The Marriage of Sticks (11 page)

“Do you believe that?”

“Why else would you want to hang around life if it’s over for you?”

“He was so
real.
Solid. No ectoplasm or Caspar the Friendly Ghost, hovering a foot above the ground in a white sheet. It was James. Completely real.”

“Maybe it was. You’d have to ask an expert. Why would he come back now? Why not before?”

We didn’t talk about it much beyond that. Neither of us knew what it meant, so further discussion was pointless.

“Tell me about your new man. The alive one.”

I told her in great detail, and along the way we kept having more drinks to help us analyze my new situation.

“You know what just hit me? What if James came back as a sign to tell me not to do this?”

Zoe threw up her hands in exasperation. “Oh, for God’s sake! If you’re going to feel guilty, don’t blame ghosts. I’m sure they’ve got better things to do than keep tabs on your sexual behaviour.”

“But I haven’t slept with him yet!”

“Miranda?”

Hearing my name spoken in a familiar voice, I turned and saw Doug Auerbach. He was staring at Zoe.

“Dog! What are you doing here? Why didn’t you call?”

“I didn’t know I was coming till yesterday. I was going to call later. I’m supposed to have lunch here with a client.”

I introduced him to Zoe and he sat down. Soon it was clear he was interested only in my oldest friend. At first she smiled and laughed politely at his jokes. When his interest hit her, she transformed into a sexy fox. I had never seen her like that. It was fascinating how deftly she handled both Doug and her new role.

Naturally I was disconcerted. Part of me was jealous, possessive. How dare they! The rest remembered Doug’s small place in my life, and Zoe’s goodness. At the appropriate moment, I suddenly remembered I had another appointment—and would they mind if I left?

Out on the street again looking for a cab, I felt like Charlotte Oakley, the unwanted third. I shuddered and started walking as fast as I could.

One afternoon when his family was away for the weekend, Hugh invited me to their apartment. Easy the bullterrier followed me from room to room. I had on tennis shoes, so the only noise was the tick-tick of Easy’s long toenails on the wooden floors.

This is where he lives. Where
she
lives. Each object had its own importance and memories. I kept looking at things and asking myself why the Oakleys had them or what they meant. It was a strange archaeology of the living. The man who could decipher it all for me sat in another room, reading the newspaper, but I wasn’t about to ask any questions. Pictures of his children, Charlotte, the family together. On a yellow sailboat, skiing, sitting beneath a large Christmas tree. This was his home, his family, his life. Why was I here? Why put faces to his stories, or see gifts brought back from trips for these people he loved? On the piano was a crystal box full of cigarettes. I picked it up and read the name
Waterford
on the underside. A large red-and-white stone ball stood beside it. Crystal and stone. I stroked the cold ball and kept moving.

When I’d asked to see his home, Hugh had not hesitated a moment. They owned a house in East Hampton. The family usually went there on weekends in summer. The first time they went without Hugh, he called and told me the coast was clear. And it
was
a coast of sorts; they lived on the east, I lived on the west. If I had been his wife, I would have been enraged to know another woman was in my home, looking at my life, touching it.

So why
was
I here? If I was going to be with Hugh, why didn’t I work to keep his two worlds separate and be satisfied with what I had? Because I was greedy. I wanted to know as much about him as I could. That included how he lived when I wasn’t around. By seeing his apartment, I figured, I would be less afraid of what went on there.

I was right: walking through the rooms, I felt calmer seeing that only people lived here, no master race or gods, all impossibly better, stronger, and more heroic than I could ever hope to be.

As a girl, I read every fairy tale and folktale I could find. A story that began, “In an ancient time, when animals spoke the speech of men and even the trees talked together…” was my chocolate pudding. More than anything, I wished my own small world contained such magic. But growing up means learning the world has little magic, animals talk only to each other, and our years go over the tops of the mountains without many marvels ever happening.

What carried over from my childhood was the secret hope that wonders lived somewhere nearby. Dragons and pixies, Difs, Cú Chulainn, Iron Henry, and Mamadreqja, grandmother of witches…I wanted them to
be
and was still mesmerized by TV shows about angels, yetis, and miracles. I snatched up any copy of the
National Enquirer
that headlined sheep born with Elvis’s face, or sightings of the Virgin at a souvlaki stand in Oregon. On the surface I was a briefcase and a business suit, but my heart was always looking for wings.

They were in his study waiting for me, but I wouldn’t know that until many years later. The room was large and bare except for a pine table Hugh used as a desk. It was piled with papers, books, and a computer. On the wall facing the desk were four small paintings of the same woman.

“What do you think?”

I was so involved in looking at them that I hadn’t heard him come in. “I don’t know. I don’t know if they’re fascinating or they scare me.”

“Scare you? Why?” There was no amusement in his voice.

“Who is she?”

He put his hands on my shoulders. “I don’t know. Around the time we met, a man came into the office and asked if I wanted to buy them. He didn’t know anything about them. He’d just bought a house in Mississippi and they were in the attic with a bunch of other stuff. I didn’t even haggle about the price.”

“Why do I feel like I know her?”

“Me too! There’s something very
familiar
about her. None of them are signed or dated. I have no idea who the artist was. I spent a good deal of time researching. It makes them even more mysterious.”

She was young—in her twenties—and wore her hair down, but not in any special fashion that gave you an idea of the time period. She was attractive but not so much so that it would stop you for a second look.

In one picture she sat on a couch staring straight ahead. In another she was sitting in a garden looking slightly off to the right. The painter was excellent and had genuinely caught her spirit. So often I looked at paintings, even famous ones, and felt a kind of lifelessness in the work, as if beyond a certain invisible point the subject died and became a painting. Not so here.

“Hugh, do you realize that since we met, I got beat up, saw a ghost, made out in a Gap store, and now am looking at pictures of someone I’ve never seen but
know
I know.”

“It’s the story of Zitterbart. Do you know it?”

“No.”

“
Zitterbart
means “trembling beard.” It’s a German fairy tale, but not from the Brothers Grimm. There was a king named Zitterbart who got his name from the fact that whenever he grew angry, his beard shook so much his subjects could feel its breeze in the farthest corners of his kingdom. He was ferocious and whacked off people’s heads if they so much as sneezed the wrong way. But his weak spot was his daughter Senga.

“The princess was madly in love with a knight named Blasius. Zitterbart approved of a marriage between them, but one day Blasius went to battle and died while fighting another knight named Cornelts Brom.”

“Blasius and Brom? Sounds like stomach medicine.”

“Senga was shattered and swore she would kill herself at the next new moon. The king was so frightened that he had the kingdom scoured for every good-looking man and swore if any of them caught her fancy, he would permit the marriage. But no luck. All the most interesting men were brought before her, but she’d take one look and turn to the window to see if the new moon had arrived yet. Zitterbart grew more and more desperate. He sent out a decree that
any
man who pleased his daughter would have her hand.

“Cornelts Brom heard about it. He’d also heard how beautiful Senga was, and he decided to have a look. The thing about Brom was, he was the plainest-looking man in the universe. His face was so forgettable people would break off conversations with him in the middle because they forgot he was there. They thought they were talking to themselves. That was why he was such a great warrior: he was essentially invisible.

“As a child he realized if he wanted to make his mark in the world he would have to excel at something, so he became the best fighter around. Plus when he was actually
in
a sword fight—”

“His opponents forgot he was there.”

Hugh smiled. “Exactly. But Senga wasn’t interested in great fighters, and besides, this man had killed her boyfriend! Brom was clever though and, with his forgettable face, had no problem sneaking into the city for a look at her.

“Every Tuesday the princess went with her lady-in-waiting to the marketplace to shop for food. Brom stood right next to her and watched her squeeze tomatoes, haggle over the price of cucumbers, and fill her basket.

“He instantly pitied her, and pity is a bad place for love to begin. He knew she really would kill herself because he had seen that same doomed expression of absolute hopelessness on men’s faces in battle when all they wanted was the peace of death. A special despair that comes only when people have lost the way back to their own hearts. It was Brom’s fault this had happened to Senga and he was genuinely sorry. Because he was a decent man, he swore that if it were the last thing he ever did, he would help her.

“Living outside the city were three minor devils named Nepomuk, Knud, and Gangolf. They did a good business trading wishes for parts of people’s souls. If you wanted something, you went to these little shits and said, ‘I want to be rich.’ They’d look in their ledgers and say, ‘We want your joy. Give us your ability to feel joy and we’ll make you rich.’ Most people were willing to do it too, not knowing that as soon as they did, they’d give up something much more valuable than riches.”

When he said “little shits” I laughed out loud and rubbed my hands together in expectation. He sat down next to me.

“Brom went to the devils and said he wanted to make the princess happy again. This confused them because they were sure that, with his face, he would wish to be handsome. Then they got into a fight among themselves. Nepomuk wanted Brom’s plain face because he knew that would make him vulnerable on the battlefield. Gangolf wanted his sense of humor because no fighter is ever great without the ability to laugh. Knud insisted on his fear because anyone living without fear is either a fool or dead.

“In the end, they settled for his courage. Brom didn’t hesitate: ‘Take my courage in exchange for the princess’s happiness.’ There was a large clock in the corner of their house. All three devils went over and blew on it. The clock stopped in mid tick and the deal was fixed.

“Back at the castle, the princess stopped looking for the new moon, put a hand over her heart, and started singing. She didn’t know why, but she couldn’t help herself.

“At the same time, Brom stood in the doorway of the devils’ house, unable to move because he was afraid of everything. What he didn’t realize was that the devils had given him Senga’s fear, which was what had made her want to die. Life is full of surprises, but if you’re convinced all of them will be bad, what’s the point of going on?” Hugh jumped down from the table and, taking me in his arms, started waltzing us around the room.

“And?”

“And what?”

“And what happened to Brom?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t figured it out yet.”

“You made all that up?”

“I did.” He dipped me backward.

“What does it have to do with me?”

“When you find your way back to your own heart, amazing things happen. You see ghosts, you fall, in love; anything’s possible. I was trying to think up a great end to the story that would tell you all that. But I couldn’t figure out what happened and…

“I wanted to tell a story that would convince you it’s time, Miranda. Time to let go and start trusting me. Let it happen.”

“I
do
trust you. I’m just scared.” I pulled away and swept an arm in a wide arc to include his room, his home, his family. “But I’m also ready. Let’s go to my place.”

NEVER PET A BURNING DOG

T
HERE USED TO BE
a neighborhood dog I liked. Since I didn’t know his name, the second time he visited I started calling him Easy, after Hugh’s bullterrier. The dog didn’t seem to mind. A mixed breed, he had the color and markings of a cow—brown spot here, white there. Midsized, short haired, calm brown eyes, a real
dog
dog. He came by once or twice a week on his rounds. A gentleman, he invariably stood at the bottom of the porch steps and waited for me to invite him up. I was always happy to see him. When you are my age you have few visitors.

Usually I would be sitting in the rocking chair with a magazine or book or just my old woman’s thoughts. That’s one of the things I like about this house—it has a good sitting porch where whole chunks of a day can be spent daydreaming and contentedly watching this small district of the universe come and go. My house is just off Beechwood Canyon in Los Angeles. During the day most of my neighbors are away at work and their children are in school, so it is surprisingly quiet and peaceful for a street ten minutes from Hollywood Boulevard. Generally the only sounds are occasional snatches of conversation, the hiss of sprinklers or roar of a leaf blower, and the muted but constant hum and thump of traffic on the Hollywood freeway a mile away. It is a good house in which to be old. One floor, a few rooms, not much work to keep it clean. The porch has a view of a peaceful street and good-natured neighbors who wave or smile when they pass.

Whenever Easy came to visit I would give him two Oreo cookies. He knew that was the limit and even if I had the package with me, he would make no attempt to ask for more. The dog had his dignity and never begged or stared with “gimme more” eyes. I liked that. I also liked the way he sat beside me on the porch for a while after he had slowly eaten his cookies. He was my companion for a small part of his day, and we watched life’s passing parade while I’d tell him what I had been thinking. Who wants to listen to you when you are old? A sympathetic dog is better than an empty chair.