Parts Unknown

Chapter 14





“I want to apologize,” Josh said early Wednesday, as we leaned breathless against the apartment door after slobbering all over each other for about fifteen straight minutes. “About what happened at the end.”

“It’s all in the past,” I demurred. “What happened, happened. There’s nothing to apologize for.”

“No—I’ve always felt incredibly guilty. Like I wasn’t paying attention. And I lost the one thing I should have held on to.”

“It would never have worked,” I replied. “We were just kids. A long-distance relationship for two years, until I finished college? It would have been impossible. And your family . . .”

He sighed. “You only get that one chance, though. How often does anyone meet their soulmate, in the first place? We were so lucky. We found each other, and we were together for a little while. But we could have had so much more.”

I pillowed my head on his chest. “It was better, sometimes, to have the memories. Of that one perfect month. We weren’t together long enough for anything to spoil. Just long enough for it to be amazing, and beautiful. The most memorable experience of my life. My one great adventure.” I pulled back a bit. “Anyhow, what are you talking about having just one chance for? This is our second chance, right now.”

“Maybe,” he whispered into my hair. Then: “It’s different, long. I miss the spikes.”

“I’ll cut it again.”

Then I stopped thinking, stopped talking, our sweaty bodies stuck together like pieces of plastic wrap, hands grasping, groping, touching. All I needed to do was live right in that moment. Letting my other life fall away like a snake’s discarded skin.

“You’re exactly like I remember,” he murmured into my hair afterward.

“But I’m so different!” I exclaimed. “I’m just a housewife—just a boring mom, like anyone else.”

“No, you’re not. That’s what you are on the surface, sure. But I can see the real Vivian is still there underneath. No one can paint like you do and be just a boring mom.”

“Well, you’re the only one out there that thinks so. But thanks,” I said, a bit forlornly. Inside, though, I was starting to glow.

He chuckled. “How many boring housewives are doing this every morning while their kids are in school?”

“Probably more than you think,” I retorted.

After a while, we wandered into the kitchen holding hands, naked, me suddenly ravenous. The kitchen window overlooked the dining room of the neighboring duplex, but I didn’t care. I rummaged through the fridge, excavating the detritus previous renters had left behind. I tossed long-expired salad dressing and some dubious salsa, and exhumed a carton of eggs, just a few days past their expiration date. I scrambled some in a pan while Josh lounged at the kitchen table, paging through the Larchmont Chronicle, the neighborhood paper. I wondered, in jumbled fragments of thought, what I loved more: being with Josh, or loving the way I felt about myself when I was with Josh. I loved the way he saw me, as the talented artist he knew before. I wasn’t that person anymore, really. But when I was with him, I could be. I could touch the self I used to be, with the spiky hair, and the thrift shop clothes, and the passionate ideas.

When I was with Josh, I could be twenty-one again. I could be that girl once more, and, too, the girl I’d been at the Getty that day, right before I met George. All the possibilities in the world spread before me.

We ate the eggs, feeding each other with our fingers because I couldn’t find the silverware. Naked, at the kitchen table, sucking on Josh’s index finger, we were like a parody of a couple. Some Hieronymus Bosch vision of bliss.

“Have you kept in touch with Trevor or Dov?” Josh asked.

“What? Oh goodness, the last time I saw them both was at that farewell drinks night at the pub.”

“That’s funny—you seemed so close with them,” he said. “I would’ve thought you saw them in London that year.”

“I never went back.” I pushed my eggs around on my plate with a finger. “I wanted to remember everything the way it was. And going back to that amazing flat would ruin it somehow.”

“You mean, that grungy place?” Josh scoffed. “Oh, please. I couldn’t wait to leave it. The only good thing about the flat was having you there.”

“I loved it there!” I exclaimed, surprised. “Everything about it—that crazy back garden, the stove that didn’t work—it was all wonderful. I can’t explain it. It was like being there was magical, like anything could happen.”

“Oh, you’re just a hopeless romantic,” Josh snorted. “It was just an apartment, is all. With some craaaazy roommates. You and me—we’re magic. Not that cut-rate place.”

But that wasn’t true. It had been everything. Josh, and the apartment, and the sense of possibility, all of us there on the verge of something new.

That was the difference between me and Josh, right there. He’d left that flat behind him long ago, but I was still there, and I couldn’t get out. I kept trying to move forward, but there I still was, yearning for 1998.

And at 12:15, there I went, back into the world I lived in every day, dreading the prospect of an entire afternoon with Lucy, the dreary options for dinner, the long hours till bedtime. I wished desperately that the world inside that spacious duplex was the one I really lived in, and that my days with George and Lucy were just a detour from my real life.

~ ~ ~

I made a last-minute appointment with Liz, the hair stylist I went to on occasion. She worked out of her garage in Los Feliz, and she could slot me in at 7:30 pm that evening. George came home at seven, and I kissed him perfunctorily as I dashed out the door, yelling back at him, “Lucy needs a bath; I’m getting my hair cut; back later!”

I noticed belatedly that he was carrying a bouquet of flowers. He never brought home flowers—the place was a friggin’ orchid conservatory already, for crying out loud. He gaped after me, baffled, but I was beyond caring. Battling traffic on Western, I had plenty of time to think, and all I thought about was Josh. The world had narrowed to a small pinprick—I could only really see one person. He was my everything. I was living a corny pop song, replacing my life’s previous dystopic Talking Heads soundtrack with some peppy Ashley Simpson tune.

I walked around back and Liz let me in the garage. Her hair was dyed silver this time, which looked shocking paired with her mid-twenties face. Post-ironic or something. I hopped into her vintage burgundy barbershop chair and instructed, “Liz, it’s all gotta go. Cut it off.”

Liz got out the shears, and as the hair fell to the floor, I felt a reverse Samson-and-Delilah moment. My head got lighter and lighter, so it almost bobbed on my neck. I felt the blood rushing to my brain. I could think so clearly now, see so clearly.

But when I got home, George squinted at me quizzically, marking his place in Fermat’s Enigma as I came in. “So what was the big deal,” he inquired, “That you had to rush out, at a moment’s notice, to get your hair cut?”

I blushed. “I just needed to . . . you know the feeling, when your hair’s too long, and you can’t wait another minute to get it cut?”

George didn’t know the feeling. He had a standing appointment at the old-fashioned barber shop on Larchmont—a place where the proprietor still lathered your neck with a brush, and shaved you with a straight razor. George cut his hair whenever it exceeded ½ inch.

“It’s how you used to wear it, before we got married. I thought you had moved on from that look.”

“How can you move on from a haircut?” I asked defensively, arranging and rearranging the fanned magazines on the coffee table to give my hands something to do. “I mean, it’s just hair. I don’t know—I just wanted a change.”

“I don’t mind putting Lucy to bed. You know that.” George’s cheeks were flushed too. “But I like to spend some time with you on weekday nights. I have a long day at work. You’ve got all morning to run your errands. So it shouldn’t be a lot to ask, for us to just talk for a while after Lucy goes to bed.”

“Of course.” I ran my fingers nervously through my hair, still surprised not to feel anything past the bottom of my ears. I tried to force my shaky voice to match the evenness of his tones. “It’s not too much to ask. You’re right. Anyhow,” I said, defeated, “It’s just a haircut. It’s not like I did anything major, or anything.”

The flowers he’d been carrying were arranged in a vase in the center of the coffee table. The glass table surface reflected them underneath—bright daisies, filler clumps of statice, little baby ferns. “What are the flowers for?” I asked.

“They were for you,” George said.

“Thanks—that’s really nice.” I leaned to inhale their scent—grassy and ordinary. “What’s the occasion?”

“I don’t know.” George looked down. “It doesn’t matter, anyway.”

“Well, it’s really sweet.” I pecked his mouth, puzzled. Why would he buy me flowers?

We so rarely fought, having two disagreements in less than two weeks was unusual. Our days together coalesced like the water in the bathtub, after Lucy’s bath was done: small ripples, puddling a little to the sides, a scummy sheen over the top, so you couldn’t see what was beneath.

Of course, both of our arguments were my fault. Everything had been fine, so long as I stuck with the plan. So long as I didn’t change anything. And now here I was, sneaking around, sleeping with Josh behind George’s back, like a belated teenage rebellion. Not like my parents ever had much in the way of rules—they wouldn’t even notice if I’d ever stayed out past ten p.m. Like I ever did. So now, here I was at age twenty-nine, faced with my first chance to defy authority. I was pushing back against George—but this time, it wasn’t some juvenile slip-up. This was for real. It my own life I was screwing up, for good.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “George—I’m really sorry. I’ll stay home every night from now on, I promise.”

His eyes lit up and I could feel his palpable relief as he squeezed me close against him on the sofa. “I can’t tell you how happy I am to hear that,” he said.

~ ~ ~

But even as I apologized, I knew I’d go back. I couldn’t stay away, knowing Josh was right there, just blocks away, waiting for me.

Josh rubbed my head when I arrived the next morning. “You look great. But you didn’t do this just for me, did you?”

“No!” I said, too quickly. “I did it for myself, of course.” I realized I was starting to talk like I had when I’d first met Josh. Over the years with George, I had grown to speak a bit like him—slowly, deliberately, with spaces between the words so long you could insert a finger into them. Now I spoke fast, matching Josh’s intonations.

We kissed for a while but didn’t move toward the bedroom. I wondered what to talk about. Our families were off-limits, and I hadn’t painted at all this week—I’d been with Josh the whole time. I longed for the days in London when we were constantly in motion—either exploring the city, or creating art and writing together. It seemed silly for me to bring my painting supplies to his apartment when we were together for so short a time, though.

I slumped on the sofa. I couldn’t think of a thing to say. Time stretched out, embarrassingly. Oh no—he was going to realize what a boring person I really was. Thinking furiously, I asked, “So what are you thinking about writing next?”

“Ah!” Josh perked up. “I’ve got a couple ideas, actually. But before I tell you about them, I just want you to know. You always were the only one who understood. You’re the only person I can talk to about my writing. I just never felt comfortable with anyone. Not even Caroline. It’s just the way it is. I’m used to it, because I’ve never trusted anyone that way, except you. But now that we’re together again, I realize how much I was missing.”

“With you too,” I agreed. “It’s like living in two dimensions, instead of three dimensions. You go along and you think those two dimensions are normal. But then you see how much more you could have, and you’ll never be happy the way things were again.”

He massaged my neck, gazing at me with that sleepy, sexy look I loved. But then his cell phone rang and he walked over to the fireplace, picked up the phone from the mantle, looked at the number, and said, “I need to get this.” I hugged my knees as he walked into the kitchen. Although he spoke softly, in the echoing apartment I could hear him clearly enough:

“I miss you too . . . She did? I can’t believe I wasn’t there to see that! . . . Oh, definitely. I’ve picked up a few special things for you. One of them I’m sure you’ll love . . . Yes, I’m feeling so much more relaxed. I’m glad I took this week just to chill out, you know? I’m finally feeling inspired. I’m so ready to dive back into writing again.” His voice grew fainter as he walked down the hall toward the back rooms. But I could hear, quietly, from all the way down the hall, “I love you too.”

I chewed ferociously on my thumbnail. And he came back and picked up where he’d left off: “So yeah, fantasy novels. I’m playing with this idea about Mars for one of them. Kids who grow up in this biodome on Mars after life on Earth is destroyed in a massive nuclear war. They can never go outside the dome, but they’ve got this whole microcosm of a world there. How they react to living in, like, one square mile of space.”

“I think that’s been done before,” I said coolly. “You can’t compete with Ray Bradbury, anyway. He’s the master of Martian literature.”

“You’ve got a point. The other thing I’m thinking about is a sequel to Supers. People are already asking me, what happens when the kids graduate from high school? Arthur and Dana take different paths, I think. Dana’s always wanted to fit in, and she tries to pass as a normal person, go to college, all that. It’s incredibly hard to hide her talents though, and she can’t stop herself from saving people in trouble. But the more people she saves, the harder her talents are to cover up. Meanwhile, Arthur’s always been a loner, and he holes up in this shack in the Santa Cruz mountains. No one can find him, no one knows what he’s up to. Anyhow . . . one of them cracks under the pressure. And one of them turns bad. What do you think?”

I smiled at him. “You bet,” I said.

~ ~ ~

Lucy napped after we returned from our Thursday visit to Madame’s house. I prowled the house restlessly. I didn’t like the way she’d let go of my hand when we got to Madame’s door that afternoon. I didn’t even have to step inside this time; Lucy just marched into the house like a little robot, standing on tiptoe to kiss Madame’s wrinkled cheek as the old woman stooped to receive it—expecting it, as her due. I kept replaying the way Lucy walked through that door, shoulders slumped, not turning around, just accepting her fate.

Me and Lucy. And then: me and Josh, making love, and Caroline and Josh, making love. Did Caroline’s Jewish star necklace bounce up and down against her collarbone as she reared above him? I thought of him grasping her hand in passion, the diamond on her ring finger cutting into his palm, gouging him. Branding him. How the metal we wear defines us. I’d been taking my wedding and engagement rings off all week—I’d put them on in the morning when I woke up, then remove them as soon as George left the house. My finger feeling so free and naked, a small white defenseless bit of skin surrounded by tan.

Curiously, I pulled open my lingerie drawer and rummaged to the bottom. There it still was: the slip Mom had bought me for my confirmation. I remembered the dress I’d worn well, a garish thing with puffed sleeves, floral rosettes on a dark green ground, and lace around the collar. I’d never felt right in that dress, but the slip was my first grown-up piece of lingerie, and I’d treasured it ever since. It was a silky taupe, with hand-worked lace of the same color in an intricate vee down the bodice. I’d loved adjusting those shoulder straps over and over and smoothing my hands over my nonexistent thirteen-year-old hips, sashaying in front of the mirror like a grown-up girl.

That slip was all that was left of my paltry Methodist upbringing. And that flimsy bit of nylon would never let me keep Josh. He never spoke of his religion; I wasn’t sure he even practiced it. But it suffused him even so, and he’d let me close enough to tell me his most intimate secrets, but not close enough to even let me offer to convert.

Lucy’s video time that afternoon found me moodily glaring past the banisters on the walkway outside our apartment, blowing smoke at the peeling, painted metal and breathing it in again as the wind blew it straight back in my face. I had the front door propped open so I could hear Lucy if there was some television-related emergency. I figured the smoke was probably blowing back through the front door too, curling around Lucy’s beautiful little head, contaminating her. I felt filthy and neglectful, but I didn’t stop.

My mind kept going back to Lucy, walking through Madame’s door as if possessed. I had a horrible feeling about the mural in Madame’s dining room, too. Maybe the ladies in the mural didn’t have faces after all. Maybe that’s what the head coverings were hiding—just nothing, underneath. They’d lost their identities, crushed beneath the weight of love and expectations. Lucy was next in line to be chewed up and spit out of the Anglin mill. The sole heir. The only one left. She was destined to become a perfect little French speaker and a silent, reasonable child. No face. No spark.

Mr. Abramoff strolled up the front walkway, impeccably attired as usual, perhaps walking back from afternoon prayers at the nearby Chabad. I waved my cigarette at him, nearly burning my fingers—I had puffed so hard, it was nearly gone. I wished fervently that I knew the answers too, like he did, like George did.

~ ~ ~

Thursday night George was pretty excited about the History Channel show he was about to watch. It was a history of bricks.

We sat together on the sofa, same as always. We’d been together for so long we barely needed to make small talk anymore. George’s face was so familiar I didn’t even have to look at it to know it exactly—yet it had been a long time since I’d looked, really looked at him, or him at me. The longer you were with someone, the more intimately you knew them—and yet the less you knew them really, until years into a marriage, you were sitting on the sofa next to a stranger.

“Bricks might sound boring,” he informed me. “They’re just pieces of clay. But when you think of them as the building blocks of civilization—well. That changes everything. Egyptian pyramids—that’s just the start. Roman acqueducts, The Great Wall of China. And you’re always going on about how beautiful and old London is, not like LA, all brand new. London was built brick by brick. They all were, once upon a time.” His mouth twisted strangely. He patted the spot next to him on the sofa. “But I’m doing all the talking. Why don’t you tell me what you did today.”

“Um . . .” I settled in next to him, wondering what lie would work best. He put his arm around my shoulders, squeezing me uncomfortably against him. Our bodies never fit together quite right, so whenever he had his arm around me, my head would be squinched against his ribcage, or my neck would be at some odd angle sure to lead to a pinched nerve the next morning. “Um . . . I ran some errands, I guess.” I raked my fingers through my strange, short hair—I had to stop doing that! “It’s so hard to remember. The day just kind of went by, you know. Like they always do. Anyhow—bricks. Wow. Let’s have a look.”

“Well, you’re doing a great job,” he said, clicking on the television, because it was exactly 9 p.m. and that’s what he always did. “You’re a great mom to Lucy. I’m always grateful for everything you do. You know that, right?”

“Of course,” I said, barely audible over the sound of the announcer. “And I didn’t really properly thank you for the flowers. They’re really nice. You didn’t have to do that.”

“I know,” he said, muting the sound for a moment. “But I should do it more often. I want you to know how much I appreciate you, Vivian. And love you. You know that I love you very much, don’t you?”

What about me is even remotely lovable? I wanted to ask him. I’m a skanky two-timing adulterer. There’s nothing special about me. I’m just like anybody else, except worse, because I’m not even remorseful. I’m not even considering not seeing Josh tomorrow. Basically I’m a horrible person.

“I love you too,” I said.

That night, my eyes blinked wide open at two in the morning. I was sure I heard someone right behind me saying my name. But no one was there. The house was silent, George and Lucy fast asleep. Just a mile away, Josh must be awake and thinking of me too.

I stared into the darkness, willing my mind to connect with his. I love you, I vowed fiercely, psychically, across the city blocks. It’s just us two, alone, together at last. Make love to me.

I was wide awake now, awash in fantasies of our future together. What I would pack. How Lucy would giggle at Josh’s jokes; how he’d pick her up and swing her around and make her his, too. We’d live under that enormous blue sky, dine on tortillas, and always be happy.

I drifted off to a fractured sleep, only to awaken, feeling strangled, in the early morning light. George was pressed heavily against my body, clutching me. He had pulled me tight against him, in the night.