Parts Unknown (17 page)

~ ~ ~

Lucy had some internal mechanism that woke her every few nights exactly at 1:30 in the morning—just when I was in my deepest sleep. That night I dimly heard her voice piping down the hall, increasingly frantic—“Mommy! Mommy! Mommeeeee!” But I could barely move—it was a huge struggle to push myself up and out from layers upon layers of heavy dreams, and emerge gasping into the velvety night. Tightening my bathrobe around me, I stumbled down the hall to her room.

“What happened, honey?”

“I had a bad dream, and it woked me up.”

“Everything’s fine, you’ll be fine.” I stroked her soft hair. “Just go back to sleep.”

“I want some milk.”

I was too tired to argue, and lurched to the kitchen to pour milk into a sippy cup, a fair amount spilling on the counter.

She drank the milk, slowly, making it last. “Stay with me, Mommy.”

It was pointless to say no—I’d fought that late-night battle before and lost. Mrs. Schusterman had heard the hysterical result, and had run upstairs to bang at our door in the early morning hours, her gray hair wild around her head, her eyes small frustrated slits.

“Sure, sweetie.”

I curled my body around hers in the narrow, twin-sized bed. She was warm and pliant, and after a while, I felt her relax into sleep, her soft breaths deepening, slowing. It was utterly peaceful, lying there with my arm around her, feeling her slight shoulders rise and fall. When I was certain she was asleep, I raised myself on my elbow to look at her. In sleep she looked so much like she had as a baby—the round, fuzzy curve of her cheek, her small snub nose. Her blonde hair, late to grow in, had never been cut, and curled around her face in a soft nimbus of fine baby curls. I thought I’d never seen anything so amazing in my life.
I made that
, I thought.
How can it be—that I made something so perfect?
Everything was all right while I lay next to Lucy.

But back in my own bed, still awake hours later, my mind revolved helplessly between George-Josh-Josh-George. I could picture Josh writing, maybe, in that little studio, with photos of his family on the desk and a view of yesterday’s cloudy, 61-degree sky out his window. His wife was undoubtedly intelligent and accomplished, his child far better behaved than my own.  Maybe on weekends, he’d be outdoors at a farmer’s market with his perfect little family, buying chile peppers or whatever a person did in Santa Fe. Tonight he’d be asleep too, with his beautiful wife in his beautiful house. He’d have kissed her goodnight as I kissed George.

During the day, I’d go through the motions of daily life—cooking dinner, greeting George in the evening as he came through the door. If Lucy was awake, George would hug her first. Then I’d step in, put my hands on his shoulders and kiss him—one second, two, our lips moist, pull away. It was entirely un-sexual, like kissing my brother. But that was what happened after you’d been married for a while, as predictable as the moon. Since I'd found out about Josh, it felt like pretending. I was utterly divided, half of me going through the motions of conversing with George, disciplining Lucy, washing the dinner dishes. The other half in fevered Josh-and-Vivian movie mode, all the time. In my fantasies, after wild sex, we’d cuddle in bed with our respective pads of paper. I would draw, he would write. Art porn: that’s what my fantasies boiled down to.

I had thought it would be like this forever. Me, home with Lucy, the years going by, one slipping into another. Nothing changing. Me and George, sitting near each other every night on the sofa, but rarely close enough to touch. Fridays, making love almost like strangers, hurrying to finish so we could go to sleep, only to wake up at six o’clock the next morning and start the routine again. Forever in this apartment, too great a bargain to ever leave, in the perfect Los Angeles location, only a mile from Madame’s.

I had always been loyal to George—it had never occurred to me not to be. Once I made a friend, I kept that friend forever—I still called Kim once a month, for heaven’s sake. The same was true for a marriage: once you committed to something, you stuck it out. It was also true that George and I weren’t joiners. We didn’t go on dinner dates with other couples. We were members of no clubs, except for George’s precious Orchid Society. I spent most of my waking hours in the company of Lucy. So: there was never any opportunity, any need, to search outside that box I lived in, until now. You could talk morals all you wanted—it was what you did when presented with the opportunity to be unfaithful that really defined you as a person.

I had to do the right thing. I wanted to see Josh, true. I would go to his book signing, and say hello. And see if he wanted to be friends. That’s it—just friends. After all these years, of course we could be friends—it had been so long, after all. And we’d known each other for so short a time. I could love George, and I could see Josh. Crazy fantasies were all well and good, but nothing was actually going to happen.

Chapter 9

I closed my eyes, and this time, welcomed the memories. But try as I might to hold on to that first night with Josh, the explosive lovemaking, the feeling of total belonging that I’d never experienced before, my thoughts wound forward. After ten days together, Josh was as familiar as if I’d known him forever, and yet new, too, always surprising. He kept me aloft and floating, on a sea of his words. We spent so much time together—the whole day, every day—doing cheap things so as to save money for our separate futures, which would happen, impossibly, in just a few weeks.

August 12, we were going to see
Cats
—my first musical. Sure, Josh was planning to buy tickets on standby at half price right before the performance, but still—I was so excited to go to the theater district. I dressed up in a girlish flowered dress from TopShop. Slicked my hair up with gel and even attempted mascara, almost poking my eye out with the wand. It would have been so much easier to have been born a boy, I reflected, raking a hole in my new pantyhose with an errant fingernail on the first try. I carefully slid on another pair, then twirled in front of the mirror above the fireplace. I looked all grown up, going out to the theater with my boyfriend. Me! I smirked at the unreality of it all.

I settled myself on the sagging orange armchair in the corner of the room and waited. Josh had the night off; he’d been out running errands that afternoon. A few minutes before we were supposed to leave, he hurried in, did a double take, and then smiled weakly. My returning smile died as I stopped myself from getting up to show off my dress. “You look different,” he said uncertainly. “Why are you wearing that?”

“I thought I’d try to dress up for a change.” I felt immensely embarrassed—as if I’d been caught in some sort of trap.

“It’s not you,” he observed, tossing his parcel from Boots on the bed.

I thought, panicked,
My god, he’s right. It’s not me, at all.

I almost wanted to change, put on my usual uniform—frayed jeans and an ancient crocheted top—but instead, I shrugged on my stained army surplus jacket, concealing my dress. Did he only know me through clothes and hair—my vintage, tattered garb and short spiky hair the one sign that I was really an artist, worth his love?

~ ~ ~

Short hair. I’d spent my whole life with straight brown hair that hung down in tangled strands around my face. Whenever the wind blew just a little bit, bits of hair would get stuck in my mouth; my hair would smell like spit by the end of each day. Post-Butler College acceptance, I went into a frenzy of change. Long earrings purchased at Ace Drugs, the miniscule all-purpose drugstore, cheap earring, and Max Factor makeup emporium on Twyford’s main street. Cheap slinky polyester dresses to wear to Saturday night parties with Kelly, my newfound ally. And the coup de grace: new hair. I surmised that the more I could change myself outside, maybe I’d change inside too. But the thought of saying goodbye to all that hair had proven rather terrifying.

It was April, and gray piles of icy snow were still everywhere. The faster I walked downtown, the less likely I was to change my mind. Snow seeped through a hole in the front of my Docs, but I didn’t let that slow me down. I went straight to Barrazzi! For Hair, the cheapest hair salon in Twyford. It was the sort of place where, if you paid them $8, they’d grab some scissors and cut the split ends off your hair, not even bothering to wet it down. This time, though, I had $20 in my pocket. We were going for dramatic transformation, here.

Linda, my stylist, was far more arty-looking than me, with about seventy visible piercings and tattoos. I wanted change of a different kind: “Cut it off! Cut it all off!” I yelled madly, like a line from a bad TV show.

I pulled my hair from its ponytail—it reached halfway down my back. It hadn’t been properly cut since my high-school freshman class picture day. “I know just what to do. You’re gonna love it!” Linda assured me, as she pulled my hair back, held it in one hand, and lopped it all off.

And what do you know. Forty minutes later, a smallish girl with a pixie cut gelled up in disarming little swirls exited Barrazzi! For Hair. The new Vivian Lewis had arrived.

Personal transformation through looks. It had been worth a try. It had given me Josh, after all.

~ ~ ~

We took the tube to the theater, holding hands, my universe shattered. I’d been found out; I had restored the fantasy just in time.

All through dinner, at L’Osteria, an inexpensive but pretty Italian restaurant—our first real, proper date—I chattered aimlessly, about roommates, and London weather, and swirled my fettuccine alfredo on my fork. Feeling the viscous texture of the linguine on my tongue, sliding down my throat, the faint taste of nutmeg like a warning. What if I wasn’t deep enough for Josh? Interesting enough for Josh?

But Josh talked easily too—about the girls he worked with, and the American tourist customers, who came all the way to England in search of the familiar—deep-dish pizza and Budweiser. As if vindicated that Americana could be found anywhere in the world. (Oh no, he was turning a simple conversation about his job into a deep philosophical statement! Crap, I had to counter:)

“I know what you mean. I can’t believe we share the same nationality. It’s like, any state that’s not on a coast, seems like it’s part of some foreign country of big, narrow-minded people wearing fanny packs.”

Josh laughed in appreciation. Whew—I was saved. And later, at the Adelphi Theatre, in our standby seats way in the back on the top tier, I lost myself in the music and spectacle of
Cats
. The songs echoed in my head as I leaned against Josh, holding tight to his hand.

~ ~ ~

We made love every night before bed, and every morning when we awoke. I never had time to heal properly, so I was always sore after, but with a pleasant buzzing feeling of contentment. I gave him all myself, like a gift, never wondering if there’d be anything left over for me, or if I should hold something back. I never did, and I thought he did the same, seeing the look of fear mixed with amazement in his eyes as he held me. It was terrifying, loving somebody that intensely. I thought, panicked,
We’re feeding off each other, like vampires! There will be nothing left. We’ll burn it all up. It’s not safe.

But I did not speak. The conflagration seemed worth it: a bargain with the devil, for three weeks of passion. Twelve more days left.

Woke up the next morning to him smiling back at me. “So what do you want to do today?” I yawned.

“Let’s go to Buckingham Palace,” he decided. “I want to bring some marbles and roll them under the Beefeaters’ feet. You know, see if they flinch.”

“Mean!” I pinched him, then suddenly thought,
He’s always deciding what we do
. I tried to think about what I’d wanted to see when I’d planned my three-week stay in London, but couldn’t quite place it. Go to some museums maybe? What
would
I have done for three weeks, anyway? I remembered vaguely,
Canterbury. That’s where I was going to go
.

I propped myself on one elbow. “Hey Josh, want to go to Canterbury with me one day? On one of those cheap-day return tickets? See the cathedral?”

He rolled over on top of me and looked down. “Canterbury’s awesome, you should go. But why don’t you do it during your school year? I’ve already been, and I’d hate for us to be apart for a day—we’ve only got a couple weeks.”

I agreed immediately, almost relieved. Let him plan our time, juvenile marble-rolling or not. It gave me more time to think about what I wanted to paint that day, anyhow.

“I’m almost halfway through that watercolor block,” I said. “Maybe I can finish the whole thing before you go. And you can choose which ones you want to take with you.”

He kissed me deeply. “I’d want all of them.”

“Shameless flatterer!” I laughed.

We took the tube to Charing Cross, glancing at the black-markered
Evening Standard
sandwich boards advertising the day’s lurid news headline—
Stabbed in Broad Daylight in Finchley!
, then walked hand in hand down the Mall, the pinkish-hued street odd-looking beneath my feet, the lack of traffic almost disturbing. Josh jingled marbles in his pocket, laughing maniacally.

It was fun rolling the marbles, for about five minutes. Then we retreated to Saint James Park, nearby, and I spread out an old plaid blanket I’d found in Josh’s closet. We lounged on the grass, kissing sporadically, before walking in the direction of the Tower of London. For some reason, Josh insisted that I see all the London tourist sites, though all I wanted to do was stay right next to him, it didn’t matter where.

I soon discovered that the lengthy walk was just a way for Josh to tell me things I didn’t want to hear.

“You know I’m Jewish, right?” he began.

“I figured it out,” I said, remembering his references to Hanukkah gifts in one conversation.

“I didn’t tell you that I come from this pretty religious family. My dad’s not just strict, he’s religious and strict. But we’re all very close. I love my parents, and my dad and my sister. A lot.”