on purpose.

Chapter Twenty

The Four Senses

My desk chair spun emptily as I dashed from the office and raced down the stairs. Dwight’s squawk reverberated after me, but I didn’t answer. I knew what I was going to have to do. I had fought with myself all day, trying to write an article on a home security package that the owner could check using an Internet link from any computer at any time. It was an interesting product, but even more interesting were all the things Shiloh must be able to do without having vision. The first thing that had crossed my mind earlier as I made lunch was that Shiloh would have to be able to fix herself meals without seeing what she was doing. Did she use the stovetop? Was her microwave equipped with Braille? How did she know when there was mold on the bread or when the pot of pasta boiled over? As I prepared a salad and a bagel I marveled at what she must be able to do. How did she stay in the lines of a bagel when she put cream cheese on it? Did she make her meals or was there a service like Meals on Wheels that provided for her? Was there a special easy-to-make menu for people who were blind?

Later, after I was attempting to go back to work, I thought about how Shiloh got from place to place. She would always have to rely on others to drive her. She had told me on our first date that her mom teasingly called her the Jewish princess because she had to be chauffeured everywhere. Just moving, say through her house or the Y, would be a giant hassle for Shiloh. How did she do everything she did in a normal day? I tried to pull myself away from these musings and write my article, but every few minutes, I found myself wondering how Shiloh picked out her clothes or how she paid her bills or how she did her hair.

Eventually as a diversion from work I pulled out a blank piece of paper and wrote down every question I could think of for Shiloh for five minutes. Then I made myself work on the article for another fifteen minutes before I allowed myself more questions for Shiloh for another five. Working back and forth this way let me finish up the article. Then I had only one more question—in direct relation to the article I had just finished—about how a blind person viewed home security. I thought about it as I traipsed downstairs, ran cold water over my fingertips in the kitchen sink and then lit the burner under the kettle.

So here I was, rummaging through my foyer closet for a scarf to tie around my head so that I might be “blind” for the remainder of the evening. I was going to see what Shiloh went through every day. No, “see” wasn’t the right word. I wanted to feel and hear what Shiloh went through every day. I found a white woolen scarf that wouldn’t let me cheat, wrapped it twice around my head, blinding myself. For how long should I wear this blindfold to get an accurate feel for the way Shiloh experienced things?

Without mishap, I made my way, hunched and cautious, over to the red fainting couch. Should I really call it red now? Did the color matter as much to me with this blindfold on? In my head, I could still see that it was red, so what was the harm in calling it the red fainting couch? Did Shiloh still think in colors? Damn. My list of questions was upstairs on my desk. I had written, or scribbled somewhat legibly, in the dark before, so I knew I could handle adding a question about colors to the list, but I wasn’t ready to tackle the stairs yet, so I sat and mentally added the color question. Surely I’d remember to ask.

A scream erupted from somewhere—it seemed to be all around me—Dwight? I ripped the scarf from my head, affronted by the cold and light that struck my eyes. I was halfway up the staircase when I realized it was my teapot whistling in the kitchen. I jogged back down the stairs and into the kitchen. I turned off the burner. Okay, I was going to do this thing. How easy it had been for me to un-blind myself the second I needed to. Shiloh didn’t have that luxury. She couldn’t say, “Let there be light,” at the first hint of emergency and suddenly have her vision back to deal with whatever was screaming at the moment.

I wound the scarf around my head again, covering my eyes and told myself that it was for real this time. How long should I wear it? Why didn’t I at least make the tea before I put it back on? I stood there. Had I turned the burner off, or had I just lowered the flame? Would my sleeve catch fire if I overshot the stove knob as I checked? I allowed my fingertips to seek out the knob. I found a knob—was it the right one? I’d check them all. I gave each of the five stove knobs, two of them rather greasy feeling, decisive clockwise twists. I leaned low and sniffed around at a safe distance from the stovetop. I smelled no gas. I stood up, feeling protected and victorious at having assured myself of this safety. There was a long, muffled creak somewhere above me. I stopped breathing. What was that? Dwight? My ears ached as I scoured the air with them. I heard nothing else. I let my held breath out in a quiet rush.

I’d make tea and then listen to Minnesota Public Radio as I sipped it. It would be peaceful and enjoyable. I turned to the cupboard in which my tea dwelt. Thank the Goddess my kitchen was tiny. I groped out the packages of herbal. It was too late for caffeine. It was also too late to mess with packaging loose tea into an infuser—I’d go with the pre-bagged. I located a box of tea that was still in its cellophane wrapper. Which tea had I not yet opened? What was the last type of tea I’d purchased? I held the box aloft, not wanting to lose my general sense of the cupboard’s location. I’d risk it. I pulled out a pouch, tore it open and dislodged the tea bag. I hoped it was one of the peach herbals I knew was lurking somewhere in the cupboard. I raised the bag to my nose and inhaled. Peaches. Peaches like a sultry summer day. Yes. I had found it. Dumb luck and pride fought a short-lived battle within me. Pride won; I was a genius.

I felt around in the dish-drying rack for a mug. No luck. All I could feel were two plates and a big glass mixing bowl. Thank Goddess there were no knives. Okay, no problem. I shuffled my feet over to the cupboard that held the mugs, opened the door and grabbed the first one my hand recognized. I set it on the counter. I tried to drop the tea bag into it, but was alarmed to have my fingertips meet the unyielding bottom of the mug, which was in the wrong place. I laughed out loud and flipped the mug right side up. That would have been a disaster. I dropped the tea bag in this time, proud to have discovered the error before pouring the water. A low snapping sound shot out of the living room. My ears focused on the space where the noise had emanated from. What was that? I gripped the mug. I wished I had gotten down a heavier one if I was going to need a weapon. I listened.

All I could hear was the staticky nothingness that filled my house. No, wait…that was not true. I could hear the staccato clicking of the second hand on my kitchen clock. I could hear a faint whirring of something outside of my house and the miniscule pinging of a radiator. Most loudly of all, I could hear my thoughts, fragmented and somewhat panicked. And oddly enough, my thoughts were in my own voice. Why bother with attaching a voice to my thoughts…they were already my own, right? Why would my brain go through the extra trouble of “hearing” my thoughts in a voice at all? It’s not like they needed a voice. Did the thoughts even need to be formally put into words? Why didn’t they just come packaged as impressions or visions? I tried to stop thinking in words. I realized that wasn’t going to work as I heard my own voice in my own head saying, “Stop thinking in words.” Enough. I’d think, or not think, about this later. It was time for tea.

I reached out for the teapot before I took any steps. I wanted to find the handle before I found the hot pot. I already knew being blind would be dangerous; I didn’t need any painful burns to impress that upon myself. I moved my hands through the air with excruciating slowness. I brushed the teapot handle, poked it with a finger to be certain I had found what I wanted to find and then grabbed it. I ran my fingers over the handle until I was sure of which end had the spout, shuffled the couple of steps I need to take in order to get back to my awaiting mug and stopped. How would I align the spout without touching it? I thought about this for a few seconds. I pictured several ways to do it and decided to go with touching the spout down onto the rim of my mug. That way no hands would be in direct contact with the boiling water or the hot metal. Great.