Parts Unknown (8 page)

“Snails!” howled Dov, tickling the back of my neck with a cold hand. I shrieked in surprise, then hastily squelched my outburst, not wanting to be rude. “I would never have guessed,” I said lamely, chewing more slowly on the rubbery morsel in my mouth.

“Also, smoked fish, tomato, chilies . . .” Trevor enumerated.

“Thanks Trevor,” I said weakly. “For going to all that trouble. It must have been very labor intensive.”

“Especially the part where he had to catch the snails,” Dov said. “They tried to outrun him, but our man Trevor is
fast
.”

I snorted. “You remind me of my little brother,” I told Dov, and he smirked. The front door squeaked open. I turned to see Boris come in (when had he gone out?), bearing two enormous pieces of shiny blue construction paper. Nodding brusquely in our direction, he entered his room and slammed the door so hard the entire kitchen vibrated.

It was as if a ghost had shimmered through the kitchen, upsetting the easy balance. It took a moment to recover equilibrium; then Trevor brought over the next dishes. “This is
ogbono
. It’s a meat dish, very tender. And some okra, for the side. And rice.”

“No snails in that one,” said Dov in a stage whisper.

“Thank you, it looks delicious,” I said, and asked him, “I was wondering--how’d you end up here?”

“In my country, my father was a chief—a big man. But we did not have much money. And I had many brothers. I am the youngest. Not much left over for me. So I chose to come here. Maybe make a better life.” He sighed. “It has been a few months. And I like it here, but it is so cold. And job search is hard.”

“So what do you do,” I asked, “When you aren’t job searching?” I found my voice automatically falling into Trevor’s deliberate, rhythmic cadences.

“I run,” he said. “I run a lot.”

I looked around the table. There was Dov, being a typical messy guy, slurping meat  and holding a beer at the same time. And bright-eyed sad Trevor, and me. Were we all here to escape being someplace else?

After dinner, Dov suggested drinks at the local pub, and I immediately agreed. We treated Trevor to a pint of bitter at the Lamb and Castle, a couple blocks away, and chatted idly. “Trevor sounds so British,” I said. “Are many Nigerian children named Trevor?”

He laughed, white teeth flashing. “No, actually! My real Nigerian name is AbdulRahman. But it is difficult to spell, and confusing. I would like to be called Trevor while I live here.”

“And you, Dov?” I asked. “Any secret names you want to fess up to?”

He opened his arms wide. “Dov Bar-Ilan. That’s me. What you see is what you get.”

I sipped my cider, letting it flow smoothly down my throat like water. “When I have a child, I’m going to name her something interesting. Alizarin. Or Viridian. A name no one else has.”

Trevor looked upset. “There is something to be said for fitting in with other people, though. Don’t you think? Will the children not laugh at your daughter, for her name?”

 “You have a point. But I think the names are beautiful. They’re paint colors. Alizarin is this deep, deep crimson color. And viridian is a bright green. You can’t use them alone—they’re too bright. But if you mix each one with any other color, that color takes on an amazing depth. They’re two colors I can’t paint without.”

“Brilliant that you’re an artist,” said Dov. “That means you can really be one of us. Trevor and I have voted ourselves least likely to be gainfully employed this year.”

I reached into my purse and pulled out my new pack of cigarettes. Inhaling deeply, I said, “Thanks, glad to be part of the club.”

“There’ll be hazing later,” Dov warned, and Trevor cuffed his shoulder.

Eventually Dov extracted a deck of cards from his back jeans pocket. “Anyone up for poker?” he asked.

I stared blankly, as did Trevor. “Okay, you babies,” he groaned. “How about something simple—Crazy Eights?” I reached back into the recesses of my memory, and remembered childhood games. “Crazy Eights it is!” I enthused.

And there we stayed, till the pub closed at 11 pm, playing Crazy Eights, and Go Fish, and Gin Rummy, laughing, drinking pints of Guinness and cider. We played table hockey with the Strongbow Cider coasters, and as conversation lulled, I asked Dov curiously, “So, what will you do, really, after Council Travel? What’s next?”

He shrugged loosely, after several pints his words slurring, the soft consonants rounder and slower. “I dunno, girl. I just take it day by day, you know? Things will figure themselves out.”

Trevor nodded energetically. “I am always hoping. Hopeful. One tries one’s best.”

I swirled my cider, avoiding Trevor’s earnest look, his strained British pronunciation. How well would his British act work out for him? I wanted desperately to hope it would, for this kind man.

And I was convinced that at last, my luck had changed.

Part II

Los Angeles

2008

Chapter 5

“I won’t do it! I won’t! I won’t!” Lucy was in a rage, her face beet-red, her dark-brown eyes so dilated they appeared black. “I’m not going to, and you can’t make me!” She jumped up and down, ablaze with fury. Then she began flinging stuffed animals at me. I caught them, laughing, because if I didn’t laugh, I might cry, or worse, scream, hit her, run out of the apartment and not come back.

“Honey.” I forced my voice to be as quiet and gentle as possible, the way one would speak to a rabid bunny. “It’s cleanup time. We do it every day. The toys on the floor go in the basket. The books go in the bookshelf. That’s all. Then you can watch
Curious George
.”

She was lying on the floor now, pounding it with her fists. I thought despairingly of Mrs. Schusterman downstairs. Unfortunately, Lucy’s room was directly above her living room.

“I’ll help you. It’ll be so fast, you won’t believe it. We’ll do it together, okay?”

It was too late, though. Lucy was past listening, lost in a tangle of fear and anxiety, her tantrum shrieking to its inevitable climax. I pragmatically checked the ceramic clock on her wall, a concoction involving a cow, a moon, and a tick-tocking spoon underneath. Four forty-five. Tantrums usually lasted about fifteen minutes. I walked out her door, locked it from the outside—the reverse lock a hard-won battle with George—and wobbled to the kitchen to pour myself a glass of wine, my hands shaking. Down the hall, Lucy was flinging herself against the door, hollering “Nooooo! Noooooo! Mommy, let me out! Let me out please, Mommy, please, I’ll be good, I promise!” I peeked around the kitchen opening. Lucy was kicking her door with such force it was shaking in the jamb. I sipped some wine, staggered to the kitchen table, put my head in my arms, and closed my eyes. I was just so tired.

Eventually the kicking subsided, then the shouting, and all I could hear were muffled, heartbroken sobs. She must be lying on her bed then, her face in the pillow. The tantrum was over. I gulped a last swallow of wine, then walked the gauntlet of that dark hall, unlocked the door, and stroked her light blonde hair. “Better now, honey?”

She peered forlornly up from her damp pillow, clutching her favorite stuffed monkey in one hand and a pulled-off Barbie leg in the other. Other pieces of Barbie were splayed in a disjointed huddle across the room. “I love you, Mommy.”

“I love you too, Lucy.” I hugged her tight. This was the best part, the moments after, when she was exhausted and almost baby-like. She lay boneless in my arms, a rag doll.

“So we’ll clean up now, okay?” I gauged her face. It was limp and acquiescent. I sang softly, “Bunny goes here, and
Where’s Baby’s Belly Button
goes here.”

She sang along with me, “Fairy girl goes here,” throwing a nude Barbie fairy-themed toy in the basket, “and
The Little Fur Family
goes here,” carefully sliding the book into the pink bookcase with flowers painted down the side. When we were done, I picked her up and kissed each cheek. “See, that wasn’t so bad. Now you can watch TV, and I’ll make dinner.”

She wiped her nose on the back of her hand, then swiped her hands on her red corduroy overalls. “Yeah, Mommy.”

Back in the yellow-tiled kitchen, I checked the clock. Five fifteen. A whole hour and forty-five minutes till George would be back. Maybe he’d come home early.

For someone who seemed to subsist solely on crustless slices of bread and pieces of cheese, Lucy was an impossibly energetic three-year-old. Most days, she was like some miniature teenager, bent on defiance just for the sake of saying no. Television kept her quiet, though. After a blessed hour of PBS, and a quick dinner—we both had toasted cheese; there was no point being fancy, with just the two of us—she refused to take a bath.

I had no reserves left. I contemplated throwing her bodily in the tub and forcing her to wash, but I didn’t have the energy. “Fine, you can have a bath tomorrow,” I countered, “But you have to go to bed now, then.” It was 6:30. I could not wait for the day to end.

“But Daddy, I need to see Daddy!” Her voice was rising to an ominous wail.

“He’ll peek in when he gets home, and he’ll say goodnight to you.”

“No, I need my Daddy. I need my Daddy now.” I furtively swiped exhausted tears from my eyes. Half an hour till George got home—I didn’t think I could make it.

We compromised—she put on her pajamas, long johns patterned with pastel bunnies, and I brushed her teeth. And then we read story after story—treacly Disney Princess books, and a tale about a talking dump truck, and a few about Barbie mermaids and fairies, until at last, all the way down the hall, I heard the lock click back, and George was home. I was saved.

~ ~ ~

It had been such a beautiful day on that April Sunday in 2002. I’d lived in Los Angeles for two years, and was visiting the Getty Museum for the first time. It felt so luxurious, sitting back in the museum tram as it toiled up the steep hill to the top, having a whole afternoon to myself to explore. I couldn’t believe I hadn’t found the time, before. But I’d been so busy, just getting by, flinging myself exhausted into bed every night, my calendar bristling with blacked-in and crossed out dates.

It was so complicated, keeping track of where I had to be, when. Tuesday, Friday, and Saturday afternoons assisting at Kids Can Paint in Glendale. Mondays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays all day as receptionist in Dr. Bronson’s dental office on Wilshire. That had been a lucky break. When he was cleaning my teeth, on the last visit I could make while still covered by my family’s dental insurance plan, I’d noticed that his usual receptionist wasn’t there. One thing had led to another, and there I was, still, two years later, filling in part-time. Sometimes I would get confused, and get in my car and drive down Wilshire, realizing halfway there that I was supposed to be in Glendale, in the opposite direction completely, working for someone else.

But that Sunday, I was free. The warm sun penetrated me so completely that I even walked loosely, feeling easy and happy in a way I hadn’t for some time. I poked in and out of the gallery buildings, the layout confusing—I kept running into blank walls when I wanted to exit, and I couldn’t read the map well enough to figure out how to get from modern art to Renaissance art. But the setting was so beautiful, and the buildings so appealing, I didn’t even care, and headed to the gardens for a break.

Perched on the edge of the mountain, the Getty’s views were breathtaking, and I walked up the highest path I saw so I could get the best view of the Los Angeles basin spread before me. Far in the distance an ultramarine ocean gleamed, pinpoints of sunlight dancing across it. Everything below me looked perfect, like a fairy tale, the crowded streets and lonely days transformed into a glowing fantasy, viewed from above. I tossed my head back and let the sun warm my face; I was toasty and happy all the way through. I felt like I could open up again; really paint again. I still kept at it, determined, but it often felt like more work than pleasure. I was haphazardly trying to amass a portfolio so that I could start submitting to galleries, but I never managed to get something cohesive together. I kept trying new ideas—upside down horses, dystopian cityscapes, Day of the Dead marzipan skeletons shopping at the mall—hoping something would stick and I could see it through a series. But I’d lose interest after the second painting, and try something different in a different style. I’d get there, eventually—I had to believe that. In the meantime, canvas after canvas stacked up in my living room, facing the wall so I wouldn’t have to look at my many failures.

I was embarrassed to admit it even to myself, but somehow, I was still painting for Josh. Don’t get me wrong—I knew he wasn’t coming back. He was lost for good, and I was sure I’d never see him again. But what kept me painting was the remote possibility that my work would be noticed. That galleries would display my art; that my name would become known. And that art critics would write about me, and one day Josh would see my name in the newspaper and say,
Wait a minute. I knew that girl once
. And for a little while, he’d think of me, and remember those three weeks. And if he remembered, even for a moment, then I wouldn’t be the only one still crushed by the burden of those memories that after four years I’d yet to figure out. Nothing had come together since then in quite that way, with quite that quality of light, emotion, atmosphere. Feeling.

It was tiny and pitiful, but that was why I painted.

The stupid thing was, I was still stuck back in that August, and although years had passed, I’d never managed to extricate myself. Loving Josh—being an artist—making some mark on the world—all those were linked inextricably, so that without Josh, I was as lost as ever, tentatively feeling my way down the path that had been so blazingly clear for just those few weeks, four years ago.