Lost Art of Mixing (9781101609187) (9 page)

“Hot or cold cereal?” she asked.

“Cold is fine,” he said, as he opened the paper. “You don't need to go to the trouble.”

Since when did he think about things like that? she wondered. She'd been making him oatmeal for years. He'd never once commented on the extra work it made for her. He was being nice, now that he was leaving. Being nice was probably the chippie's idea—she of the special rituals.

Louise put the oatmeal back in the cupboard, her fingers grazing the page, the contact sending a slight shiver of possibility across her skin.

•   •   •

BREAKFAST WAS OVER;
Al had left for the office and Louise sat at his computer in the study, searching for more information. It turned out that the ancient Mayans marked the passage of time using several different calendars that ran parallel to one another—a system so complicated it seemed only Al could love it. Every 18,980 days, or fifty-two years, the sacred and agricultural calendars intersected, an occurrence the Mayans believed could signal the end of the world. Obviously, Louise thought, they had some insight into the realities of middle age.

In preparation for the impending dissolution of the world, pottery was broken—the part of the tradition that had survived to present times. But the ancient Mayans had taken it quite a bit further, apparently. All the fires in their villages were put out, throwing the world into darkness. Pregnant women, who, it was feared, might turn into wild animals, were locked up. Children were pinched so they wouldn't fall asleep and awaken as mice.

And, just in case the world didn't end, there were traditions to welcome the next fifty-two years. A strong young man was sacrificed, his heart ripped from his body as the Pleiades crossed the sky, and a fire was started in the cavity where it had been. From that heart-fire a torch was lit, which was then used to reignite all the fires in the temples and villages. A new beginning.

Louise pulled her gaze away from the computer screen, half expecting to look down and see blood on her hands. She glanced out the window and saw the smoothly paved streets, the yellow and beige houses with their neatly trimmed lawns. She could hear the furnace kick on and felt the warm air whisper across her feet.

She sat in Al's desk chair, imagining a world where women could turn into wild animals. The blackness of a night with all the fires extinguished, all light gone except for the stars. The screams of the young man as the knife dove into his flesh. The visceral intimacy, the intensity of it, stunned her.

When had she ever heard anyone truly scream, unless it was in a movie? Not that she wanted to, of course not, but still, her mind kept circling back whether or not she wanted. She tried to remember the last time she had heard a pure exhalation of human feeling—a howl of sorrow or anger, a moan of pleasure. She knew, without even thinking, that she had never emitted one herself.

She got up and walked into the bathroom, filling her hands with water and bringing them up to her face. As she reached for the towel, her hand brushed against the hair
-
straightener, and she blindly grasped it before it fell to the tile floor. Then she stopped, eyes closed. She knew what she would see when she opened them again—the smooth blond hair, every white strand carefully plucked out, her nails gentle curves with just a touch of polish, not quite pink, not quite clear.

How long had she been doing this? This house. This man. This wife with the straight blond hair and quiet, unassuming nails, a woman as beige as the world she lived in.

There were plenty of people she could blame, of course, but she knew, even as the water dripped from her face, that she had chosen to be where she was, burrowing into the safe, tidy space Al had offered like a squirrel settling in for the winter.

It struck her as almost funny, in that moment, that she would have hidden herself away for all those years when she was young and healthy and capable, as if the world was most to be feared when mortality was least likely. And yet now, with age so obviously on its way, birthdays stacking up like cordwood, all she wanted to do was take the hair-straightener, bash it through the bathroom window, and run.

Imagine Al's surprise, she thought, coming home, ready to shift the burden of his deception onto her shoulders, only to find that she was already gone.

•   •   •

“SO WHAT ARE YOU
going to do?” asked Louise's friend Ellen as they sat in El Beso del Sol eating lunch. Ellen had expressed surprise by the choice of the restaurant—the two women usually ate at a small French bistro with wrought-iron chairs and entrées that peeked out from beneath layers of delicate white sauces. El Beso was large and loud, its patrons drinking what looked like buckets of margaritas even though it was lunchtime and surely they would have places to go afterward.

“I'm not sure.” Louise picked up a still-warm tortilla chip from the red plastic basket in the center of the table and dipped it into a small bowl of salsa. The chip crunched under her teeth and the salsa sparked hot and sharp across her tongue.

“Mmmm . . . you should try this,” she said to Ellen, motioning toward the basket.

“I'll just wait for my salad.”

“There's no point in staying skinny for them; you know that, right?”

“Anger-eating may not be the answer, either.” Ellen's smile was just this side of condescending.

Louise considered the chip in her hand, the warmth against her fingertips, the salt she knew would linger there, waiting to be licked off. She had been eating like this for days, as if her body had taken over her brain. Rice pudding, eaten standing at the open refrigerator door, the soft grains of creamy rice dissolving against her tongue. The bright taste of a lemon slice floating in her glass of ice water; the pleasure of a hard pretzel resisting her teeth. The other night she had made hamburgers—half-pound, medium-rare—and could hardly wait to pick hers up and feel the juices drenching the edges of the bun, dripping down the sides of her hands, while Al looked across the table in surprise.

Why had she spent all those years staying skinny for boys she had never cared about, cooking those bland foods Al liked? Whom was she trying to please? Boys who had never intended on staying with her? A husband who was leaving her anyway? Ever since she had read about the Mayan ritual, it was as if a door had been opened to her anger. She had found herself sitting at stoplights, lying in bed at night, resenting all the bites she hadn't taken, longing for all the tastes that had never entered her mouth.

“Are you taking hormones yet?” Ellen asked. “I have a great doctor I could set you up with.”

Louise chomped down on her chip and thought about throwing the whole bowl into the air.

•   •   •

IN THE PARKING LOT
after lunch, Louise stood by her car, keys in her hand, waving good-bye to Ellen.

Thank God, Louise thought. She had never found Ellen irritating before, but today it was all she could do not to order a second margarita just to make it through lunch. All of a sudden, Ellen's wrinkle-free skin, her encyclopedic knowledge of their friends' activities—things Louise had always regarded with a kind of awe—were deeply and, it felt, permanently uninteresting.

Louise got in her Volvo and turned the key. The engine kicked on and she pressed the accelerator, turning the wheel as she reversed. She heard the crunch and the crackle of plastic even as she remembered the white post just slightly off to the side of her parking spot.

“Damn it,” she said. Just what she needed. She got out of the car to inspect the damage: the taillight cover was broken, pieces of red plastic scattered across the ground below the car. The lightbulb inside was smashed.

Terrific.

She got in the car and drove home. At the stoplight at Fourth and Taft, she looked across the street and saw her mechanic's shop. She contemplated going in and making an appointment to get her car fixed, but the light turned green and she continued through the intersection.

•   •   •

WHEN LOUISE ARRIVED HOME,
she sat for a moment in the car, contemplating her house. She thought about what she needed to do inside—laundry moved from the washer to the dryer, dishes unloaded from the dishwasher, Al's shirts to iron. Dinner to make—chicken with white sauce.

No, Louise thought.

She checked her watch. It was only two o'clock; she had plenty of time to take a walk. She got out of the car, ignoring the broken taillight as she set off north, her regular route. The streets were deserted in the early afternoon—the mailman had already come and gone, no mothers hurrying out for carpool. There were a few toddlers living nearby, but Louise figured it was probably naptime; the neighborhood was asleep.

Within a block, she was muttering, the grievances rising out of her, catching on her clenched teeth before pushing their way out into the world. She knew what she looked like—a crazy, childless middle-aged woman walking through the neighborhood talking to herself—but every time she managed to stop, it was only to realize that she had started again, her feet punching time with the words.

Up ahead, near the curve in the road, Louise caught sight of something. A mound. Black, the size of a large dog. She couldn't tell if it was moving or not. As she speeded up her pace, concerned, she heard the sound of a car coming from the other direction. The driver would never see the dog, she realized and she started to run, her purse flapping against her hip, her coat sailing out about her.

She was almost to the dog when the car rounded the curve. It was going to run over the animal, even as she watched. Without thinking, she ran into the road in front of it, her arms above her head.

“No!” The word launched from deep in her throat, harsh and primal and burning. Tires squealed as the car swerved around her.

“Bitch!” the driver yelled at her as he passed. His car continued down the road and was gone.

Louise stood in the street, adrenaline ricocheting through her body, knees shaking, unable to hold her weight. She knelt, and her hand reached behind her toward the dog. She didn't even want to look, didn't want to know if it was dead or close to it. Her hands touched something.

Cloth. Wool. She turned and saw a winter coat, lying in a heap.

Across the street, a door opened and a woman stepped out.

“Are you okay?” she called, concerned.

“I'm fine,” Louise said as she pushed herself up to her feet.

•   •   •

LOUISE WALKED HOME,
her throat raw, carrying the coat in her arms. She wasn't exactly sure what she would do with it, but it couldn't stay in the road. Just imagine if a child had seen the dog-coat and dashed out to save it, running closer to the earth, under the sight line of the driver. But a child would have had better vision, Louise chastised herself, a child would have known it wasn't a dog.

The wool was soft and black in her arms. Merino wool, she figured. She stopped and held it out, shook it a bit. A small size, but three-quarter length, which had made for the bulk. A nice coat. What was it doing in the road?

Louise checked inside the collar; she could see a handwritten name on the tag, like her mother used to do to the clothes Louise took to summer camp. She looked closer: “Isabelle Parish.”

•   •   •

AS LOUISE DROVE
down the street checking addresses, she saw a young woman with curly dark hair come out of a house toward the end of the block. Louise started to call out, just in case, but the girl was too far away. She didn't look like the owner of this coat, anyway, Louise thought, and if it was her house, well, it would be easier just to drop the coat on the front porch. Louise wasn't even sure why she had felt compelled to track down the owner of the coat, except perhaps for that name tag, the handwriting in blue ballpoint ink, so trusting, as if by the simple act of writing a name you could make sure everything would find its way home.

In the end, the address hadn't been that far away from Louise's home—in the same neighborhood, actually, but a part she didn't go to regularly. The number matched a small, white house set back from the street, its garden neatly tended. The same house the young woman had run out of, Louise realized as she went up the walkway. She was folding up the coat to place it on a porch chair when the front door opened.

“Should I know you?” asked an older woman with white hair.

“No,” Louise answered and looked up, caught by the inquiry in the woman's eyes. “Here,” she said and held the coat forward by way of explanation. “Are you Isabelle?”

“Why did you take my coat?” the woman asked.

“I didn't,” Louise said defensively. “I found it in the road. I almost got hit by a car picking it up.” She stopped, seeing the confusion on the woman's face.

“Are you okay?” Louise asked.

“That's my coat,” said the woman, surprised, taking it into her arms. “Thank you.”

“You're welcome.” Louise looked at the older woman, at the blue eyes searching hers. The woman seemed too small even for this coat, Louise thought, as if someone had made a reduced copy of her for the purposes of illustration: older woman.

“I'm Louise,” she added, although she wasn't sure why. She didn't think the woman would likely remember.

“Would you like some tea?” the woman asked. “It would be my pleasure.”

Louise hesitated. Who knew what this old woman had in her house? Probably cats. Al was allergic to cats; she'd have to wash everything she was wearing. And there was already the laundry that needed to be put in the dryer, and the shirts to iron, dinner to make. And that taillight to fix.

What the hell, Louise thought, and stepped inside.

•   •   •

THE HOUSE WAS SMALL
but tidy, and devoid of cats. The furniture reminded Louise of cabins she had been to, clean and rustic. There was a blue-and-white quilt hanging on one wall, a sweatshirt draped over the back of an overstuffed sofa.