We Only Know So Much (20 page)

forty-five

A
ll week long, ever since Theodore’s service, Jean has been thinking about going back to church. The folks there were warm and friendly, and there’s been an annoying bug in her head since the last support group meeting. More will be revealed. More what? More shit? More of this? More what? More what will be revealed. Was it at all possible that hers was a spiritual crisis, that confession or something could right whatever’s been wrong with her since James died? She has no plans to take up religion; she mostly just wants to be healed somehow, maybe get a blessing. She imagines one of those faith healings where you get bopped in the head by a minister with a phony Southern accent, maybe dunked underwater for a good old-fashioned baptism, wash this all away and start over. She wishes she believed that kind of thing had any basis in reality. She could use a good bop in the head right about now.

What Jean discovers about this church is that they consider themselves progressive. The way it works is that the members of the congregation take turns rotating sermons week to week, but they aren’t called sermons, they’re called leads. The service begins with a brief prayer followed by music. The group is a somewhat scruffy bunch, Jean observes. There’s a tambourine player with a long skirt and a colorful woolly hat sliding off the back of her head, a guitar player with torn jeans and bare feet. Jean hadn’t expected to hit it on the first try, anyway, thought she’d check out a few churches, although she wasn’t expecting the Grateful Dead, which is more along the lines of the music they’re playing, albeit with a lot of “angels” and “Lords” thrown in. Still, it’s sort of pleasant, and Jean’s mind drifts off a bit. The guitar player looks like she imagines James might have about twenty years earlier; the lead singer looks a lot like Gordon when he was younger as well, or what he might have looked like with shaggier hair, very cute, softer—huh, what we know that Jean hasn’t noticed is that Gordon is actually in need of a haircut right about now, has let that slide lately along with a lot of other things, and that if she looked at her husband for even as long as she’s looking at the guy singing, she, too, would probably soften, that there could be a little window for them, but it hasn’t happened yet. The moment serves only to allow a sliver of something Jean hasn’t processed yet, in her anger with James, her sadness about him, and now Theodore, her everything else: guilt. It’s not that she was ever unaware that she was betraying her husband. It’s just that in this moment, seeing this cute young shaggy version of Gordon, she feels a shim of remorse wedge its way into the feed of grief.

The speaker this week is a gentleman named Bob. He looks like a Bob, Jean thinks, has the stature required of a Bob, tall, with a broad chest, salt-and-pepper hair, kind of a big head. Bob has had an interesting experience with his rescue dog Juliet, and he’s talking about how having his dog has been spiritually transformative. Jean has no trouble believing this, much less trouble than believing in some puppet-string-pulling deity that gives you parking spots (but somehow goes AWOL when others are in the mood to hang themselves); it seems almost practical to her in a way. She grew up with dogs, first a Lab named Cotton and then a mutt, some kind of dachshund mix named Doug, and now Mott has been sleeping by her side ever since she brought him home. She hadn’t felt her relationship with any of them had been spiritual, not even Mott, but it certainly had been a meaningful bond. She’s been sure since she brought him home that Mott feels as sad about James as she does, that he
knows
.

I wanted to talk about Juliet today because I feel that she has saved me, much in the way some believe Jesus Christ saves.

Mmm-hmm
, Jean means to say quietly, but it comes out loud. She doesn’t especially believe in Christ, but something resonates here.

Bob clicks a PowerPoint slide show with images of Juliet. She’s a beautiful brown-and-white pit bull mix with, indeed, soulful yellow-green eyes.

My connection with this dog has been transformative. When she came into my life I was a man who knew how to mess things up but not how to fix them. And I was terribly lonely and sad.

Amen!
Jean shouts.

I feel, looking into Juliet’s eyes, that we have a true partnership. That there are no errors of communication between us, as with our human partners. That she can see into me
,
that she sees me the way I was meant to be seen, as god created me. Perfect.

Hallelujah!
Jean’s head goes down in a deep nod of understanding; her right arm shoots up.

Because of the godly love of my beautiful pit bull Juliet, I feel that I have been freed. Freed to bring myself forward. And that with that liberty I can do anything. Well, almost anything. I can’t fly.
Bob chuckles; the congregation chuckles with him.

Jean jumps to her feet.
Say it, brother!
she says. The woman sitting next to Jean scooches slightly farther away down the bench, but Jean fails to notice.

Bob continues his lead in this vein and Jean continues her praise. She’s entered a zone. There will be no other churches.

So this is my message to you today: Juliet’s love is god’s merciful love and god’s love is for all of us.
Bob leaves the pulpit to greet the congregants and the organist begins to play. It’s a somber tune, practically a dirge, which is unfortunate. Jean wants to get up and dance down the aisle. She joins the line to introduce herself to Bob. She tells Bob it’s her first time, that she was really moved by his sermon, that she hopes to confess, asks Bob if they can sit down to talk. Bob chuckles.
We can talk if you like, but I’m not a priest, or even a pastor. Everyone here is the pastor, you could say. You should give the lead next week. We find it’s a wonderful way to connect with new congregants.

Jean does not have to think about this twice.

Oh! My! Well, yes, yes, of course! Thank you!

Jean nearly runs a red light speeding home, dashes upstairs to begin writing her lead. The truth is, she has no idea what to say, but she’s been truly inspired by Bob’s honest talk about his dog. She gets it. She sits down with a legal pad, starts scribbling down notes, tearing off sheets, scribbling more notes. None of it is good, but she knows it’s coming; she can feel the message bubbling up inside her.

But the week comes and goes, and by Saturday she still has nothing. Sunday morning, two things happen:

1. She steps outside with her morning coffee, lets Mott outside, and remembers a beautiful dream about James.

2. A squirrel, mid–running up a tree with a small nut in its mouth, hears Jean open the door, freezes, swivels its head around to meet her gaze. It’s a real moment, an intense two seconds in which the dead stare of this squirrel convinces Jean of the ultimate connection between all living creatures. In spite of the reality— that this squirrel, who, if he has any ability at all to think in the way we understand thinking, is probably thinking something like “This nut is
mine
”—what Jean perceives is what she wants to believe, that the essence of James is in the eyes of this squirrel, and that his message to her is
Yes, Jean, your dreams are true.

She decides she’ll wing it.

forty-six

H
eading out to run an errand, Priscilla catches a glimpse of her old dollhouse in the garage. Gordon had moved it a few feet out of his way when he started painting, into a spot that’s now in Priscilla’s line of sight when she enters the garage. It’s been in there collecting dust for several years now, the furniture packed up in a box. Suddenly Priscilla’s moved to have another look at it. Holy shit, she thinks. This is insane. Priscilla opens the little closet doors, sees the little shoe shelves inside. He built her a three-way fucking mirror. The dining room and two of the bedrooms have real wallpaper, cream-on-cream paisley in the dining room, tiny florals in the bedrooms. Barbie’s bedroom still has the tiny little posters on the walls that he’d photocopied and shrunk down, the casts of
Dawson’s Creek
and
Buffy
, her favorites (yes, she’d been too young for these shows; does this surprise anyone?). Theodore had even gone to lengths to set up views outside the windows, building a slot behind them to place a series of photographs he’d taken of the backyard at different times of day.
Or we could put in new ones, a skyline or something, if you want her to be a city girl
, her grandfather had said. The curtains her mother had made still hung in all the windows, in all the colors that were Priscilla’s favorites back then: cornflower blues, gunmetal grays. Priscilla opens the box next to it, pulling out items that her mother had made, tiny pillows she’d petit-pointed with single plys of silk thread, embroidered wall hangings done much the same way, blankets and towels, the hooked rug, everything coordinating, everything made with great care, even the little picture frame with a photo of the family, it’s about an inch by an inch and a half, one of their old Sears holiday portraits. She wipes away some tears. She can’t believe her mom did all this for her. She will not cry.

Priscilla is desperate, so desperate now that when her mother knocks on her door to
See what’s going on
, in a singsongy voice she’s never heard before, she actually opens it.

What’s going on is, I have no proudest accomplishment, Mom. I have nothing to be proud of, except maybe, like, my hair. I could be, like, a hair model.
There’s an accusatory tone to her voice, which probably isn’t anything new, and which does not go unnoticed by Jean, even though she’s also scanning the room for clues that her daughter is suicidal. No loose ropes lying around, closet still full of unpaid-for designer clothes, nothing out of the ordinary.

What are you looking at, Mom?

Nothing, sweetheart.

Do you think I’m good at anything?

There’s probably no right answer here, as Priscilla has never tried much of anything for anyone to know whether or not she’d be good at it.

Honey, I’m sure you are. Everyone’s good at something.

Oh, great. But you, like, have no idea.

No, sweetie, I don’t. You’re the one who would know. What do you think would be something you’d be proud of doing?

Priscilla explains that she wanted more than anything to be on the reality TV show, that she’d been so sure that it was, like, her
calling
.
But then it was like god totally punked me, and my one opportunity for happiness was offered up on a plate and then snatched away.

Priscilla’s mother looks her straight in the eye for the first time in years. Jean has no time for anyone’s bullshit anymore. She’s got god. Or something.

God didn’t punk you, daughter. Life is what you make it. Nobody knows this better than me. He doesn’t just hand out reality shows. He comes in dreams, in the eyes of squirrels.

Priscilla thinks her mom is speaking metaphorically, hopes so anyway, has never understood why people can’t just say things, like,
normally
, but also thinks her mom is losing her shit, that there is a whole lot of shit being lost around here these days. Seriously, it’s like a massive breakdown is going on in the family area, and she’s suddenly, like, the brains of the operation.

Also? You might try not being such a bitch.

Did her mother just seriously call her a bitch to her face? A rare moment of openmouthed silence from Priscilla.

Jean shrugs.
I’m not saying I don’t love you.

Priscilla is absolutely dumbstruck.

Make your own reality.
Jean kisses her daughter on the head and leaves the room.

forty-seven

O
tis is working on a heart-shaped crossword for Caterina. There’s a week left before Caterina’s party; in the past it’s taken him anywhere from four days to three weeks to complete a crossword. Symmetrical is out—which is unfortunate, but symmetrical could be the difference between today and eternity. He starts by making a list of things he wants to include, taking a lot of time to consider what Caterina might know or think of (with a few exceptions): jelly beans (pomegranate, birthday cake, jalapeño), apples, spelling, Bethany,
Speed
, buddies, robots, boyfriend, love, pink, pigtails, poop, in your butt, ribbons, bugs, art, reading, math, worms/spots. He uses colors, instead of just black, for the empty squares. He makes a few mistakes in numbering, and when it gets down to the wire he’ll have to settle for a few “halfs.” This is not preferable, but any more erasing and he’ll have holes in the paper. Should he make the clues hard or easy? The truth is, Otis doesn’t have the best idea of what might be hard or easy for Caterina. He wants her to be able to fill it in; it’s critical that she see the answers. But he doesn’t want her to think that he thinks she’s dumb. He gets a little help from his father—there are some squares he’s filled in with things that look like words but he’s not sure. His father explains words like SOU and VEEP, BIAS and SOD, makes him erase ERB (Otis insists he’s heard his mom say this, but Gordon explains that the H is silent).

Otis will finish the puzzle the morning of Caterina’s party. Asymmetrical though it is, it is his masterpiece.

CLUES:

ACROSS

1. Subject with numbers I like

3. Color you like (I think)

5. Trick ___ Treat

7. Name for a dog (not ours)

9.
What is today?
The day you were born

12. Fee Fi ____ Fum.

13. Girl who sits behind me in homeroom

15. Number before two

16. Yuck

19. You and me =

20. Talks a lot (girl)

23. Honest ___ Lincoln

24½. A long time

25. When you jump into a pool with your hands in front

27. A kind of eggs, or also if you do good on your home-work

28. Not good in your apple

30. Mom

32. You could catch butterflies in this

33. __dio (listen to songs on it)

34. My sister does this a lot

35. Something you sit on made of legs (not a chair)

37. We picked them together!

40. My sister calls me this but really it’s her

41. Me!

43. Some kids do this on the playground

44. Animals you ride

46. A short way to say vice president

47. Not you

48. Superheroes have this like if they can fly and stuff

50. It sticks things to things

52. Bread that has seeds

54. The playground is there

56. They sting you

58. Not off

59. Means yes with your head

60. True __ False

61. I would fight in one for you (with a sword)

63. A laugh

64. Some kids take these when they’re sleepy (not me)

65. A bone in your side

67. (Too hard to explain you can skip this one)

70. A subject you like with letters

72. More than one fifth letter

73. Long cars for famous people to ride in

75. A boy kid

DOWN

1. Magazine moms read

2. Subject with paints and crayons you like

3. Bad jelly bean

4. Bop __ (loud toy my sister hates)

6. (with 9 across) Good at party, bad in jelly bean

7. That’s __ Raven

8. One part of a fork

9. Smelly pits

10. What you say before “butt” to make it funny

11. Mexican song Ai __ __ __ (repeated)

12. If you’re sick and your forehead is hot you have this

13. What you say when you find something out

14. When something’s cool

17. Animal that barks (not a dog)

18. Dirt under the grass

19. If you don’t lose

21. Mouse ____ (a game we have, do you?)

22. If you’re excited you might say them

24. I’m this to you

26. Likes Reese’s Pieces

29. Mine is named Jean, yours is named Mrs. Belknap

30. When you stay overnight

31. You!

35. I ____ You (+S)

36. You can make this with apples

38. Comes out the butt

39. What you do with food

42. Scary movie

43. Sometimes in your pretty hair

45. Old French coin

49. Letters my sister says (I don’t know what it means)

50½. When you have a question you do this

53. If you say it twice, a toy that rolls up and down

55. __ You Know the Way to San Jose (that’s a song)

57. Another long time

62. One part of your mouth

66. Rings when class is over

67. A big animal with horns

68. Not out

69. Long ___ and far away

71. Sour yellow fruit

74. Where in the World __ Carmen Sandiego?