On the Divinity of Second Chances (17 page)

“Bring your tap shoes.”

My tap shoes. I had forgotten about them. The Thunderellas might be more than I can take right now. But maybe returning to the place where it all began will be helpful somehow. “Okay. I’ll see you tomorrow. I love you, Mom.”

I pack my canvases and paint. My conversation with Jade inspired me to paint a raisin in prison. Maybe I’ll even collage some bar graphs in there. Maybe the bars in the graph will be my prison bars.

I also pack a few clothes. I really don’t have any good South Dakota clothes. I throw some toiletries into a bag, jot a note for Phil, and go.

Driving out of the mountains and through the lava fields, I understand why Olive did this. It feels good. Wide-open spaces. I’ve been needing some wide-open spaces. Freedom. If you think about it, a valley is just a giant rut. I’ve been stuck in a giant rut.

I start to wonder what my mother isn’t telling me about what is going on in South Dakota, but I stop myself. Why, really? It doesn’t do any good.

Instead I just focus on the infinite possibilities of a big, blue sky and the open highway. I could skip going to Summerville, where clearly some secret problem lurks, and just keep going. I could drive and never go home.

Forrest on Scavenging Materials and Café Idiots
(July 1)

What a gold mine! The scrap pile at this building site is loaded! I look at one of the laborers and gesture to ask him if I can raid it. He lets me know it’s there for the taking. I pick out the largest pieces first and put them in a neat pile. I make a second pile to pick up later. I notice some nails on the ground and put them in my pockets.

On my way home, I walk past the Daily Grind, the café where people prefer to eat outside. I survey the tables. I have no use for coffee, but the rest of that muffin looks good. I set down my pile of wood, and go scavenge. I put the muffin in my pocket with the nails. At another table is a half a bowl of soup and a couple bites of sandwich. I drink the rest of the soup and pop the sandwich in my mouth. All the while, I’m overhearing this conversation, half of which is in a familiar male voice.

“So I was like, screw the system, you know? But she was so into that fear-based mentality that she couldn’t even hear me. She just kept coming up with all these ‘but what if’ questions.”

The woman’s voice replied, “Right on. People don’t get the power of visualization. Like if you picture bad things happening, you probably need insurance, but you don’t need insurance if you just don’t visualize bad things. I don’t have insurance, because I don’t need it. I just visualize myself healthy and safe. I don’t use birth control either. I just don’t picture myself pregnant, you know? I just don’t give in to the fear.”

“Wow,” the male voice responds. “You totally get where I’m coming from. I just don’t want to participate in that fear-based system anymore.”

I turn to go back to pick up my scrap lumber and look in the direction of the familiar voice. It’s that guy who doesn’t know how to camp. As I walk by them, I break my rule of silence again. “You guys are idiots. You’re going to get eaten by a bear and you’re going to be a welfare mom. Action is more powerful than thought.” I pick up my pace again so I won’t have to listen to any more of their painfully stupid ideas.

A half block later, Jade pulls up next to me on her bike with Aretha in the cart. “Hey, Forrest, I saw you talking to that guy. Do you know who he is?”

“Some idiot who’s been camping out in my direction. He says his name is Matt.”

“That’s Olive’s Matt.”

“He’s an idiot,” I tell her.

“I know. I hope Olive’s kid is smarter than him.”

“Lightning Bob told me intelligence is carried on the mitochondrial DNA, which is only inherited from your mother, so there’s reason to hope. His new girlfriend’s form of birth control is visualization, though, so I don’t have much hope for the child he’s probably going to conceive with her before he gets eaten by a bear.”

“He’s going to be eaten by a bear?” she asks.

“Yeah, probably next spring.”

“Well, Olive won’t have to lie about her baby having no father then.” She eyes my armload. “What are you up to?”

“Mom’s birthday present.”

“Oh?”

I smile and nod.

“All right. Later, gator,” she says.

“Later, gator,” I reply and watch her pedal away. Then I glance back at the idiots. On one hand, I’m the last person who should judge anyone, but on the other hand, ever since I had to ask myself what kind of person would shoot a kid’s dog, I just see idiots everywhere.

Olive on the Thunderellas
(July 1)

Grandma Pearl, Beatrice, and I were the last to arrive that night. The infamous Thunderellas had already begun to drink their wine. I hadn’t seen these women in almost fifteen years.

Hazel had not changed. One look took me back to sitting on her lap at Grandpa’s funeral. I played with her long, black braids, tying them together four times under her chin, holding them over my own head to see what I would look like with her lovely braids. I wrapped them around my neck like a scarf. After the service, while people ate finger food and talked about Grandpa, she continued to hold me on her lap, telling me Lakota stories until I fell asleep. She is not technically my aunt, but I’ve always called her “Auntie.” She’s earned it, after all.

“Olive Oyl!” She beams at me through her thick Coke-bottle glasses. She’s wearing a full denim skirt and a black T-shirt with a painting of a wolf on it.

“Auntie!” I call to her as I make my way over for a hug.

“Welcome home, Olive,” Fiona greets me warmly. She is a generation younger than the others, angular and earthy with small tortoiseshell glasses and a long salt-and-pepper Spanish braid. She wears sweatpants and a T-shirt that reads “Against abortion? Get a vasectomy.” Mom always spoke of Fiona with great respect. She moved to Washington, D.C., in the late sixties and early seventies to march for peace and women’s rights. Eventually she went to law school so she could start bailing herself out of jail. Yes, sometimes she did more than just march. She often handcuffed herself to things like doors of police cars. Mom always told us that we owed a lot of our freedoms and opportunities to women like her.

“Fiona. So good to see you.” I hope she hears the respect in my voice.

“How was your drive?” Fiona asks.

“Good.”

“I hate driving,” Grandma Pearl interjects. “On our last car trip, I got that road rage so bad, I had to pull over and say, ‘Beatrice, you drive!’ ”

I can picture that.

“Sparkling cider for you,” Beatrice says and hands me a glass.

“Well, ladies, should we begin?” Grandma Pearl prompts. Beatrice and I scramble to change our shoes. “Let’s warm up with eight shuffles to the front, eight to the side, six to the back and ball change, switch feet. Ready?” We warm up our ankles with this exercise. “Should we just get to it now?” Yes, yes, everyone agrees.

While Grandma Pearl puts on “Annie Get Your Gun” (that had to be her idea), Fiona asks me, “So, Olive, what brings you back here?”

“Geez, Fiona, don’t ask her that!” Grandma Pearl calls from the other corner of the grange hall. “She left her boyfriend, hates her old job, and she’s pregnant!” she explains as if I weren’t there.

“Was your biological clock ticking?” asks Hazel.

“What’s with this biological clock thing?” Fiona asks. “My generation didn’t have clocks. We were so grateful for contraception and how it made motherhood a choice. I didn’t know anyone with a clock. Now, suddenly everyone has a clock.”

“You have no regrets?” Hazel asks her.

“Not that kind,” Fiona tries to joke. “Seriously, though, I remember helping a friend by watching her baby so she could take a shower in the middle of the day. A shower. Aunt Fiona has a great ring to it. That’s enough for me.”

“I had a clock,” Beatrice announces. “I just kept hitting the snooze button until it finally stopped going off.”

“But on the whole, don’t you think there’s something going on culturally? I mean it’s sort of like there was no anorexia when there wasn’t enough food. Now everyone’s anorexic or into fad diets. Now women have reproductive choice and suddenly everyone has a biological clock. What’s with that? I think the media is brainwashing women!” Fiona proclaims.

“Hundredth Monkey kind of thing?” Grandma Pearl asks.

“Exactly,” Fiona answers.

“Interesting,” Grandma Pearl replies.

I don’t say anything.

“Okay, remember, flap-heel-heel, flap-heel-heel, eight times, then scuff-heel-toe-heel, scuff-heel-toe-heel, kick-ball-change, stomp-toe-hop-turn, stomp-toe-hop-turn. Let’s try it that far,” Grandma Pearl says. She puts the music on and I can’t help thinking about Jade and how she’d cringe hearing these show tunes. I’m with her on that. I really do hate them.

When the music stops, Hazel gently says, “It’s okay to want a baby.”

“I wasn’t saying it wasn’t okay,” Fiona says. “I was suggesting every woman should be clear about what her true desires are and what is the collective hysteria.”

I look at my shoes and experiment with making different noises with the toe and heel taps. “I didn’t do this on purpose,” I say quietly. Is this a discussion we can really have or are all our worlds so different we can’t even begin to understand one another’s perspective?

“You know, Olive, one day when you’re in your fifties, you’ll just make peace with whatever you did or didn’t do. You’ll just make peace with it. I don’t know if it helps for me to say that now or not,” Beatrice says.

“Nothing helps when you’re her age!” Grandma Pearl shouts. “Okay, now, anyone need a refill?” Yes, yes, everyone says, and refills their glasses. “Next part: time step, stop, stomp-shuffle-ball-change, shuffle-ball-change.”

I hope that someone will bring up some gossip or someone else’s issues, but I know better; nothing is ever as interesting as a single pregnant woman.

“So why’d you leave your boyfriend?” Fiona asks.

“Fiona!” Grandma Pearl scolds. “Give her a break! I’d have left, too, if my partner wanted me to live in a tipi!”

“Living in a tipi is no fun in the winter,” Hazel says. “Especially if you’re pregnant. You spend a lot of time throwing up in the snow. You get cold. You come inside, burn a fire to warm up, and it’s smoky even with the smoke hole open. I don’t like tipis anymore. They’re pretty to look at, but I like my house.”

“What kind of man in this day and age would drag a pregnant partner into that?” Grandma Pearl scoffs.

“Careful,” Fiona says. Grandma Pearl is infamous for saying things that come out wrong.

“Okay, from the beginning,” Grandma Pearl instructs with her glass of wine. “Flap-heel-heel, flap-heel-heel . . .”

When I tap, I only think about my feet, and it’s a relief to redirect my mind to a task other than figuring out my future. It’s a relief to turn off that analytical part of my mind and just focus on the motor skills part.

Phil on the Two Cardinal Rules of Gift Giving
(July 1)

I hit the button for the garage door opener and listen to the noise it makes. The garage door opener sounds a lot like the bagpipes. Actually, it sounds better than when I play the bagpipes. I sort of hum along with it. I get in my car and drive to Al’s.

“Has your rehearsing put the final nail in the coffin of your marriage, Phil?” he asks.

I chuckle, but don’t answer. “Her birthday is tomorrow,” I say to divert the subject.

“Should you care to prolong your stay in the institution of marriage, Phil, you’ll want to abide by the two cardinal rules of gift giving. Are you familiar with these rules, Phil?”

“Regrettably not,” I answer.

Al pours himself some scotch. “If you had, your marriage might not be in the toilet today.”

I raise my eyebrows in lieu of a reply.

“Cardinal rule number one: No husband shall giveth his wife any gift that has a power cord. Cardinal rule number two: No husband shall giveth his wife any gift associated directly or indirectly with cleaning in any way. Very important, Phil. Spread the word.”

Al gives me the bag with the drones corked. This is a very big moment for me. I try to concentrate on his instruction, but my heart feels heavy. I’m remembering the vacuum I gave Anna our first Christmas. I didn’t know what that look on her face meant then. It meant I broke her heart. Another year, I gave her a DustBuster. Stupid. Al’s right.

“Phil, your heart isn’t in it today. I can tell you are not fully concentrating. Are you still thinking about the countless small appliances you gave your wife over the years?”

“Vacuums,” I answer.

“Dear Jesus,” he mutters. “Not many gifts violate both cardinal rules simultaneously, Phil. How is it you are still married at all?”

“I don’t know,” I reply. I really don’t.

“Well, you’ve got about six hours to research what your wife truly desires and take action, barring any mandatory special orders, in which case you may have dropped the ball for the last time, given the bagpipe factor.”

“I think I better go,” I tell Al, working up to a panic. I give him thirty bucks, still money well spent, and drive off.

I start toward the library to research potential gifts in
Consumer Reports
, but have no idea what I would research, so I change my course. I turn left instead of right at the light and go to Jade’s condominium.

“Hey, Dad, come in,” she says and offers to make me some wacky juice with seaweed in it. No, thanks. Her dog sniffs me and then, satisfied, lies down. I look for a place to sit. Her house is a pigsty. I opt to stand.

“Jade, I’m in a bit of a hurry,” I explain. “Your mother’s birthday is tomorrow and I don’t know what to get her. What do women really want?”

“That’s easy,” she says, and I feel relief already with my solution so close at hand. “A case of Annie’s Tuscany Italian salad dressing, a skateboard, a drum set, and a deluxe plastic Viking hat with fake fur around the horns. Oh, wait, maybe that’s just me. Hey, I got her a flat of oriental poppies. Do you mind taking them with you so she’ll see them first thing in the morning? I have to work tonight.”