Shorts - Sinister Shorts (29 page)

Gretchen would think some more on unconditional love and forgiveness. She would forgive him his infidelity, and he would have to forgive her, too. Maybe she would tell him someday exactly what she had done with Julie when things were settled, after she was pregnant and he was happy with the outcome of unveiling all these secrets, even if he didn't much like knowing them. Well, she didn't, either.

She made a mental note that he would have to take some parenting classes before the big event. He didn't seem to understand that you have to let people be who they are and love them anyway. You forgive them their piercings, their abscesses, their strayings, their excesses, their lack of control. You love them anyway, with your whole heart.

She leaned over to use the bedside phone. She punched in a nine and then the number.

“Mom?” she said. “I need your help.”

Sandstorm

JUNE 3

At night I take pills to sleep. They don't go very well with the brandy I drink starting at eight or nine. When the alarm clock goes off at six the next morning and my husband gets up, swearing, to take his shower, I rise painfully and put on my glasses. Even so, as I make my way into the kitchen, I can't seem to make my eyes focus.

By seven, though, I am dressed and presentable in my high heels and my suit. My hair is clean and curled, sprayed so it will not stray during the day. I have cooked breakfast for my husband and packed his lunch, and he has left for work, ten minutes late as always.

Time to wake Abe and Molly. I bring their dishes to the table and they eat, gloomy and half-conscious, complaining. They dress and pick up their heavy packs and leave for school. I feed and walk the dog, throw a load of clothes in the washer to dry tonight, sweep the floor, unload the dishwasher, call the repair shop about the car, and stamp the letters my husband asked me to send to his relatives in Michigan. I have almost forgotten to get the chicken out of the freezer to cook tonight. Taking one last glance around, I lock up and walk down the path, which needs weeding, toward the car.

It is time to go to work.

The radio weatherman says it's going to be a hot summer. Summer, winter, the seasons don't matter. All that matters is the traffic, the dog, Abe and Molly, my husband-and Leo, my boss.

When I arrive at five past eight, they are all waiting for me-Leo and Carol, who is Leo's secretary, the students who are helping with the phones, the stacks of papers, the phone messages. Leo is the community college president, and I am his executive assistant. I work for Leo from eight to five every day, and from eight to ten in the evenings, trying to catch up, and on Saturdays, when Leo has his meetings to get ready for the Accreditation Committee. The Accreditation Committee is always coming and we are always preparing for it.

During the lunch hour, I go to the grocery store. Carol fills in. Lately she has been getting messages wrong and spending too much time smoking in the ladies' restroom. She has problems at home. Leo is threatening to fire her. She sits in my office and cries and I try to comfort her.

The student workers never last long. Only Leo and I are always here. I have actually been here longer than Leo, almost twenty years. For ten of those years, Leo and I had an affair. I wonder now how I found the time.

I believe my husband knew about the affair, but he runs the local Ford dealership and Leo has referred many customers to him over the years and buys his cars there himself.

Anyway, Leo moved on a long time ago.

Leo wants to become chancellor of the district community colleges. He is very busy with meetings with representatives and he travels a lot. When he is gone, I run the college for him.

It is two thirty. Leo is still at lunch. I have called back twelve people, most of whom were not available, met with representatives of the local Latino group regarding hiring more Latinos at the college, prepared the paperwork to fire the food services manager for drunkenness, and prodded our business services manager regarding the delays in preparing next year's budget. More people are waiting outside. I am dictating memos to Leo about all of this.

The day passes as usual, in a blur of frantic motion. I have accomplished much, but I don't know what, exactly.

Due to construction, it takes almost an hour to drive home.

Molly does not come home after school. She has been sleeping with her boyfriend for five months and she chooses not to follow parental rules anymore. I make calls, find her, and go pick her up, her face sullen and hostile. Abe is in his room, on the Internet, where he stays from four to twelve every day.

I cook chicken and rice and make a good salad. Molly will not eat because she had a hamburger after school. Abe takes his food to his room after a sharp exchange with his father. My husband sits down in his La-Z-Boy and picks up the remote, and I settle down at the kitchen table to write a short speech for Leo to deliver over the weekend to the Association of Realtors.

About eight I start drinking my brandy. By eleven I have finished the speech, washed two more loads of laundry, given the dog a bath, and nagged Abe into taking out the trash.

I open up a book. I used to love to read, a long time ago. The words swim before my eyes.

JUNE 10

In two days summer vacation begins at my college. Leo is reviewing his commencement speech, which I completed last night. I am helping the students sign his name to the certificates of graduation. The acting director of food services has walked off the job, so I have to get over there and figure out how to serve two thousand people at the reception on Saturday night.

JUNE 12

Leo's speech was very well received, and he was complimented many times on how well the reception was organized.

The students are gone. In September they will return, blurred, interchangeable.

Molly has left for New York City with her boyfriend. She left a note saying she would be in touch. I call her boyfriend's parents and we talk for a long time, but can't decide what to do.

JUNE 13

Today is Sunday. It is quiet at my house. My husband is selling cars and Abe is in his room clicking his mouse at the computer monitor. Laundry, the floors, the bathrooms, dusting, the windows-Sunday is the day I clean house.

My father, at the convalescent hospital outside town, has just called. As always, what he said makes no sense whatever. Alzheimer's is a devastating disease. Abe says he can't stand to see the old man, but I go when I can.

I begin mopping the floor. Soup for tonight is on the stove. A lot of little bugs have gotten in through the screen, looking for coolness, I guess, and will have to be dealt with.

Molly's room is a mess. Her baby picture still sits on the chest. I look at it for a long time.

I notice I am wearing my nightgown, though it is afternoon. This will never do. I go into my bedroom and look in the closet, at the large overfull hamper. I have forgotten to take the dry cleaning. I look in my drawer and find a pair of shorts and a T-shirt. My legs are thick and white.

I sit down on the bed. The soup burns up. The dog knocks over the pail of soapy water on the kitchen floor. I lie down on the bed. The smoke alarm goes off. Someone puts out the fire on the stove.

I close my eyes.

My husband comes home, wanting his supper.

The bedroom door is locked. He pounds and threatens.

“I am thinking,” I tell him.

JUNE 15

“Leo,” I say, “I am taking a leave of absence.”

“You can't do that,” Leo says. He sits me down and tells me to get ahold of myself. I tell him I will finish out the week. He asks me just what he is supposed to do about the Accreditation Committee, the food services manager position, the projected loss of A.D.A., the lawsuit by the disgruntled faculty member, the speech he has to deliver next weekend to the Rotary, travel arrangements for his trip to the Grand Tetons next week, and so on. I am silent.

He cajoles. He threatens.

I leave the office.

He runs after me and fires me. I go home and tell my husband.

JUNE 16

My husband is storming around the house. I am vacuuming. There are cobwebs in all the corners. I clean house from sunrise to sunset. Then I drink my brandy. I still can't read.

***

JUNE 18

My father calls. I take the call in my bed. “When are you going to get me out of here?” he asks.

“Soon, Pops.”

“Who are these people anyway?”

“I have no idea,” I tell him. “I'll ask around and call you back.” I take some pills so I can go to sleep. It is one o'clock in the afternoon on a Friday.

When I wake up, Abe is sitting on the bed, angry. “Mom,” he says, “I'm hungry.”

I get up and make an exquisite eggplant parmigiana from scratch. Abe takes his plate to his room. My husband and I sit in silence. Finally he says, “Aren't you going to ask me how it went today?”

I look at him. His eyes are bloodshot, and the gray has thickened around his ears. I realize that I have no idea who he is.

JUNE 19

I leave. I bring shorts and toothpaste. I clean out the checking account on the way out of town. I drive for several days. I stay at the Motel 6's along the freeway. A couple of times I call my father, and he always says, “When are you gonna get me out of here?” I think about going to get him, but then he says, “Who are you anyway?”

JUNE 23

I am tired. I stop. The sign says I am in Barstow, California, Gateway to Death Valley. The motel room is dusty, but I am too tired to care. I go to bed.

***

JULY 25

The maid cleans every day. I eat bread and cheese and drink coffee from the coffee machine. I rinse my shorts out in the sink. I stay inside and sleep a lot.

Over the phone, I tell my father I'm living in a desert, and he replies, “You and me both.”

AUGUST 10

There is a shaded concrete walkway in front of my room and a metal chair. I have been sitting in that chair, watching the people come and go. They never stay more than a day or two, because they think there's nothing to do here.

But I am very busy. I have thought through my life to about the age of ten. It is amazing what I can remember. I have discovered how good cool water tastes, and I drink a lot of it. Although I only leave my room to pick up food at the convenience store across the street, these trips overwhelm me. Crossing the hot asphalt and avoiding cars, all the choices, the customers in line, the dash back… I am knocked off balance and have to rest afterward.

Molly's baby picture sits on the windowsill. A woman is holding Molly in her arms, smiling. Who was that woman?

A cactus grows on the other side of the parking lot, and then a long sweep of cacti recedes into the desert as far as my eyes can see. In the afternoon a wind comes up, swirling the sand. I never noticed the wind at home. There must have been some. This wind is the enemy of the cactus. It beats relentlessly against the cactus from afternoon until evening, twisting its arms into bizarre positions over time.

The days are long, and I look forward to the hour of sunset. So much happens during this hour. The wind dies down at last. The air cools. The shadows lengthen. The light dies down from steady and bright to sparkling black.

I have learned some amazing things. For instance, I can touch my own body and feel it. It feels good to rub my two bare feet together. The skin on my arms is dry and smooth. I look at my wrists and am astonished at their fine modeling. My hands are the most remarkable machines.

AUGUST 15

I took my first walk today, out into the desert. It was early, still cool. The sky is not very deep-I felt the top of it was right over my head. A vulture passed overhead, quite beautiful with its ruff of white feathers. Every morning I'm going to walk, and sit down-here-on this spot of sand, in the shade of this cactus. I have gotten up to my adolescence in the remembering. My mother died during this time. I had forgotten about her. Poor Abe. Poor Molly.

AUGUST 18

My father makes a lot more sense lately. He is always cheerful. He thinks my mother is still alive, and in a way she is. I talk to her myself.

Sometimes in the afternoon as I sit in my chair, my head begins to nod. Smoothly and imperceptibly, a sweet peace steals over me. My thoughts swirl round and round like a whirlpool and down I go. I sink into sleep. I never slept before during the daytime. I'm sure my body wanted to, but I never let my body make a decision about anything.

Sometimes I don't get hungry all day. I always ate three square meals a day. I even found out my body sometimes wants to have a bowel movement at a time other than six thirty every morning. I mentioned this to my father. He laughed, and I laughed, too.

My body is a great silent companion. I follow it around. It knows what it wants.

Sometimes as I walk in the desert, my long shadow beside me, I look down at the ground and it is very far away. I feel vast, like a mountain, aware of how the bacteria view me. I'm like a tourist in the head of the Statue of Liberty, looking out through Liberty 's eyes across the sea.