Stop That Girl (17 page)

While we prepared dinner, Julie whispered that she’d never encountered anyone with so forceful a personality. I concurred. I joylessly cooked spaghetti and meatballs for the occasion, while Dr. Frost brought in her bag and her gifts, which included a large bottle of Jack Daniel’s. She poured it freely and said it was medicinal. Now, quite clearly, I could see that Bart was right, that I was a pawn, a toad, a scab, and a fool. I’d write a mournful self-hating poem about it soon, which would culminate in the line
Birdbath enzymes digest me make me part of your perfect
order!
But I didn’t know how to deal with it yet. That evening we sat listening to stories about my grandmother’s recent adventures as a physician. She was giddy as a birthday girl, telling tales of millionaires who’d proposed to her, honors she’d been presented with, famous people she’d met along the way. My least favorite was the one about her rotations at Harbor Hospital and how aroused the men were at the sight of her, their erections stirring under the sheets “like prairie dogs in the grass,” she told us.

“Say,” she said, after Julie went to bed, “I want to take the mail boat up the west coast of Norway this summer. It’s a fabulous trip. I want you to come with me.”

“This summer?” I said. “Thank you for the offer, but I’ve already got plans.”

“Change your plans. This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. It’s a real mail boat. It stops in every little fjord! We’ll have a ball!”

“Mumsy,” I said, tasting the old name on my tongue, “I would love to, but I’m graduating in a couple of months, and then I’m probably driving back east this summer. I want to try to get a job at a magazine, either in New York or Boston.”

“Well, good for you. But take a little vacation with me first!”

Even if I wanted to go to Norway, how could I, with my mother feeling as she did? I’d have to go secretly. It would be like having an affair—with my grandmother. “Thanks, it sounds great, but I think I’m going to need to dig in and start looking. I don’t know anybody out there.”

“That’s no way to look for a job. You’ve got to know somebody! You get yourself one beautiful suit, linen is best, and a simple strand of pearls. Get a studio apartment and go join a club. Try the Junior League or the Commonwealth Club. Make a few friends in high places. Let ’em know who you are and what you’re there for. Always look your best. Pretty soon you’ll get a lead. Always write thank-you notes. If the lead turns out to be a dead end, don’t quit!”

“Great advice, Mumsy,” I said.

“But first let’s take a trip up the coast of Norway.”

“Well, we’ll see.”

“Remember that trip we took together, years ago?” she said. “It was wonderful. You were a delight to travel with.”

“Me? A delight?”

“You bet,” she said.

“I remember that man you met there,” I said.

“What man?”

“You don’t recall a certain Dr. Von Allsberg?”

“Oh, him,” she said. “Turned out to be a snake.”

“Remember Mom?” I said, surprising myself.

“My only daughter? Yes, I remember her,” she said.

“Too bad you guys lost touch,” I said.

“Yes, too bad.”

“I think she really misses you,” I said.

“Mmm. That’s hard to believe,” she said, and I tried to hide my blush.

“No luxury,” she continued on the next morning, over our bowls of oatmeal. “You’d never catch me on one of those ersatz cruises. This is a real mail boat! At every port you get off and explore. You eat regular grub with the crew and have a functional little room, all very authentic.”

I helped her put her bags in the back of the Town Car, as she had to be in San Francisco by noon. The fog was so dense, I was afraid she might postpone her departure. But it was nothing to her. “Listen, darling, I’m putting down a deposit next week,” she told me.

“There’s something I really don’t like about mail boats,” I insisted.

“How do you know? Ever been on one?”

“And I don’t think I like delivering things in fjords,” I said.

“Why? What’s wrong with fjords? Oh, you’re pulling my leg! It’s going to be a fantastic trip,” she said, and as she gave me a kiss and vanished in the mist, I was certain right then I’d be moving across the country soon, saying goodbye to every piece of this.

The Possible World

It was strangely quiet outside, but maybe I had closed all the windows. This was the most well-built house I had ever lived in. The walls were creamy plaster, like those in an adobe mission. They were held together by strong oak beams, which were exposed like whale ribs across the living room ceiling. Even the windows were made of a thicker, more interesting glass than normal windows. Tiny bubbles riddled the panes if you looked closely enough. For some reason I liked to walk around this house and examine its craftsmanship. Someone who appreciated a well-built house built this one.

I was only a renter. This house would probably cost some unreal amount. Though well built, it’s small. And the person I married, who is a software engineer over in San Jose, thinks only of owning big, cumbersome things. In them, I see nothing but trouble.

Anyway, it was suddenly quiet, and though I could see the trees whipping around in the wind, I couldn’t hear a single groan or rustle. It was a soothing but rather apocalyptic feeling. I had a hunch I would not be staying in this house much longer.

Yesterday Paul, who is my landlady’s boyfriend, called at exactly this time. It was 9:30 A.M., and I was already watching a movie on TV. He said, “I need some help on the brocco-rabi project. As you know, I broke my leg daredevil skiing and I need someone to drive me to Stockton to inspect the site of our first brocco-rabi demonstration. Can you drive me? A hundred dollars?”

This isn’t exactly what he said verbatim, but all of this was there. And even though it was an abrupt request, I was strangely happy about it. I didn’t have anything special to do yesterday before picking up my son from his preschool. A drive to Stockton sounded out of the ordinary.

“Okay,” I replied. “If I can find a way for Will to be picked up and taken care of, I’ll do it.”

“Yeah, I’ve got that all figured out already,” Paul said. “Virginia will be done with her meetings by then. She can pick him up.”

Virginia is my landlady. It’s hard to ignore how much she likes my son. On Easter she dropped by a basket with Godiva eggs in it. Plus an expensive, plush stuffed rabbit. It made me a little uncomfortable. Then on Halloween she made up a grab bag of candy and toys, very extravagant. Twice she’d asked me to bring him over and they’d baked cookies together. The kind of thing he’d have done with his grandmother, if she lived nearby and were still alive.

Yesterday it was windy like today. I was to pick Paul up
asap,
whatever that meant. I decided to take my time with my cup of coffee and my movie, seeing as he’d given me such short notice. But even so I could tell I was hurrying a little. This movie seemed like a strange choice for the morning, before the day had left its scratchy imprint on a person. A respectable businessman takes his daughter and son into the outback of Australia, tries to kill them, sets the car on fire, and shoots himself in the head. Rambling across the desolate expanse, they meet an aboriginal boy on walkabout, the year he’s learning the skills necessary for survival. He shows them how to eat grubs, swim naked in a pool. They pick up a thing or two. When they return to civilization, nothing can ever be as harsh. Or can it?

Before Paul called, I hadn’t really been sure of my plans for the day. Probably the library, the laundry, the bank. Not much to get excited about.

But I’ve really got to stop doing that, shortchanging my plans like that. Lots of other significant things could’ve happened. I might’ve had an interesting idea that I could jot down in a notebook, for future use somehow. Or maybe I’d receive a phone call with news that would distract me for a day or two.

Two weeks ago, my sister, who now lives in New York and calls me quite often, arranged for the largest radio station in her area to call and interview me. She loves to imagine me back in the swing of things, and my involvement with brocco-rabi had given her fresh hope. She called the radio station to see if they were interested, and they were. Hard to believe. When I don’t care, not invested at all, I’m in demand. Anyway, she told them I was the person to talk to when it came to brocco-rabi. The radio station contacted me, and before I knew it I was scheduled to go on the air. It’s a 50,000-watt radio station. It can be heard from Maine to South Carolina.

The thing is, I’m not really the person to talk to about brocco-rabi. But my sister was so excited to have put together this interview that I had to go along with it.

The host of this show was a man named Newt Barnaby. About five minutes before two, an assistant called. “Ready for Newt?” she asked. I said I was. I had practiced speaking with more authority the night before. I thought I should sound like the world’s expert on brocco-rabi.

Suddenly I could hear the actual radio show coming through the phone—a commercial for a car wash. I sighed. Ultimately, nothing was resting on this. No one but my sister would hear it. If Virginia and Paul found out, they’d probably be irritated. Here I was, posing as the official spokesperson for brocco-rabi. Just then the voice of Newt Barnaby began to talk over the end of the car wash ad. My throat tightened up.

“And now we’ve got a very interesting feature for you today. Out in Salinas, California, a brand-new vegetable is on the loose, and we’ve got Ann Ransom to tell us about it!”

“Hi, Newt,” I said jauntily.

“Ann! How’s it going out in Salinas?”

“Actually, I’m not in Salinas. I live in Aptos.” Why did I need to throw that in? Who cared? I concentrated harder.

“Where’s Aptos?”

“Near Watsonville. This is a vast agricultural area, Newt. The Pajaro and Salinas valleys are among the richest growing areas on earth.”

“Lucky you! We Easterners know the good veggies always seem to come from California. So tell us—what exactly is brocco-rabi?”

I was doing better now. My voice was coming on strong and clear.

“Well, Newt, brocco-rabi was genetically engineered. As you can probably guess, it’s half broccoli and half kohlrabi. It’s a hearty grower and has five times the vitamins of both combined. It’s quite large and looks kind of like a big green cow udder.”

“Yeow! The Frankenstein of vegetables!” Newt Barnaby emitted a resounding, fully committed laugh. And I smiled. I was staring out the thick, bubbly window into the backyard. From the inside of this house, the outside had never looked more interesting.

“Yes, and it’s the first new vegetable to be created since 1937, when scientists masterminded the Brussels sprout.”

“Really! Ann, this is absolutely fascinating.”

Did he really think so? I was afraid I had my dates wrong, and surely some know-it-all would call the station to correct me. Better get back on firm ground.

“Furthermore, we’re about to introduce Chucky Brocco-rabi, a larger-than-life superhero. He wears a cape and a little bikini like most of the other superheroes do—”

“Ho-ho. Tell us, does brocco-rabi taste good?”

“Sure. Everybody loves it.”

“Where can I find brocco-rabi? Can I drive over to Price Chopper and buy some right now?”

“I certainly hope so. We believe it’s now in every state, and it’s catching on in Europe too.”

“What’s the bottom line on brocco-rabi, Ann? Why should America open its heart to a new vegetable?”

“Newt, what with the government’s five-a-day plan, we need all the options we can get at the lunch and dinner table. Kids are really going to love brocco-rabi too. The weirdness of it.”

“Weird! Weird! I love it! Thanks: Ann Ransom from Aptos, California!”

Newt disappeared and all the sound collapsed into a vacuum in the phone. I was afraid my eardrum would be sucked in too. That was it? No goodbyes? I was suddenly alone again in my kitchen, looking down at the soaking skillet from the wild rice dish I’d prepared the night before. I slowly hung up the phone. Then, a moment later, my sister called. She said I sounded like a natural. She said she was sure brocco-rabi sales would skyrocket.

Later, I thought it was kind of foolish for me to have gotten so worked up about this radio interview, broadcast over states where nobody I knew would be listening.

Anyway, yesterday I vacuumed the car before I drove to pick up Paul. I sprayed some room freshener in it and packed up a tin of cookies. Then I went and filled the tank with gas and squeegeed the windows. For some reason I wanted to do a really good job of driving Paul to Stockton. I admit I was overly excited about this trip.

As I’ve said, it was windy yesterday. But I like weather. It’s one of the few things that can make everything seem different when you’re in exactly the same place.

The person I married thinks Paul is something of a blowhard, but he likes him. One day, shortly after we’d met and moved into this house, the air was clear and bright and he had the day off. He planned on doing a little lawn mowing, making himself a martini, then lying out on a chaise in the freshly threshed grass. He doesn’t get to enjoy our yard often and wasn’t even aware, until that day, that I had planted an extensive summer garden that had provided us with most of our salad materials recently. At any rate, he had only just turned off the roaring two-horsepower engine on the mower when Paul showed up with a box of wires and switches.

“Hey, buddy,” Paul said, “I need to put lights down in the crawl space, and even though I’m an aeronautical engineer I know a hell of a lot about electronics and you can come down there and shoot the shit with me.”

This wasn’t exactly what he said, but if you read between the lines it was clear this was his meaning. And even though this person never does anything he doesn’t want to do, he put aside his martini and chaise and disappeared into the basement crawl space with Paul for the rest of the afternoon. Then that night he was amazed at himself.

“Why did I spend my afternoon off crawling on my belly in the dirt?” he asked me.

“I was wondering. What did you talk about all that time?”

“He insisted on installing five different switches and bulb outlets. Two would have been more than enough. That Paul is pretty proud of himself. Was some kind of boy genius. Did some engineering contracts for the military and spent a year in a tunnel under Saudi Arabia. Said they had golf courses down there.”

“Golf courses? How deep were the tunnels?”

“I think he said two miles.”

“Two miles deep. Amazing! Golf courses!”

“I don’t know. Maybe I wasn’t listening.”

“Not listening? It really sounds much more interesting than I expected.”

In fact, as the afternoon wore on, I had crawled over to the heavy scrolled wrought-iron heater vent and pressed my ear to it. I stayed there for a long time, trying to hear the sound of their voices. The smell of moist soil came up through the vent in gentle waves. It made my mouth water. Sometimes I heard a roar like the ocean, and for a while I heard scratching like a squirrel making a nest. But that’s it. I guess it’s such a well-built house, sound doesn’t travel. I determined I wasn’t missing much.

“Well, maybe he feels at home down there,” I said, wondering why I wanted to prolong this discussion.

“Who?”

“Paul.”

“Where?”

“Under the house. Maybe it reminds him of Saudi Arabia.”

“Oh, right. Let’s hope he doesn’t decide to put a golf course down there,” my husband said.

It pleased me to see him interacting with someone, if that’s what it was. He seemed to have few friends and worked forty-five miles from our house. Only once had I gone to his office, and that was to take him his briefcase, which he had forgotten. When I found him there, he seemed glad to see the briefcase but asked me to speak quietly, and I remember how we ended up talking in whispers. I had already realized I was married to someone who didn’t like the sound of the human voice. Raised an only child by old, quiet parents, he couldn’t help it, but this was the truth about him. Say I started speaking in the yard to a neighbor over the fence. He would come out on the porch and stare. If I were on the phone laughing, he would walk into the room with a funny look on his face. That’s the way he was. To talk to someone all afternoon in the moist soil under the house meant he liked him. I wanted him to like someone.