The Original 1982 (9 page)
I
n the morning, Maria comes downstairs. I fix her a cup of tea and we sit in the garden wearing our coats. It's almost May but there's still frost on the ground. Maria's hair is the most incredible shade of silver. When she glances in the mirror to smooth the ends, she sucks her cheeks in ever so slightly. You seem to think she's perfect in every way.
She's teaching you to speak Spanish and points to the illustrations in your books. “Dog:
el perro
. Cat:
el gato.
”
I know a few words and phrases that Gabriel once taught me, but I never became fluent. I was like his parrot. He'd teach me to say something funny and I'd repeat it. Then he'd laugh. I still love to speak the few words I remember, but I don't have a natural talent for other languages. Maybe you will.
“House:
la casa.
Grandmother:
la abuela.
”
You make lots of sounds but nothing is quite Spanish, or even English. “Ba, ba, ga, ga,” you say, and laugh.
We laugh with you.
Maria teaches me things, too. She shows me how to wash the floors with white wine vinegar. She tells me the best kind of paper towels to buy. She gives me a special soap for washing baby things and underwear. She talks about cleaning as if it is both an art and a feature of good character. Her highest compliment is: “Now,
she
knows how to clean.”
Maria has a son and she used to have a daughter. The girl died of cancer a long time ago in a city called La Rioja, in Argentina. That's where Maria grew up, married Hector, and raised her children. “Now it is only boys,” she says, referring to her son and his sons.
Though Maria is nothing like my mother, there is something of mother and daughter in the bond we forge. It seems easier to accept mothering from her because she is
not
my mother. I know that doesn't make sense.
I look at you, Minnow, and feel how much it would hurt to have you replace me with a capable woman from Argentina. I make it a point to call my mother just before bedtime. “Listen to this, Ma,” I say, and hold the phone up to your mouth. “Minnow, say good night to your
abuela
.”
I
t's summer again before we run into Gabriel. We're on Hudson, coming from a shop in the West Village, when I see him on Bank Street, heading right toward us. It takes him a moment to recognize me. He does a double take, which hurts a little, because I'd know him anywhere, instantly. But then he sees us and looks genuinely shocked and happy. His face crumples and his eyes light up.
I've got you strapped to my chest in a baby harness. So when he throws his arms around me, you're squashed between us and I think it's one of the finest moments of my life. I know how an astronaut feels reentering the earth's atmosphere, the relief of a deep-sea diver breaking through to the surface for oxygen. It's a please-God-stop-time moment, for sure, and I breathe him in long and deep. But then he lets me go, and I can see there is a new distance between us.
“Gabriel, this is Minnow,” I say. I can feel my heart pounding and my cheeks burning. You, on the other hand, are one cool customer, Minnow. You look up at him with your intelligent brown eyes as if you could take him or leave him. I'm not sure what it is I see in his expression as he looks at your face. Is it awe? Is he afraid?
“Hi, Minnow,” he says. His voice comes out half an octave too high. “She looks just like you.”
“I think she looks like you.”
We walk together, the three of us. There's a Mister Softee truck parked on the corner of Jane Street.
“Does she like ice cream?” Gabriel asks.
I'm usually careful about giving you sugar, but today is a special occasion. “Sure,” I say.
“What flavor?”
“Better make it vanilla.”
“How about you?”
“I'll have some of hers.”
He gets himself a chocolate.
Hudson turns into Eighth Avenue and we continue to walk uptown. A man, a woman, a baby, and two ice cream cones. Anyone would take us for a family.
Gabriel tells me he's in town to finish packing up his things. The apartment at the Sheridan has been sold. It's the end of an era. For the rest of my life, I'll look up into that third-floor window when I go by and remember what it felt like to be inside looking out.
We walk and we talk. He doesn't mention his wife or ask anything about you. He says he's planning to return to his country soon. It's just a matter of time now. “Everyone is going to be very surprised,” he says.
He'll never go back, I think to myself.
He adjusts the brim of his hat. I can see him making eye contact with every woman we pass. We walk through Chelsea and the desolate West Thirties, past a truck yard, the post office, and Penn Station. You crane your neck around to look at everything. You practice “ma-ma” and “ga-ga.” You rest your head against my chest and fall asleep.
At about Forty-second Street, he seems to remember you. “Is she heavy?”
“A little. Want to carry her for a while?”
“Maybe we should take a cab.”
“No, that's okay.” I don't want it to be over. “I'm used to carrying her.”
“Okay,” he says.
So we walk through the theater district and the West Fifties, Columbus Circle, and Lincoln Center. The harness spreads your weight across my back, but by the time we reach West Seventy-first Street, I'm feeling every ounce of your eighteen pounds. My shoulders ache and my neck is sore. I'm tired and need to change your diaper, feed you, and put you down for a nap. I'm thinking that as soon as I let you down you're going to try to scramble across the floor. You've just started to crawl and need to be watched every second.
But I know what Gabriel is thinking. He's wondering whether or not there's a chance we might have sex.
I still want to, God help me. What kind of a man shows so little interest in his own daughter? I should be angry. I know that.
Still I ask him, “Do you want to come inside for a minute?”
Gabriel gives me the look: the up-and-down eyebrows, the lascivious smile, and I feel that tug in my belly that shuts off the part of my brain that knows better.
As soon as we're inside, he tries to pull me down on the bed. I've still got you strapped to me and start to panic.
“Wait!”
I say sharply.
He gives me a moment to free you, and as I undo the harness, I look into your beautiful, tired face and know that I can't. I don't want to. I mean I do want to. I want to pretty badly, but not more than I want to take care of you, my love. “I can't do this,” I tell him. I've got you halfway to your changing table. I pick up a diaper from the shelf.
“Sure you can, baby.” He's right behind me. He's kissing my neck and undoing my bra.
But I push him off. “Stop it!” My breasts are full of milk. You're hungry, and I've had enough of Gabriel for the moment.
He stands in the doorway and waits while I change you. He continues to wait while I sit with you in the red rocking chair and guide your mouth to my breast. As you nurse, you reach up with one hand to hold a piece of my hair. I look over at him standing there, still waiting.
“Are you sure?” he asks me.
“Yes, I'm sure.”
Go, please just go.
As soon as he leaves, the tears come. Not because I regret my decision. I promise you, Minnow, I do not. But I wish things were different, and that wish is painful.
A
lan sounds guilty or sorry. I can hear it in his voice in the first instant. He's called to tell me he's going on tour with Charlotte Winter. Charlotte's a singer-songwriter whose music is not really like mine, but since we're both young women who play the guitar, it's likely the music business would put us in the same category. In the past, Alan and I have talked about Charlotte, the fact that she's pretty good but not as good as I am. We've wondered whether her success was using up my chance or paving the way for it. Now it's a moot point, because I'm not going anywhere, and Alan needs the gig.
He comes over. He's got a meatball hero with him in a greasy bag. “Hungry?”
I am. We tear into it.
Minnow, you're bouncing up and down on a swing suspended in the bedroom doorway. You've got the best temperament and are content just to bounce and look around. You reach for the cats as they brush by you.
“She's been watching
Sesame Street,
and I swear she's already learning her numbers and letters,” I tell Alan.
“She's the cutest,” he says, but he seems distracted.
“You don't have to feel bad,” I say. “I'll see you when you get back. I'll have ten new songs written by then.” Alan's the kind of person who feels bad when there's no reason to. He can't help it. He feels he's betraying me. Sure, I'm jealous not to be the one going on tour, but I'm glad for him. I'm proud of him. He's beat out other guitar players to get this gig. These are important years for establishing relationships. You end up working with many of the same people for your entire career. For a sideman like Alan, it's especially important to make the connections.
“Are you sure you're okay with this?” he asks me again.
“Yes! I am one hundred percent okay!”
After he goes, I pick up the guitar and play “Still True.” You sort of sing along and it makes me laugh. I really am okay.
In the original 1983, my heart aches to love someone the way I love you. I try to soothe it with music, but music isn't enough. I try loving a man with my whole being, but romantic love is so limited. I think it's only meant to get you to the next phase. I get stuck on it like a record that skips.
J
ust when I think I can't take another minute at the restaurant, another job presents itself. This is how it happens: I'm standing over a famous record producer, coffeepot in hand, when I hear him say that a recording studio on East Thirteenth Street called Silver Sound is looking for a receptionist. He's holding his cup in the air and doesn't even look at me as I fill it. But I call the studio as soon as I get home and drop his name.
In my interview, I'm not sure how I do it, but I become the perfect candidate for the job. I'm a good liar, or maybe I'm able to convince myself that yes, I've been a receptionist before (I've answered the phone, haven't I?) and no, it shouldn't be any problem if sometimes I need to be there all night. Harv, the owner of the studio, tells me he's got a couple more people to interview and he'll get back to me, but I have a feeling I've got the job, and by the time I get home there's a message on my answering machine asking if I can come in the following day at noon. I haven't mentioned anything about bringing my baby to work, but when I come in the next day with you and all your things, Harv seems to be okay with it. I set up your portable playpen next to my desk. Every time Harv passes by, I give him a smile and a wave. I tell you, Minnow, pretty girls get away with murder.
Not that I don't do a good job, because I do. I come in at half-past eleven, get you set up, and make a fresh pot of coffee. It's a rare session that starts before noon. I answer the phones and order lunch for everybody. It's fun meeting all the working musicians, the producers and engineers. I learn a lot about recording, too.
The only drag about the job is the studio is as dark as a cave. All the windows are in a hallway that faces an alley. But I make sure you get to feel the sunshine and breathe real air. We get up early. We have our breakfast and go to the playground. By the time we get to Silver Sound, it's almost time for your nap. You have your lunch and I lay you down with your rabbit and your blanket. You sleep so soundly, nothing disturbs you, not the guys getting drum sounds in room A, not even the wail of electric guitar coming from C.
After your nap, you're only grumpy for a few minutes before you get happy and want to know what's going on. You're unbelievable, talking your made-up language, walking your drunken walk down the hall. You have to say hello to everybody. You're a miniature Gabriel. Charming everybody is what you do naturally. All you need is a wide-brimmed hat and a pair of maracas.
One day I hear that Corbin won't be coming in and note a slight feeling of disappointment. This is the beginning of my crush. I haven't been with a man since before you were born, and I'm certainly not on the lookout for anybody, but it occurs to me it might be nice to have someone to have fun with, to hang out with. Of course, he can't be just anybody. He's got to give me that twist in my belly. He has to make me laugh. Corbin does both of those things. He's tall and thin with bright dark eyes and eyelashes so long they rest on his cheek when he looks down. He wears skinny black Levi's and washed-out T-shirts with the faded names of rock bands. He's kind of dorky and cool at the same time. I hear somebody say he's from Austin, Texas.
When a producer doesn't bring his own engineer, or a band books time without one, they use Corbin, or Don, who is nowhere near as cute. Both guys work for the studio, like me. They do equipment repairs and talk endlessly about pro audio gear. But Corbin has another side, too. The first thing I ever noticed about him was his beautiful handwriting. He labels the boxes of two-inch tape with a thick black marker in a style that is artistic, yet tidy. I guess it's weird to find someone's handwriting so appealing, but I do.
Of course, the eyelashes don't hurt either.
I think Corbin falls for you first, Minnow. He's always coming up with nicknames for you. He calls you Speedy, Tumbleweed, Jellybean, Peanut.
The thing between us develops slowly. We become friends first. Corbin is a few years younger than I am. He's just out of school. He seems like a baby compared to Gabriel, but maybe that's why he feels safe to me. Even though he's really smart, I feel I know more about life.
The first time we kiss, it's two in the morning and you're fast asleep. It's just us at the studio. We're in room A, the big room. I'm playing my songs for him and he's listening so quietly I look up to make sure he's still there.
“You're really good,” he says. His lips are purple from the wine we're drinking.
It's pride or gratefulness that makes me lean in to kiss his fuzzy cheek. He pulls me to him, kisses me on the mouth, and I get that delicious first-kiss rush. His lips are soft. His scent, a kind of earthy-sweet-boy smell, fills my nostrils. I notice he has smile lines at the outer edges of his eyes and try to remember if I own even one decent pair of underwear.
Corbin jumps up to set up a microphone in the middle of the room. He grabs a pair of headphones off the wall. “Play it again, just like that,” he says, putting the phones over my head. I watch his skinny back as he bounds into the control room, and then he's behind the glass, pushing buttons and moving faders on the board. “Sing a little,” he says through the intercom.
We start recording like that, in the middle of the night, whenever somebody else's session gets canceled or ends early. Sometimes we have a drummer and bass player come down. I learn how to use a microphone, to sing softly into it when I'm up close and pull back when I want to sing out.
If life with Gabriel was swimming in the ocean, then being with Corbin is splashing around in a kids' pool. We're silly together, playful as puppies. We arm-wrestle and tickle each other. We make up funny names for everything. There's a lightness to it I've never known.
One February day the whole city closes down after a big snowstorm, and we three go sledding in Central Park. You're about fifteen months by then, Minnow. Oh, how you love the snow. We hike into the park, me pulling the sled, and you up on Corbin's shoulders. All around us children and their parents are doing the same. We find a good hill and pile onto the Flexible Flyer. You laugh your head off going down the slope. Fearless girl. You giggle and squeal. You lean back into me as we gather speed, and as soon as we get to the bottom, you say: “More!”
Corbin teases you, playfully, and you laugh. You hide behind my leg and jump out to surprise him. You shout, “No, Bin,” which is what you call him.
“Bin is so silly,” I say, smiling at the two of you.
We climb back up the hill and go down again and again. After what must be a dozen times or more, I stagger over to a stand of trees and lie flat on my back.
“Mama!” you shout. You scamper down next to me and I take you in my arms. We play the game where I try to kiss your face and you pretend you want me to stop. Above us, the tall trees look dramatic and magical. Every dark branch is covered with ten inches of undisturbed snow. Beyond them, I can see the rooflines of all the majestic buildings on Central Park West.
You climb on top of me like a little monkey. You pull my hair and tug at my face.
“Minnow, stop.” I laugh, which only makes you do it more.
How many days like this before I began to take one for granted? The way people with a constant view of purple mountains come to scarcely notice them. I know what it is to walk alone past the screams and laughter of children and their families playing in the snow. The thought brings tears of gratitude to my eyes.
“Anybody interested in a hot chocolate?” Corbin's silhouette stands between us and the afternoon sun.
“Sure,” I say. I stand and pull you to your feet, brush the snow from your back. Corbin hoists you over his head and onto his shoulders. I trail behind, pulling the sled, wiping my wet eyes with a soggy mitten.
“Ooh, stinky,” I hear him say. “I think somebody needs a diaper change.”
