The Land of Mango Sunsets (2 page)

“There are still a few things worth living for, right? Pass the ketchup, please. Let’s see…can I suffer another evening of champagne and foie gras by the side of the fabulous Mrs. Swanson? Hmm. I think I can!” He slapped the table. “When’s the gig?”

“It’s in May.” We chatted about last year’s event for a few minutes. The waiter delivered our drinks, I sipped a few times and felt my well of steely reserve beginning to evaporate. “I want to chair the decorations commit
tee so badly I can smell peonies and sword fern every single time I think about it.”

“There, there now, my Petal Puss, whom do we have to bribe?”

I giggled at his pet name for me. “Agnes Willis, the old stone-faced chair of the gala. Maybe she has a child or a niece who needs an apartment. I have to rent the second floor, you know. And quickly. What if Mr. O’Hara’s family doesn’t come for his things?”

“If they don’t come in two weeks, we’ll put them in storage and send them a bill. I can take care of that for you. And if you want, I’ll throw a coat of paint on the apartment, too.”

“Oh, Kevin! You’re such a lamb! What would I do without you?”

“Well, for starters, you’d have to rent the third floor as well. You’re not eating your potatoes. Do you mind?”

“Help yourself,” I said, and slid my platter toward him. “Heavenly days, sometimes I feel like a character from a Tennessee Williams play.”

“Hardly. Agnes Willis, huh? I think she might enjoy tickets to see the Bill Blass collection. Who wouldn’t? Maybe I can help you with Madame Rushmore. Every stone has a fault line, doesn’t it?”

Later, filled with hamburgers and the hope of a prestigious committee to chair and a wonderful new tenant living upstairs, Kevin and I made our way home through the snow. After I put on my snow boots. And Kevin had smartly brought his.

We had lingered over lunch as usual and it was getting late in the day. There were already about four inches on the ground at that point, and the snow was still falling as though it never intended to stop. The usual crowds of shoppers and tourists were down to a trickle of humanity, huddled in doorways and in small clusters waiting for a bus, stomping their feet to stay the numbness that only the very young did not feel. Taxis were nonexistent.

Familiar landmarks appeared different and we were unsure where the street ended and the curb began. No one had begun to shovel and we
moved along with extra care. Nothing was more beautiful in the world than Manhattan hushed in a fresh blanket of pure white snow, even though part of me suspected it was radioactive. And here I was in New York all these years, now reduced to taking in boarders so I could hold on to my home, with two estranged sons in cockeyed relationships, a mother who had gone off the deep end, and an ex-husband who didn’t want me anymore.

“What’s going through your head, Miriam? You’ve got that look again.”

“Everything. I’m middle-aged, Kevin. The game’s half over and somehow I never got what I wanted.”

Kevin stopped, turned to face me, and put his hands on my shoulders. “The past is the past, Miriam. You have to stop all this brooding. Seriously! It’s got to stop! The looming question, my Petal, is what do you want now?”

I just looked at him and felt my jaw get tight as my volcanic bitterness grew. “I want to be vindicated from the guilt I feel. I want to be satisfied with my lot. All my life I conducted myself as polite society dictated, and look where it got me.”

Kevin nodded, understanding exactly what I meant. We arrived at the front door.

“I’m going to run around to Albert’s and buy us some veal chops and I’ll pick up a great bottle of red wine. When I come back, we’re going to make a plan. You set the table and think about this. It’s time for you to break a few rules, Petal, because, you’re right, following them didn’t work worth a tinker’s damn.”

“Fine. That sounds good.”

I opened the street door of my town house and picked up the mail from the floor. Then I stacked Kevin’s mail on the hall table and opened the door to my part of the house. There on my coffee table stood Harry, my African gray parrot, who, at eleven years old, had matured into a very desirable roommate.

“Charles is a horse’s ass,” he said.

“You’re telling me?”

He followed me to the kitchen, hopped on my fingers, and I lifted him up to the top of his crate. Harry watched me as I dropped most of the mail straight into the trash. I gave him a small chunk of cantaloupe and he said, “Harry is a good boy.”

“Yes, you are. You are a marvelous boy.”

The message light on my phone was blinking. I pressed the play button and listened while I chose the least tarnished flatware for the table.

Hi, sweetheart! It’s your mother. I left a message on your cell you can ignore. I just saw a weather report that you’re having one dee-double doozy of a snowstorm! Just wanted to remind you to be prepared in case the electricity fails—water, batteries, logs for the fireplace? But then, I’m sure you think you know what to do…

There was no one like my mother. I mean, no one. Once the grande dame of Charleston, South Carolina, she’d flipped her chignon when Daddy died. Six months later, and to the utter shock of her known world, she sold our family’s gorgeous home and all the contents I didn’t want, moved to our funky old beach house on Sullivans Island, and became a hippie. She says she’s not a hippie but I think the term accurately describes her lifestyle. Perfect for her, mortifying to me. She threw away an extremely enviable life to
live green,
whatever that is.

The next message was from my son Charlie, named for his father Charles, the horse’s ass.

Mother? Ah, not home. Okay. Well, just checking in to be sure you’re doing all right in this weather, but if you’re out and about, you’re obviously fine. If you need anything, gimme a shout. Um, okay then. We’ll talk later…

Could he have said,
I love you, Mom?
No. He would never allow himself any overt display of affection. Especially toward me and especially after all that had transpired. But at least he still felt some obligation to his mother and I would just have to console myself with that miserly peanut.

The next three messages were solicitations and I erased them, saving the ones from Mother and Charlie to remind myself to return their calls. There was no call from Daniel, my youngest, but it was no surprise. He rarely called unless the earth moved in California or unless Nan got pregnant, and maybe those two events weren’t mutually exclusive. I grinned at my own cleverness. They had two precious little children that I thought were God’s gracious plenty. Nan had suffered enough miscarriages for a miniseries on the trials and tribulations of the reproductive system. The poor girl. Why she continued to attempt to have more babies, I could not begin to fathom. Nan should only have known all that I knew about the disappointments of raising children. I was sure she didn’t have a clue.

I touched the corners of the packaged log in my living room’s fireplace with the long lit match and watched the blue and purple flickers become gold and orange flames as it burned its way to life. The world was still revolving, the snow would come to an end eventually, and somehow, I would be vindicated.

I sealed the envelope with a damp sponge, used my last special-edition Eleanor Roosevelt stamp, hoping to send a subliminal message that I was absolutely strong enough to chair the decorations committee. Call me Eleanor. I hate war. But no one knew how I emphatically despised the common indignities of the membership table. Good grief. Something had to happen to relieve me of membership duty.

Over the weekend, I had reminded Agnes Willis that I had some knowledge about flowers and branching materials. In the old days before
Charles ran off with his whore, we enjoyed a nice friendship, sharing tables at events together, Charles; Agnes; her husband, Truman; and me. But once Charles’s betrayal was exposed, I lost all my friends. And well, the unfortunate truth was that our serendipitous meeting did not unfold as gracefully as one might have hoped.

She sauntered by with her snooty clothes-hanger friends, choked by the tight folds of their Hermès scarves, wrapped to conceal their aging crepe. There was no doubt Agnes Willis was there to verify to them that her lowly minions she summoned with her irrefutable power had shown up at our lowly posts.

I looked up to her and said, “Oh! Mrs. Willis!”

She nodded to me. I was not about to be snubbed. I stood, careful to raise myself to my full height, and extended my hand to her sour-faced friend.

“Hello, I’m Miriam Swanson.” I couldn’t tell you what she said her name was for love or money. “Mrs. Willis? Aren’t the flowers particularly spectacular this week? When my Charlie was a little boy he used to call them For Cynthia. I never had the heart to correct him.”

I referred to the huge yellow branches of forced forsythia that graced the center of the lobby mixed with long white tulips, marsh grass, and exotic leaves from who knows where.

“Pardon me?” she said. “Oh, yes, they are, Mrs. Swanson.”

Two of the ladies walked away, but the dour one said to Agnes Willis, “For Cynthia. How precious.” She gave me a purse-lipped smile.

I thought, Oh, why don’t you go eat a whole pizza, and don’t you know that was when the pollen or the dust or some rogue virus overwhelmed my sinuses. I sneezed with the brute force of a longshoreman, thoroughly spraying them with nature’s bounty. Agnes and her horrified friend stared me down as though I had just removed my panty hose and swung them around my head. But Agnes, still in possession of at least one gene of empathy, reached in her bag, flipped her wrist, and presented me with a tissue. I was completely demoralized.

“I’m going to the ladies’ room,” her friend said. “To bathe.”

“I’m so sorry,” I said. “I don’t know what—”

“It’s all right, dear,” Agnes Willis said. Her eyebrows knitted in disgust and she put her hand on her friend’s arm to delay her. “It could happen to anyone.”

They walked away together and I heard her say to her companion “she used to be married to Charles Swanson, you know”…yet again affirming to me that without Charles and his wallet, my social standing was greatly depreciated. She had not even bothered to whisper.

More than ever, I hoped Kevin would produce tickets for Agnes Willis to the Bill Blass fall show that was right around the corner. If I could be there as well, which was part of the plan Kevin and I had cooked up over dinner, perhaps it would provide the opportunity for me to remark on the flowers they would surely have in profusion. She might take the hint.

It was such a challenge and a frustration to remain a lady in the face of the endless stream of devaluations I endured. But that’s what my mother had always said I should do. It was also hopeless to think that Agnes Willis would divine the real meaning of my remarks and then completely insane to hope that she would act in my favor. Why would she? Especially after I sprayed her and her friend with enough watery mucus to float the Staten Island Ferry. Gross. And, to be honest, what did she stand to gain by doing anything for me? Well, maybe a seat at Mr. Blass’s show, but she didn’t know that yet. I’d have to check with Kevin to be sure he didn’t forget.

So, down to the corner I hurried and off went my thank-you note sealed with my dreams. I congratulated myself for not mentioning the committee assignments in my communiqué. Another thing my mother, the formidable Miss Josephine, had taught me about the art of written notes was to stick to the subject at hand.

It was snowing again, freezing and gray outside. I maneuvered around the slicks of ice and salt, wishing I had worn gloves for the short trip.
Pulling my coat around me, I hurried home sighing and sighing. It seemed that the relentless winter tirade would stretch into May. Just the few steps to the corner and reliving my meeting with Agnes had been enough to make me want to indulge in an old movie and a good cry.

“Not me!” I said, resisting self-pity and unlocking the front door.

It took my entire body weight to close the outside door good and tight. Every door in the entire house needed to be planed, repainted, and re-hung, but that was a job for the spring. In fact, the list of chores to be done and what they would cost frightened me. Rightfully so. Even Kevin, good and generous with his time as he was, couldn’t possibly see to them all. I worried about the shallow steps that led to the second and third floors. Over time they had begun to settle and slump to the west. I worried about the furnace and the chimneys and the gutters and the roof…on and on it went. But I was heartened by my decision to keep the first floor for myself. I wasn’t replacing the steps. Listen, I wasn’t exactly a little old lady, but I wasn’t getting any younger either.

I could hear Kevin’s boom box streaming Latin music from the second floor. He must’ve been working on Mr. O’Hara’s apartment. It sounded like Sergio Mendes and Brasil ’66. How festive! Only Kevin would have the presence of mind to turn an act of drudgery into something worth dancing through.

After several phone calls and polite warnings that I would be forced to place his personal things in storage, Mr. O’Hara’s family rented a small van, drove in from Oyster Bay, and claimed his property. As each day went by, I became more anxious to rent the space. After all, I had obligations to meet just like the rest of the world.

I opened the door to my apartment. Harry was sitting on the arm of my aging red-striped chintz sofa looking at me.

“Hi, Harry, my little feathered friend!” I said, throwing my damp coat over a club chair that had seen better days. “It’s cold outside. And it’s snowing again!”

He cocked his head to one side and stared at me.

“Charles is a horse’s ass.”

“Yes, he certainly is and Miriam loves Harry.”

“I love you. Pretty Miriam!” Harry said, and whistled.

Of course I had trained Harry to say all the sweet things he said, but it still sounded nice, even if the flattery came from a bird. Unfortunately, Harry’s words represented the vast majority of the compliments I received. I gave him three grapes as a treat. Organic, of course. Sometimes I thought Harry enjoyed a better diet than I did, except that I really had made an effort to buy organic when I could, another testament to my mother’s power of suggestion.

“Come on, pussycat, let’s go see what Kevin’s up to.”

He hopped on my fingers, we made our way up the stairs and swung open the door to Mr. O’Hara’s apartment.

“It’s just me, Mr. O’Hara!” Harry said, sounding exactly like me.

“Harry misses Mr. O’Hara,” I said, and then realized that part of the far wall was an odd shade of green and that the window trim was some kind of orange. Kevin was wearing presplattered painter’s overalls with a tight T-shirt underneath that accentuated his biceps. “What have you done here, Kevin?”

“Didn’t you read Hop Along the obituary? Missed the memo, did you, Romeo?” Kevin turned the music down and his attention to me. “It’s part of the plan, Miriam! So what do you think?”

“About the colors? Well…it’s different, isn’t it?” I let Harry down to walk around.

“It’s very Key West…”

A Key West whorehouse, I thought. “Yes, it is,” I said.

“Papaya and avocado and I’m thinking a splash of turquoise also—you know, just in bits of trim here and there to give it some pop…” Kevin’s arms were flailing about as he justified his foray into the world of tropical psychedelic color.

“Who are we renting to, Kevin? What if they want beige walls? What if we rent to, I don’t know…I mean, would a certified public accountant want to live with these colors?”

Kevin put his hands on his hips and stared at me in annoyance. “If they want beige, they can live somewhere else! I have made an executive decision, Miriam.”

I didn’t want to anger him because he had gone to a lot of trouble, so I said, “And what would that be, sweetums?”

“We’re going to rent to someone who is younger than us. No more dead bodies. We need fun in our lives, girlie. And, in this house.”

He was right about that and I agreed with him.

“Any potential tenants yet?” he asked.

“Yes, I’m actually seeing someone this afternoon at four.”

“And who might this mysterious person be?”

“I’m not sure. He was an acquaintance of Mr. O’Hara, but I don’t know anything about him, to tell you the truth.”

“Miriam? You worry me. Just like that, you’re going to let this man in your house? Our house?”

“Why, I hadn’t even thought—”

“Honestly! We could wind up sliced and diced into sushi on
Live at Five
! It’s a good thing I’m home. I’ll be in your kitchen making dinner in case anything seems peculiar to you, okay?”

“Well, he didn’t sound like someone who would appreciate your handiwork anyway. These colors, I mean…”

“It’s going to be very chic when I’m finished. Miriam? Sugar, I’m going to tell you something…” Kevin poured more fruit smoothie into his paint tray and ran his roller through it, squeezing away the excess.

“What’s that?” I said, and Harry hopped back on my hand. I stroked his feathers.

He rested the tray and roller on the windowsill and leaned back against it, crossed his arms over his chest, and took a deep breath. I sensed an approaching lecture.

“You seem so somber, Kevin! What are you worried about?”

“Nothing! No, nothing at all, really! It’s just that…look, Miriam. You have a fabulous apartment to offer. The kitchen is good, the bathroom is great—a big bedroom and living room, good light…”

“I’m aware. The point?”

“That it’s also a privilege to live here. This is a very smart address, Petal, and you know it. Let’s be a little picky, okay?”

“Promise. I will. I’ve got to go call Mother. Tell her we’re wearing sweaters and that we’ve got food—”

“I don’t want to sound like Fred Mertz here. But, raise the rent, Ethel.”

“Seriously? Yours, too?”

“Have you gone mad? No! The new tenant’s!”

“Kevin, you know me. I think the quality of the tenant is just as important as the rent.”

“Fabulous. When the furnace poops out, don’t say I didn’t warn you!”

“You’re probably right,” I said to placate him, and went to the door. “See you at four?”

“I smell condescension…”

“See you later. And, Kevin?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks.” I blew him a kiss and closed the door.

He was right about the furnace. At five o’clock in the morning, when it switched to its day cycle, it sounded like someone was crawling around inside the walls with a sledgehammer. It had been repaired and repaired, and soon it was going to expire. I knew it. Maybe I should consider raising the rent. I wasn’t even sure what the going rate
was
for a one-bedroom apartment in my neighborhood.

“What are we going to do, Harry?” I said as I closed the door to my apartment behind me. “Perch?”

“Perch?”

“Okay, handsome.” I put him on his perch in the kitchen and dialed my mother.

She picked up on the fourth ring, just as the recorded message on her answering machine was giving instructions.

“Hello?”

“Mother?”

If you’re selling something, we don’t want it
…

“Let me turn this crazy thing off, Miriam. Hold on!”

If you want us to answer questions, forget it
…

I heard something tumble and fall and then in the muffled distance of mother’s efforts to quiet the offending machine, she said something like “dag blast it all to Hades!” Mother invented her own curse words, or like we say in the south, cusswords. To say
curse
is to actually curse and therefore ladies say
cuss.

If you want…beep!

“All righty now! That’s much better! Miriam? Are you still there?”

“Josie, Josie, Josie. That message of yours is pretty aggressive, don’t you think?”

“That’s
Miss
Josie to you, and no, it’s not. If you knew all the fool phone calls I get…mol-asses!”

Read: Those asses!

“I’m sure that’s so. So, Mother?”

“It’s sixty degrees in South Carolina today and I can’t for the life of me understand why you aren’t here to enjoy it.”

Mother always just jumped in and started telling me what was on her mind. She did this as though it was her duty to start up a conversation with a little dressing-down.

“Because then I wouldn’t be here to attend Mr. O’Hara’s funeral.”

“He died?”

“He sure did.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Oh, really, Mother. What would you have done?”

“Well, I would’ve sent a card or something…how did he go?”