Outside the Ordinary World (4 page)

“I have to bring my husband a coffee. Let me get you one, too, since, well—” I indicated his stained jeans, the ruined
Times.

“No, no. You’re sweet, but…” He tossed the kerchief on the counter, nudged his glasses up the ridge of his nose. I was intrigued and repelled by his New York accent, the slow deliberation of his gestures. “Save your money for that jewelry box.” He winked. “I’ve had way too much coffee anyway. Look, my hands are shaking.”

“It’s true, they are. At least let me buy you a new paper. I mean, look at it!”

“Tell you what.” He tucked his lower lip into his mouth—a generous mouth, shapely as a woman’s. “You can treat me to coffee sometime.”

“Sometime?”
I giggled like a girl, despising myself.

“There’s that new café by your studio, the earthy-crunchy place. I think it’s called The Wild Rose.”

“Uh, it’s just…”

“How about a Tuesday morning?” His right hand grazed the skin of my wrist—the same wrist gripping my forty-pound girl—his fingertips as weightless as the eyelash kisses my mother used to give. I felt a corresponding tug behind my navel. It could have just been a friendly gesture. He was a New Yorker, I told myself. People touched each other all the time in casual ways.

“You must have really liked that painting.” I took a small step sideways.

“I’m nuts about the painting.” He grinned, eyes creasing. “I’d like to see what else you’ve been painting, if not gothic water towers.” I dropped my gaze to his left hand, resting on the counter, unadorned save the tan.

“The thing is,” I stammered, “you mean this Tuesday? I’m pretty sure I’m booked.” Emmie squirmed like a trapped gerbil, so I placed her on the wood floor. She instantly asked to be picked up again. “Go now, Mommy?” she said, as if sensing my apprehension.

“Any Tuesday’s good for me,” Tai pronounced, running a hand over his beard. “Maybe I’ll buy another painting.” He wore a faded black T-shirt, snug over well-strung shoulders. We stood inches apart. I felt a chill creep along my arm, though the day was already sultry.

The world seemed to pause and swell. My tongue tasted sweet and slightly charred, and I glanced around the market. I wasn’t sure what I expected to see, but it had occurred to me that the whole town might be watching, enraptured, to see what I’d do. Of course, no one was paying the slightest attention, not even the child on my hip, immersed again in her lollipop. It
was
a business opportunity, I told myself, a chance to make several hundred dollars, which we needed.

And besides, I was not my mother.

It must have been this last thought—of not allowing the residue of her mistakes to coat and complicate my every interaction—which brought me to the two simple phrases that would open a fissure. “Sure, let’s have coffee,” I said to Tai. “That sounds lovely.”

A FEW DAYS AFTER THE FIRES DIED DOWN, I GOT MY FIRST
letter from Mr. Robert. Coming in from skateboarding one afternoon, I opened the mailbox and spied it atop a pile of junk mail and bills. It was addressed to Ms. Sylvie Sandon, Esq., in a bold, looping script. It began,

Here he’d drawn quite a good caricature of himself—I could tell it was him by the deep dimples and gap-toothed smile. He signed the letter, “Love Love, Kiss Kiss, Big Twerp.”

I took the letter to my parents’ bathroom, where Mom was preparing for a hospital fundraiser. I adored watching her prepare for these functions with my father, loved to stare at her slim, clean body as she picked out her dress, slipped on bright, scented underthings. Sometimes she’d let me watch her bathe, telling me stories while she soaped her stomach and small breasts.

Then I’d perch on the bathroom counter as Mom opened her mouth, applying eyeliner and mascara with the sketchy strokes of an artist. “You never want to apply blush right below your eyes,” she’d say, “and never on the chin! Just on the cheekbone….”

She’d been talking about beauty lately, selling Mary Kay cosmetics in their pink plastic containers to Dad’s partners’ wives, or women from church and PTO functions—anyone who gave her the time of day ended up with a pink carton of Mary Kay. Many of these women got recruited to sales positions themselves. Mom’s best friend Sammy had convinced her to sell the makeup, promising that if she sold enough in a year, she could win a trip to Hawaii or Mexico, a set of luggage, or the grand prize—a pink Mary Kay Cadillac. “Sammy is unattached,” she liked to say, “but she’s doing much better since Mary Kay.”

A warm breeze pushed the scent of old fire and roses through the open window. I was still clutching Mr. Robert’s letter as my mother struggled with her bra clasps.

“Give me a hand here, angel, would you?”

“Sure.” I stood, slapping the letter on the bathroom counter. Her shoulders stiffened as she glanced at it.

“The mail came early.”

“There was nothing else, just bills and—”

“What did he write?” she breathed.

“You can read it, if you want.” She scanned the letter, her brows softening. Then she peered into my face.

“We need to hide this, Sylvia.”

“Like the souvenirs?” The night of the fires, we’d come home from Disneyland to find the house empty but full of noises—television blaring, radio on—and the first thing we did was find a place to stash our souvenirs from Mr. Robert. It felt sinister and thrilling, hiding things from our very own father, like the spy games Ali and I used to play with our cousins. I had stashed my Minnie Mouse hat and glass castle on the top shelf of my closet, behind a stack of old
Highlights
magazines, but my sister refused to play. Before stomping off to her room, she handed her Cinderella figurine and box of fudge to Mom, who crushed them in the trash compacter, beneath a section of Dad’s newspaper.

“No one but us can know about this letter. Okay, angel?” I nodded, holding my hand out for the letter, but she’d turned from me and was rummaging inside the bathroom cabinet, behind the Mary Kay boxes. I could see the naked outline of her spine through her skin. My own spine prickled uncomfortably.

“Where’s this cabin he wants to take us?” I asked. She stood, clutching a tattered Kinney’s shoe box as she moved to the bathroom door, quietly pushed in the lock. “He says it’s in horse country. With Indians and glacier lakes.”

“Listen to me, Sylvie, we’re going to keep your letter here, in this box.” She removed the lid, revealing dozens of other letters, bundled together with tight green rubber bands. I ran my finger across their tattered edges. She placed my letter on top, then shut the box and returned it to the darkest corner of the cabinet, arranging the makeup boxes before it like a pink wall.

“If you get any more of those, you just bring them straight to me, okay?”

I nodded, my mind burning with questions I feared she wouldn’t answer: How long? I wanted to ask. Has he been writing to you all along? I wanted to know exactly when he’d found her again, and whether our trip to Disneyland was the first she’d seen of him since Chicago. I wondered if he would write to Alison, too, and what my sister would make of it. Would she be so willing to hand her letters over to Mom, or would she turn them in to our father, like a double agent? But I couldn’t find a voice for any of this in my mother’s blue bathroom, the muffled drone of Dad’s news program seeping through the wall. Instead, I repeated my earlier question. “Where the heck is horse country?”

“He’s probably referring to his place in Oregon. Why don’t you write back and ask?”

“You think I should?” A gnawing heaviness started in the pit of my stomach, as if some small, famished animal had burrowed in to stay.

“I suppose, if you want to.” She reached out and smoothed the hair from my eyes, her brow ruffled. “Now, why don’t you keep me company while I fix this old face. Let’s see what we can make of ourselves tonight.” She patted the bathroom counter for me to hop up. We could hear Dad switch off the TV in the bedroom, clinking the ice in his drink, and Alison playing “I Am the Walrus” for the fifth time in her room. Suddenly, it occurred to me that Mom’s secret made us special—better than the other members of our family. Her love for me seemed as safe and contained, that evening, as if it were tucked inside the Kinney’s shoe box.

The letters came every few days and after that first one, my mother always intercepted, handing them over in the silent afternoons, or placing them, barely visible, between stacks of my clean underwear. The envelopes were all postmarked “Orinda, CA.” I knew Orinda because it was the next town over from my grandparents’ house, where we vacationed each summer. Mr. Robert drew pictures of mountains and clown faces, cowboys and barns. He called me his “Little Twerp,” and told me that he’d once been a cowhand, of sorts, before becoming a salesman. He wrote that he’d lived in London and had seen Elton John having tea. “I bet that would have given you a thrill, eh?” He said my mother reminded him of Audrey Hepburn, and promised that we’d take a real trip soon, someplace where I could ride a horse for hours. My mother repeated that I needed to hide these letters, along with hers. But I wanted to believe my letters were distinctive, so I began hoarding them in my own box—a carved pine jewelry box my father had given me—which I stuffed in the top of my bedroom closet. Once or twice, I sat down at my desk to compose an answer, but each time I felt utterly blank and exhausted.

I wondered if my mother’s secret was making her tired, too. She began spending late afternoons curled on the carpet in the corner of the living room, a sweater bunched beneath her head. Sometimes she’d wake long enough to say hello, or ask about my school day, but before I could answer she’d close her eyes again, and soon her mouth would fall open crookedly. I felt a little nauseous, seeing her twitch on the living room floor like a cat squeezed into the last patch of sunlight. It was warm as a greenhouse next to those corner windows, and the air was dense with particles of dust, like a swarm of sleepy gnats. My mother had forbidden Dad to put any of his things in that room, and except for her ebony grand piano, there was nothing but yellow carpeting and sun. More than once, I wanted to lie down next to her, but it seemed dangerous. I had a strange feeling that if I curled beside her, we might sleep for days. Instead, I’d crouch down to stare at the tiny rows of blond hairs on her upper lip, the freckles on her neck, below her right ear. Watching her like that, my cheeks and eyelids felt heavy with sadness.

Mom was usually fluttering about doing three things at once, filling out makeup orders or talking to Gram on the phone while stirring the red bean chili, laughing her high, musical laugh. Sitting in the Sabbath School room, listening to Mrs. Sullivan talk about the Last Days, Ali and I often heard Mom’s clear soprano rise above the rest of the choir in the sanctuary overhead. We’d smile, then look away from each other to avoid laughing. Still, the sharp knowledge of her presence above kept me from becoming too frightened by Mrs. Sullivan’s apocalyptic stories.

I tried not to look at Iguana Woman’s face as she spoke about Jesus on the fisted cloud, focusing instead on her long middle toes hovering at the edges of her sandals, like drops of water about to spill. But no matter what I did, the stories sprang to life in my mind while Ali and I followed the other kids through the church lobby. By the time we reached the main sanctuary, slid into our second-row pew with Mom, my head would be bursting with pictures—mountains crumbling to crush the wicked, hair singeing and faces melting below hundreds of winged Mrs. Sullivans who circled the dark, holy cloud.

More and more often, during the summer of ’74, I’d escape midsermon and sneak out through the huge front doors into a flood of smoggy sunshine. I’d take off shoes and stockings to walk barefoot between rows of empty cars in the parking lot, the bottoms of my feet scraping rough asphalt. Pastor Wilkins’s words echoed down, sliding over hoods and windshields. The cars seemed to know some glittering truth about each person in church, and I’d run my finger over their paint, stare into vacant windows, discovering stacks of sweaters, empty soda cans, comic books.

One Saturday late in June, after fleeing a sermon about the Mark of the Beast, I peered into the tinted window of a black Jeep Cherokee and saw a girl I recognized from school—the freckled nose, the deep chestnut eyes—Theresa Chapman. Her legs were stretched across the back and she held a book with a half-nude woman on the cover. She made a face at me, then slid across the seat and opened the door, motioning for me to get in.

“Hurry up,” she said.

“What for?”

“Get in. Hurry, before someone sees.”

I hopped up, scooted in beside her. My bare legs stuck to the seat. She reached over me and grabbed the door handle, slamming it shut. The car’s heat was stifling.

“Hi,” I said feebly. “Can’t we crack a window or something?”

“Nope—power windows.”

“Oh.” I nodded. “You look different for some reason.”

“It’s the dress,” she suggested. “I never wear them at school. Have to here, even though they know I sit in the car most of the time.”

“I didn’t even know you came here.”

“We don’t. My mom wants us to try—her friend Barbara comes. Part of the new Family Togetherness thing, I guess. Ever since Davey came back from the war.”

“Oh. But you’re not
together.
You’re out here.”

“Yeah, well.” She licked her plump lips. “We support freedom of religious expression.”

I dropped my shoes and stockings on the car floor, staring at Theresa’s flushed cheeks and damp auburn bangs. She smelled of Dr. Pepper lip gloss and Suave shampoo.

“I’m not sure this church believes in
free expression,
” I said after a pause. “This church believes in the Second Coming, and Sabbath on Saturday, and not eating meat, or wearing jewelry or reading books like, like that—” I pointed to the Harlequin paperback on her lap.

“Oh, no one knows about this.” She smiled primly. A cool trickle of sweat inched down my left side.

“Can’t we at least crack the door a little?”

“What are you doing looking in people’s cars anyway?”

“I just—nothing,” I stammered, feeling foolish and caught. “I should probably go back.” Cracking the door, I peeled my right thigh from the seat.

“Wait. The sermon’s not over yet. You can’t just stroll back in
now.
” She rolled her eyes, then began reading again as if she didn’t care whether I stayed or left.

“Listen to this,” she said. “‘He parted her lips with his hot tongue, and she yielded, felt his calloused hands searching beneath the silk blouse—’ I’m just getting to the good part. Should I keep on?”

I hesitated, thinking of Mom in church, fanning herself with the bulletin.
Our father who art in heaven…
I pictured her looking up, wide-eyed and grateful as I slipped back into our pew. Theresa smiled, exposing two large and shining front teeth.

“Okay. Read it, then.” I hoped that being here together made us equals. We preferred the sticky backseat to a velvet pew, the warmth of our guilt to the air-conditioned church. I shut my eyes and slouched as Theresa began to read, trying to erase my mother’s face from my mind, picturing instead the heroine stretched over some glowing bed. Theresa was a good reader—her words were pleasantly rough, like scoops of beach sand. I imagined the man’s face as he undressed the golden-haired woman, his hands caressing her. Would his hands be gentle or cruel? Were his fingers soft and thick as babies’ thighs, or knobby and crooked, like my father’s? I pictured my father’s fingers, quick and treacherous as they stung across my cheek, or suddenly tender, handing me a yellow rose from his garden, smoothing the hair from my eyes. Two nights ago, his hands had trembled as he stood examining the letters on Mom’s desk, turning each one over, holding each up to the light.

I’d seen him searching her desk before, but never understood what he was seeking. Now I peeked through the wooden slats in the hallway door as he inspected each letter and bill, his hands beginning to shake in a way that made my stomach roll. Suddenly, I understood that he was looking for Mr. Robert’s letters. How did he know? My heart bulged, and it occurred to me that I should interrupt him
now,
or at least call for my mother. She was in her bedroom, laughing on the phone to Sammy, saying, “Well, I snagged Mrs. Phelps from the school committee; she’s already sold seven hundred dollars’ worth of night cream….” My father began throwing open cabinets and drawers, tossing out phone books and cookbooks, growing frantic, then stopping as Ali banged through the back door. They greeted each other casually, Dad running his fingers through his dark hair. “I can’t seem to find my reading glasses, sweet pea.” He held my sister’s shoulder, as if for support, and I ran to the bathroom, thinking I might vomit.