Louder Than Love (3 page)

Relieved, my mother hugged me. “We will call every day. And you’ll be coming for Thanksgiving, we’ll be up for the holidays . . .”

I went from city co-op dweller to homeless widow to hapless houseguest to suburban homeowner in the span of a month, which is enough to make the average head spin. My head, however, was floating somewhere between the clouds Pete and I used to occupy as we planned our blissful life and purgatory.

I drifted through the days with Abbey by my side, losing myself in innocent play with her only to be yanked back into reality each time I put her down to sleep. I lost interest in the playgroups and bereavement groups. The former was filled with moms chattering about their date nights and their kids’ days out with Dad and the latter filled with women twice my age who had had the luxury of “for better or worse, in sickness and in health” for enough years to at least prepare themselves somewhat. Neither group applied to my situation. They did not make sense in my world.

My alone time was spent munching my way through bags of tortilla chips smothered in cheese, scarfing down store-bought cookies by the cellophane sleeveful, and devouring raw gritty cookie dough straight from its chilled tube—tasks that didn’t require me to think and were best done when I didn’t have to be a good example to my child. That fall, the local Girl Scout troop must’ve had a picture of me along with a map leading right to my house plastered on their wall. They just kept ringing the bell, and I just kept buying and eating more. There was no such thing as too many Thin Mints or Tagalongs when they were being delivered right to my door.

Halloween approached; Pete and I had been looking forward to strutting Abbey around in an adorable chicken costume we had found at a shop in the West Village. Instead, I trussed her up and used her as an unknowing accessory in my quest for easy access to chocolate, eating all of her Halloween loot single-handedly (and single-mouthedly) in less than a week. Some people turned to drinking and let the alcohol wither them away under the same circumstances; I, on the other hand, liked the feeling of the heft and the weight I was gaining. My mind continued to hover above it all, but I liked that my body at least was still anchored to the place where Abbey was. I found it oddly comforting that my thighs now rubbed together when I walked, and I enjoyed the childlike swell to my belly. My body continued to exist and grow, even if my brain didn’t.

Marissa would come over and, like any good friend would, eat cookies with me. She no longer told me to kiss her big fat lily-white ass, as I was toting around one of my very own. And then one day while carrying some of Abbey’s baby toys to the basement, I spotted my dad’s treadmill under a box filled with our Super 8 home movies and some questionable-looking bulky black garbage bags. My parents saved everything, which I guess came in handy when running an antique shop, like my dad had for forty years. I pushed the junk aside, gingerly running my finger over the dusty console.
Fuck you,
I mouthed to the evil high fructose sugar demon that laughed every evening as I stuffed myself to the point of nausea. What was I gaining, besides weight, by living like a robot, waiting for my blood sugar to crash so I could fall asleep at night? No more nachos, no more nonsense.

I remembered Pete’s mother telling me the story of how he had flipped over the handlebars on his bike at nine years old, cracking a tooth, bloodying his nose, and embedding gravel into his forehead. She had feared it would prevent him from ever getting onto another bicycle again. But the next day, he was at it again.
He got right back on that horse,
she relayed. And I owed it to Pete to climb back on to my horse.

For Abbey. For myself.

Nighttime treadmill running became my drug of choice. The irony wasn’t lost on me. Yet every time I climbed onto that treadmill and started my ascent, it was in spite of what had happened. My homage to Pete, I suppose.

After logging many lonely miles, I forced myself to seek out a more social situation. The local Y offered a daily spinning class, taught by a peppy lesbian with a hair color fetish named Donna who had the most killer mix CDs to accompany her regimen. The first class I took was not unlike the experience of childbirth: grueling and not sure what to expect, cursing as someone in a less torturous position yelled, “Come on, push!”

Making my mind up to attend that first class had been tough; returning for a second time was tougher. But my curiosity as to how short or purple her hair got or which songs we might hear each day coaxed me in. She would play everything from Johnny Cash to “The Imperial March.” I began to attend regularly, making sure I was on the bike closest to the door in case I needed to bolt. Initially, every other song in her playlist could reduce me to tears; songs as inane as the Proclaimers’ “I’m Gonna Be (500 Miles)” or as sappy as Queen’s “You’re My Best Friend.” But soon, I broke through the wall, hitting that high runners often describe, and let the sweat replace the tears. I slept better, and I certainly looked and felt better. I could keep up with Abbey, whose legs had lost the baby Michelin Man look and were now long, toned, and coltish. I lost the tummy but gained a shapely butt and more boobs, much to Marissa’s chagrin. She had lost her cookie-eating comrade, but had gained back her best friend.

Big in Japan

“Sure you don’t want a drink or something?”

Leanna and I were standing on my enclosed front porch watching Ed secure the mattress and box spring with rope in the flatbed at the curb.

“Nah. You okay?”

“Yeah. It’s a good thing. Change is good.” I kicked the futon that served as a couch on the porch. “Can you help me bring this into my room?”

“You’re kidding, right? You can’t sleep on that!” Leanna folded her arms across her cashmere cardigan and fixed one of her signature stares on me. Barely five feet two, she commanded attention like a five-star general. “It’s . . . porch furniture.” Her tone sounded eerily like her mother’s “I’m the doctor’s wife” voice we mocked throughout high school. I wondered if she even realized she was doing it.

“It’s a futon. I hear they’re big in Japan.”

“Duh. But you’ll kill your back sleeping on that every night. Christ, what
is
my husband doing?”

“Sounds like he’s going to leave without you.” Ed was in the truck and honking impatiently. “This isn’t permanent. Just until I buy a new bed.”

“Fuck him. He can wait. I’m not going to come running because he’s honking. Let’s move this thing.” She grabbed one end and tugged it. “Holy crow, this thing weighs more than your mattress and box spring put together!” We managed to drag it off of the wooden frame and down the hall.

“Good thing my bedroom is on the first floor.”

“Good thing I love you like a sis,” she replied. It was our motto, written in each other’s yearbooks and at the bottom of notes we passed secretly in school. Leanna had been an exotic import from Chicago into my biology class freshman year. I could still see her as a sneering punker chick in her tiny combat boots, daring any teacher to catch us; jet-black eyeliner rimming her deep-set Asian eyes, her hair shellacked up into a spiky black mess with sugar water. She had fallen right in with Marissa and me, and with Liz rounding out the group, we became the Fab Four of Lauder High.

“My chariot awaits,” she said sarcastically as we each dusted our hands on our jeans and walked toward the front door. The horn cacophony was approaching warp speed outside. “Like Eddie has anywhere important to go. The man has been unemployed for over two years. Sorry he’s being such a prick.”

“You don’t have to apologize.” Ed had never been too social with any of us, so his behavior didn’t faze me. “How did the shrink visit go?”

“Fine . . . for me, anyway. Ed blew it off.”

She shook her head in dismay, her smooth black hair fanning around her face. Gone were the days of sugar-watered Mohawks and most of her punk attitude. In fact, when she and Ed relocated back to Lauder Lake from the city after 9/11, she seemed about as foreign to me as she had upon first sight in biology class. At the time, I chalked it up to the fact she could have lost her husband, who had been in Tower 7 that day. But as we renewed our friendship once again, I could see there was much more at work breaking her spirit.

“Thanks for helping. And you know I’m always here if you need an ear.”

“Likewise, girl.”

The door clicked closed behind her and, as if on cue, the phone began to ring. I didn’t peek at the caller ID; I suspected it was Gwen. The director of the Lauder Lake Library had been calling daily to inquire about the status of my program. I had sketched out a rough proposal for her weeks ago, but still needed to find the talent.

The ring seemed to take on her shrill and desperate demeanor before finally clamming up. Well, the ringing phone and she could wait a few more hours. I debated whether or not to just break down and ask Karen for the name of her scary balloon-twisting clown. I knew I could do better; I just needed some inspiration.

The box of CDs sat patiently next to my old boom box on the screened-in porch. I slid a fresh disc from the case of thirty and contemplated it. I hadn’t even played it for Abbey or mentioned the program idea yet; I was hoping I’d track down her elusive singer before getting her hopes up. Skipping past the first few tracks, I slipped down to a seated position on the floor where the futon had been, leaned back, and closed my eyes. The same gravelly voice that wooed my daughter to watch
Maxwell MacGillikitty, Feline Private Eye
every day began to sing a song I remembered from my childhood about a garden and a hoe. About weeds and stones and being made from dreams and bones.

I could picture Abbey’s face the minute she heard this. She was going to love it. I clicked to the next track, “Transatlantic Wake-up Call,” which described a father’s frustration trying to reach his young daughter and the challenge of being in a different time zone. Hmm, was there a deeper metaphor running through there? The song had a somber sound to it, reminiscent of some of my favorite Beatles songs and nothing like any children’s music I had heard before. My fingers smoothed over the bold print of the address label. Burning Barn Studios, LLC. The CD played on as I made my way back inside to my computer.

Amazingly, Hoover’s Online had a listing, complete with e-mail address, for a studio of the same name in Hoboken, New Jersey. I quickly fired off an e-mail before rushing out the door to pick up Abbey.

“What’s New Pussycat?” began to play from the copy in the car stereo as I pulled into the car line for dismissal. I hummed along with the funky bass line added to this old standard. Checking the rearview mirror, I noticed Marissa had pulled up right behind me. Between her minivan and the hulking Range Rover ahead, I felt pretty insignificant in my Mini. I caught her sticking her tongue out at me when I glanced up again. Then my cell phone rang.

“What, Mariss—you too lazy to step out of your car and talk to me?”

“Kiss my lily-white ass. You’re up next.” The Range Rover carrying the McGreavy twins pulled out, and I scooted up. I could see Miss Carly helping Abbey with the zipper of her coat behind the glass school door.

“I’ll call you later . . . I may or may not have some exciting news. And you’ll be happy to know, I am now bedless.” Snapping the phone closed, I hopped out of the car. Abbey was carrying a large piece of manila paper that was boldly crayoned.

“Mom! I drew Maxwell MacGillikitty!”

“Hola, chica.” I kissed her forehead in greeting and opened her door for her. “Cool drawing, very beautiful.” Abbey had been on a creative kitty kick for about a week now. We had a watercolor Maxwell, an inkblot Maxwell, and a macaroni-and-glue Maxwell cluttering our dining room table already. I wrestled her car seat buckle closed as she held the picture high to kiss it multiple times. Oy vey.

“Katrina, I think it’s great Abbey has a love of animals . . . but it’s become an obsession with her lately. Did you lose a family pet recently, or has she been wanting a cat?” Miss Carly cocked her pretty blond head and smiled at Abbey through the window.

“No, we don’t have a cat. Maxwell is just her favorite cartoon character. But hey, at least it’s PBS, right? I don’t let her watch all that much television, despite her preoccupation.” I felt my cheeks redden. Was I embarrassed by Abbey’s obsession or my own? I fervently hoped the studio would e-mail me back.

Date: Friday, April 9, 2004 12:02 p.m.

From: [email protected]

Subject: Adrian Graves contact information

To: [email protected]

Dear Ms. Lewis,

Thanks for your e-mail. I have not been in touch with Adrian Graves for several years. The last correspondence I received from him came from e-mail—[email protected]. I’m sorry, but I no longer have a valid phone number for him. In response to your question, yes, he was based out of New York when he recorded that album ten years ago. Good luck.

Bill Bonovara

Grinning, I quickly cut and pasted the address he had provided into a new e-mail and began to type.

Date: Friday, April 9, 2004 1:12 p.m.

From: [email protected]

Subject: Program Appearance Request

To: [email protected]

Dear Mr. Graves,

My name is Katrina Lewis and I am writing on behalf of the Lauder Lake Public Library’s Friends Group in Westchester County. We are interested in holding a music program for children at our library on Friday, April 23, and are hoping you might be available to perform. The program is geared toward ages four to eight and includes children from our community, as well as a number of autistic children from a nearby school. It would run about an hour in length. We can supply a PA and would reimburse you for your travel, as well as pay you a negotiable rate.

Thank you for your time and attention, and I hope to hear from you soon.

Katrina Lewis

P.S. Maxwell MacGillikitty rules!

“Whatcha doing?” Abbey asked, her mouth spraying graham cracker crumbs.

“Oh honey, let’s finish eating at the table. I’m sending a letter on the computer. Want to play a game? Go Fish?” I deleted and then rewrote my postscript, wondering if it sounded too corny. What the heck, may as well leave it.

“Can I watch TV?” Abbey asked hopefully.

“Abb . . . I think we need to take a break from TV. We could go take a walk to the lake. It’s nice out.”

“Oh! The lake! Thelakelakelakelake!”

Our street was one of eight forming a spoke-in-wheel pattern to the town’s namesake, Lake Lauder. We could walk down the road past about nine houses to where the pavement became gravel, then dirt, and finally sand down to the mile-long lake. As kids, my brother and I would spend hours there, swimming out to the dock. You could see the bottom clearly ten feet in. We loved to stare in amazement at the fish, the stones, and our feet, looking pale and alien under the water. Burying our legs in the cool, quiet sand as evening approached, we’d swap stories about the Indians who most likely lived and died right by our house. One summer, we found five arrowheads between the beach and our own backyard.

Abbey and I pulled on Windbreakers and walked hand in hand toward Karen’s house. I really hoped my e-mail to Adrian Graves would put Karen’s scary balloon-twisting clown out of the running for the library program. We passed the Drimmers’ house, where I spent many a teenage night babysitting their two boys. Then the old Rosen residence, now inhabited by Chuck and Kyle, life partners who commuted to the city with their matching Jack Spade messenger bags. Their toy poodle, Ruby Two Boots, was Abbey’s second favorite thing on the block after the beach.

On past Hilda Franz’s house, which seemed to have eyes looking out each and every leaded glass window. She was my mom’s oldest friend and the self-appointed busybody of the street. She basically knew your business before you knew it was even yours. I didn’t mind her so much now. Like my parents, she had become a snowbird. Her house now sat empty and gossip-free for half the year.

Liz’s old house was next, a small Cape Cod still painted the same shade of puke-green we made fun of in grade school. Her parents divorced her sophomore year, and she moved with her mom and two younger brothers to the west side of the lake, where new condos had gone up. She could stand on her balcony and wave to us down on the beach. A red towel would let my brother know that her mom was out and that he could come over, back when they were dating. A white towel always signified defeat; if she was grounded or stuck doing chores, she would halfheartedly wave it around for a few seconds before hurrying back inside.

The last house on our road was a new build. A McMansion, as Marissa would say. The street’s residents went ballistic over the proposal to build on the modest empty lot of grass closest to the beach, and many shouting matches at the town hall ensued. Joe Cippola, who had bought Liz’s old house, was an attorney who stood to lose the most—his own view of the lake. He practically laid himself on the road as the backhoes came to break ground.

The house was Karen Mitchell’s, and far from a McMansion. Her husband, Mitch, worked with a green architect to make the house environmentally friendly, and it showed—from the bamboo floors and the cement-based fiberboard siding to the rainwater collection system and photovoltaic panels on the roof. The 2,700 square foot house was completely independent of local power, water, and sewer connections, which my father marvels at each time he comes back for a visit. According to Karen, Mitch chose the exact location and layout, with most of the windows facing south toward the lake for maximum passive solar heating benefits.

They composted. They mulched. They recycled with a zeal that bordered on religious. Most of the neighbors had dropped their grudges toward the “new folk” once they saw how committed Karen and Mitch were to preserving the area and minimizing their carbon footprint.

Abbey and I met Karen soon after they moved in. We had been picnicking on the beach, enjoying the late summer weather. Abbey was approaching her third birthday. Her favorite thing to utter at least twenty times a day was a resounding and plaintive “Wa
zzat
?” while pointing and demanding I explain everything from cigarette butts on the beach to moss on the rocks to bird calls from above to the egg salad on her sandwich. “Wa
zzat
? Wa
zzat
, Mama?” I had turned just in time to see her communing with a yellow jacket that was interested in the applesauce on her fingers. Her yowl of pain ripped right through me.

A woman came running up from the water with her hands cupped and outstretched. “The bees are terrible this summer! Here, use some mud. It will raise the stinger and draw out the venom.” She fell to her knees in the sand in front of Abbey and began smearing a mixture of water and dirt from a grassy patch near the shore across the palm of my daughter’s hand. Abbey was still sobbing and hysterical, but also curious as to the mess on her hand. “Wa
zzat
?” she huffed through her tears, examining her hand as the mud began to dry.

“Garlic also works well if you have no mud handy,” the woman explained, standing and brushing off her hands. “Hi, I’m Karen, by the way. And this”—she smoothed her hand over the spandex of her black bathing suit—“is Jasper.” In all of the chaos, I hadn’t noticed this woman was very pregnant. “Why don’t we go to my house? It’s close by, and you can wash her hand and have a cool drink.” And so it was over mud and organic lemonade that we became acquainted with Karen, her husband, Mitch, and eventually little baby Jasper.