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Portrait of an Afternoon Marie paced from room to room, inwardly raging. She was also
crying—crying those child-like gasps that made too much of a moan-like sound.
She felt primitive, caged in. It frightened her. Years of torment over his forgetfulness came alive. She had seen the birthday present on the couch. There was a moment of
puzzlement before she realized HE FORGOT IT. At first her ten-year-old
dealings with the situation surfaced. “I can’t believe he forgot it! I handed
it to him twice—first, as he was finishing his coffee, and then after he
found his keys!” Her son, Johnny, would be so disappointed. “Please Mom, get him
something nice, like you’d get for me. Will you go to that really neat store
for kids? Please, Mom.” She did go. It hadn’t been easy getting to F.A.O. Schwartz. The
excursion took an hour and a half of the time she didn’t have yesterday. But
she managed her duties for the day. In fact, she had gotten into bed feeling
accomplished. This anger felt different because it was mixed with tears. Anger and
Sadness were in fierce battle within. . . . Anger was losing.
It wasn’t used to that. The telephone rang. She had to answer it in the event her daughter
needed a ride. “Marie.” She was jolted out of her state at the sound of Peter’s voice. Her
dearest childhood friend seemed on the brink of emotional crisis. The voice
of his phone calls of late was unfocused, a shaky staccato—almost inaudible
at time. “There is nothing out there. You don’t know how bad it is on the East
Coast. Every one is scaling down. . . . And I called a friend
of my Uncle George’s last week for a job. He hasn’t called me back.” When he said that, Marie knew he was desperate. “Peter,” she said in a monotone, “the worst that can happen here is
that you sell the house and move into an apartment in Scarsdale. The girls
will still be in good schools. It will bide you time until you find the right
job.” “I have to go,” he said and hung up without waiting for a response. Peter’s Uncle George had been a source of embarrassment to him while
growing up, because George was a plumber—a plumber who was also head of the
AFL CIO. While most people would have lauded such a member in their family,
Casey’s rarely mentioned it. She poured herself a glass of wine. She let out a full exhale from her
cigarette. Peter’s values were deeply rooted in MONEY. Not in the way money can
be for some people—a comfort level from which to move forth. It was his
IDENTITY—the clothes, his wife’s jewels, the home with its antique contents,
a country home in Connecticut, the private clubs. She remembered the chubby boy she met on the playground that first day
they began kindergarten. How he seemed to struggle up the steps of the slide
and then THUMPED at the bottom. He had looked up at her watching him, and
they both laughed. He got up and they joined each other in play. Marie sat at her kitchen table looking on to the rooftops behind her
city home. She saw her two wooden owls. One stood implacably atop a chimney. The
other was one tier down and over a bit, on the same rooftop. He too was
strong, but a bit more humble. He would get lost in the seasons. The tree would begin to bloom in spring. The leaves became his
ears—the small branches with blossoms became his hair. And then he would go away
for six months. Marie loved when he came back because he always had a lot to
share with her. No one else saw the owls. For awhile, Marie would ask her friends who
came for coffee to sit in her chair. “Look straight ahead, up over the second
rooftop.” “Yeah.” “See the chimney?” “Yeah.” “Look on top. What do you see?” “An antennae.” She had stopped asking. She wondered if her neighbors talked amongst themselves. “Who is that
woman who sits at her kitchen table in a red robe with a candle lighted and
stares out into NOTHINGNESS?!” Marie looked forward to their visits together. She spoke first. “It’s
been awhile.” “Yes,” said the first owl. “You’ve been working hard,” said the second. “This really hurts, you know,” Marie said. “Yea, I do know. But you can’t skip sorrow to get to joy, Marie.
Through pain there is growth. Only through EXPERIENCING that you learn. Like
you were doing earlier with the birthday present. Weren’t you crying because
you wished someone could take care of you?” “Uh huh . . . just those little things that men do for
women, taking their car to get washed, making a good cup of coffee.” “And you want more than that, Marie. Now you’ve recognized that. That
knowledge of yourself won’t go away. You see people try all the time to get
THERE with their heads. It’s going to take them much longer. Some won’t ever
get THERE.” “Where is THERE?” “THERE is the state of being happy.” “But if one is experiencing pain, how can they be happy?” “Happiness doesn’t exclude pain. Pain and sadness are part of life.
Happy is simply the fluid, emotional flow within. Trusting yourself in that
flow to make choices emotionally and intellectually honest for you.” “But what if—?” He interrupts here sternly. “Marie we’ve talked about the ‘what ifs’. People can’t spend time on
‘what ifs’—or their lives will end on page 100. It will be boring reading
until the end. THERE is what is . . . what could be . . .
if you allow yourself. It takes courage. It is the journey of life. It is
being ALIVE.” How simple life seemed back then. Hers was the house where everybody
wanted to be. At times, there would be a big pot of gravy and meatballs on
the stove, often with soiled forks next to it. She knew she had something
special with all her Italian relatives, and large immediate family. Friends
of the eight siblings gathered everywhere. It was a cross-section of ages and
sexes with lots of storytelling going on. Everyone would urge Marie and Peter to tell their stories. He would
tell one about how she taunted him back in fifth grade. His mother had taken him to a weight doctor. He had met Marie
afterwards, at the park by the Long Island Sound, where they always talked.
He was depressed by the number on the scale. “If I tell you, do you SWEAR TO
GOD you won’t tell anybody?” “I swear to God,” Marie answered. “A hundred and thirty five.” “Wow!” Marie said, and then added cheerfully. “But you can lose it.” A few days later, with a group of their friends, Marie had stretched
her arms upwards and said “Gosh, it’s so warm today. It feels like it’s 135
degrees out.” He glared at her. And on his birthday card, she had written in large
letters the return address: “135 KANE AVE.” Once, he became infuriated with her because she had told somebody
something she had not SWORN TO GOD not to. The person got mad at Peter. “YOU
BIG GUINEA” he screamed at Marie, thinking that would really get her. She was
more concerned about the adjective BIG than being called a guinea. Three years ago, Peter had been among the intimate crowd seated in her
family’s living room after her mother’s wake. In reverence, they all
conducted themselves in merriment as they always had. “Tell the Ferragamo
story,” Marie’s brother insisted. This was one of Marie’s favorites. “Okay,” she began. “This was right after college when Peter’s values
went totally to pot.” Peter interjected, “And she became the liberal, ghetto school
teacher!” Marie continued, “He moved into an apartment on the upper-east side
where he’d have people over for cocktails in his Ralph Lauren-looking den.
They would chat about the formal parties they had been to recently and would
use expressions like ‘They had six in help.’ ” “We did not,” Peter interrupted. “So anyway, one night I came to one of these intellectually
stimulating parties. I was wearing a pair of Ferragamo shoes I had bought
that day at a garage sale with my mother for two dollars. Peter, who always
notices everything I wear, said, ‘Marie, those shoes are beautiful.’ ‘Thank
you,’ I said. ‘They’re Ferragamo’s, aren’t they?’ ‘Yes,’ I said. Then in a
lower tone, he said, ‘What did you pay for them? One eighty? ‘No, two,’ I
replied.” Marie could hear her mother’s hovering spirit cackling away. Sigh. She went back to the table. The wine tasted smooth. Her Rigaud
candle smelled sweet. She thought of a story her mother never heard. Peter and Marie had won alot of dance contests in the seventh and
eighth grades—only to fast songs like the Isley Brothers “Twist and
Shout”—never the slow ones. They’d sit those out. In fact, their sexualities
were never addressed. Her Italian father, though an educated man, had
succeeded in frightening her at the mere thought of it. Her refrain in the
weekly confessional “and . . . ah . . . Father, I had an
impure thought,” kept their and all romantic situations very safe. She remembered the party in high school. Peter had had too much to
drink. Marie was spending the night there at her girlfriend’s. She went
upstairs to bed. She was almost asleep when he came into the bedroom.
“Marie,” he whispered. She pretended to be sleeping. He came over to the bed,
sat down and kissed her neck and her lips. She didn’t stir. He left. She
wiped the saliva with the smell of liquor off her with the edge of the pillow
case. Strangely, she felt aroused . . . but also guilty. It seemed
incestuous. The incident was never mentioned. She blocked it out of her mind
until it happened again four years later. They were home from their colleges for Thanksgiving vacation. He had
lost his excess weight. They were driving home from a party, and again Peter
had had too much to drink. Marie never drank. Perhaps she feared losing
control! They dropped off the last person who lived in a secluded home area.
He stopped the car shortly after pulling away. It was under a large tree.
Their town was filled with beautiful trees—maples, elms, woodbines,
chestnuts. This was an oak. He leaned towards Marie and pulled her relaxed
body away from her seat. Again, he began to eagerly kiss her neck. Oh, that
neck! As his lips came to hers, she began to respond. Maybe only a few minutes
passed and he said, “I love you. I love you, Marie.” She stopped it. “No,
Peter.” They drove home in silence. When she got into her bed she was confused, again guilty—but aroused.
She committed an impure act then, and fell asleep. They never mentioned it, and resumed their platonic friendship. Choosing the right mate is so important to being THERE. Both of their
weddings were within a month of each other. Marie remembered looking over to
him at her wedding. He was smiling but there was a look of loss in his eyes.
At his wedding, she thought he wanted to dance one too many dances with her.
And she knew there were people at both weddings thinking it should be Peter
and Marie getting married. What if Peter hadn’t married Jean. She hadn’t said to him on the
phone, “Peter, you have a lovely wife.” She only mentioned the three
daughters, who were right off the page of Town
and Country. Peter’s wife, Jean, came from an old monied New York family. The
Hamiltons had come over on the Mayflower. She spoke in a loud whisper, and
referred to people as “dear.” Her coiffed hair, clothes, and jewelry made her
look twenty years older back then. There was nothing intimidating about her.
She had been educated at all the right schools—although Marie found her to be
lacking in any critical thought in her process. “She’s pathetic. I can’t
believe he’s marrying her,” Marie said to Steve, her then-fiancee. He
replied, “What really bothers me is that these people were born with so much
and have done so little.” That’s why she married Steve—because he said things like that. She imagined people saying, “Why did Marie and Steve get divorced?”
And someone responding, “I’m not sure. I think it was because he forgot a
birthday present.” She hears running up the front steps, a key turning in the door.
Steve, out of breath, asks, “Where is it?” She hands him the present. Going
out the door, he shouts back: “Would you call them and see if it is alright
if Johnny is late?” She couldn’t muster the energy to respond why that wouldn’t make
sense—that if it were a problem she couldn’t do anything about it. “Yes,” she
said. She dialed the number, explained that Johnny’s baseball tryouts had
taken longer than expected (true). “I just hope it isn’t too late, because
we’ve reserved the bumper cars for two o’clock.” Whenever she broached the subject of her marriage with Peter, he would
become harsh with her. “You never heard your mother complain about your
father. What more do you want Marie? You have a very good life out there.” “Life is more than material comfort.” She once quoted Somerset
Maugham: “ ‘Money is like a sixth sense, with which to fully enjoy the other
five.’ ” “That’s ridiculous,” he told her. But she knew it wasn’t ridiculous,
and now whenever he asked her about her marriage, she said, “Fine.” At other times of despair in their lives, they connected tenderly. She came home to her answering machine five years ago. “Marie, we
buried my father today. It all happened very quickly. We’re at my brother
Billy’s right now having an Irish wake.” He began to cry, whispered good-bye,
and hung up. From her living room, one thousand miles away, she wept with him
at that moment. He called her a week later in a more composed manner with
tales of the funeral. He was her living novel to the lives she had left
behind. “You should’ve seen Sissy Bertrand. She BLEW UP!” he told her. Marie
never liked Sissy and was pleased to hear this news. A year later, his brother Billy died of cancer, and his mother’s right
leg had to be amputated. Peter was growing softer and softer. It was the year after that, that Marie’s mother had died suddenly. He
idolized her mother. She sensed fear and hesitation in him at the wake as he
approached her. He worried that Marie wouldn’t be able to handle it. At the
burial site, Marie read a poem aloud to her mother. In the stillness of the
large crowd, she heard a guttural cry. It was Peter. Sometimes she wondered if her mother’s spirit resided in the second
owl. When she whispered, “I’m just not sure what to do.” The owl winked at
her. The phone rang. Damn. “Mom, can you pick me up?” “I’ll be right there, Carla.” Marie took a final sip of her wine and blew out the candle. She looked up at both owls, now, as she was putting on her coat.
“Gotta go fellas, but I’ll be back real soon.” “I NEED YA!” |