Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
Microdream #1
Waiting for the stoplight, I looked down at my hand, resting there on the stick shift, and for a second I thought I was holding the lever that would open a gaping hole in the side of a mountain, a passageway to a secret cavern where creatures who no longer knew whether they were living or dead, human or animal, captive or free, bathed in the still quiet waters of an underground lake, and for that second I wanted nothing more than to open that mountain and join those creatures, maybe the desire came first and the image second, I don't know, but the intensity of my desire didn't matter because I could I could see that my hand was too weak, too arthritic, too skeletal to move the immense weight of that vast and rusted lever. I lifted my eyes and looked back at the road. The light had changed, and the car in front of me had started to move, so I shifted into first and gently let out the clutch.
Microdream #2
For a moment, I must admit, I let myself drift away as they were talking; my head floated like a weather balloon above the discussion, which, by this stage of the evening (actually, it must have been morning), seemed to have become a dispute, or a debate, or twin simultaneous performances of two irreconcilable manifestos. I couldn't follow the arguments, although I did catch some words, some disconnected topics: a cage, a fossil, a tree without branches, the culpability of all who concurred, an intransigent fact, some translations of the word butterfly, the evolution of matricide.
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
Raymond, February 22, 2008
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It's been difficult for me—more difficult than I've let on—to watch my granddaughter grow up in, shall we say, bohemian circumstances. Before she was born, I considered the prospect in all its distressing details, and resolved to do what I could to provide my granddaughter with some structures that would minimize the worst tendencies of her parents. And I must say that the results have been satisfactory. Despite having a mother who still styles herself a radical environmentalist and a father who lost most of his hearing playing in a punk rock band, Samantha, now in her twelfth year, commands several advantages in life: she seems to move with equal confidence through the corridors of her very good school and on the streets of her ethnically mixed neighborhood; she has two parents who speak to each other, civilly if not affectionately; two houses in said neighborhood, both in reasonably good repair and both mortgage-free; and two grandparents who are willing to step up for occasional child care duties.
My relations with Dorothy Shepanski, Samantha's other grandparent, have always been cordial, even pleasant, if hardly intimate. Twelve years ago, after Lisa had become pregnant and announced her intention to have a child out of wedlock, I sought out Dorothy. She responded to my request for a meeting with charm, grace, and a wholly appropriate reserve. I could tell that her loyalty to her difficult, talented, adult son was every bit as deeply rooted as my loyalty to my difficult, talented, adult daughter. In the years since, Dorothy and I have accepted our symmetrical positions in Samantha's family tree, knowing full well that ours is a contingent alliance: we both want the best for Samantha, and as long as Samantha's parents agree on what that means, Dorothy and I will agree as well. At Samantha's birthday parties, I've learned to avoid mentioning my corporate clients, lest I agitate Dorothy's liberal Catholic outrage at the profit motive; for her part, she has learned to keep her views on war to herself, lest she and I promptly re-enact the Oxford Union debate of 1933.
Which is why, earlier today, I found Dorothy's lack of cordiality so notable. My daughter Lisa has been in Boulder, Colorado for the past week, leading workshops at a retreat for community organizers. In her absence, the primary child care responsibilities have fallen upon Samantha's father, Gary. And it was he who called me yesterday, in need of a favor. Gary seemed to be in a state of mixed elation and overwork as he described his dilemma: an exhibition of his paintings was opening that night at Centro de Barrio Lange, and though it might seem a relatively minor affair, a few paintings hanging at a neighborhood community center, the curator had connections, the other artist was from L.A., people from New York were coming. Samantha would attend the first hour or so of the opening, then Dorothy would pick her up, but the schedule got tight on Saturday, when the people from New York wanted to take Gary and the other artist out to lunch and Dorothy had matinee tickets for the repertory theater. Gary is not a person who finds it easy to ask for help; beneath his bluster the awkwardness was almost painful to perceive; though I daresay that if his artistic career continues to advance, he will get much better at this sort of thing. In any case, I agreed to take Samantha; it would be, as always, my pleasure. I would be at the Tangled Bank; Dorothy could drop Samantha off on her way downtown to the matinee.
A brief meeting of the executive committee had come to an end not long before; I was sitting at a table in the main room of the Tangled Bank with Melissa, a fellow board member who has taken on a rather large job: temporary director of the center. Our discussion included a few budgetary matters, and the progress of the search to find a permanent director. Perhaps we had finished with the official business; perhaps the conversation had moved on to lighter matters; perhaps we were talking about her child, or her research, or the politics of the biology department. It is not unlikely that we were laughing when Dorothy appeared in the door.
"Samantha's on the nature path," she said.
"Dorothy," I said. "Come in."
"Louise is in the car," she said. "We're running late."
"Of course," I said. "Is it still the Chekov?"
"You might want to talk to that child," she said, and was gone.
It's been difficult for me—more difficult than I've let on—to watch my granddaughter grow up in, shall we say, bohemian circumstances. Before she was born, I considered the prospect in all its distressing details, and resolved to do what I could to provide my granddaughter with some structures that would minimize the worst tendencies of her parents. And I must say that the results have been satisfactory. Despite having a mother who still styles herself a radical environmentalist and a father who lost most of his hearing playing in a punk rock band, Samantha, now in her twelfth year, commands several advantages in life: she seems to move with equal confidence through the corridors of her very good school and on the streets of her ethnically mixed neighborhood; she has two parents who speak to each other, civilly if not affectionately; two houses in said neighborhood, both in reasonably good repair and both mortgage-free; and two grandparents who are willing to step up for occasional child care duties.
My relations with Dorothy Shepanski, Samantha's other grandparent, have always been cordial, even pleasant, if hardly intimate. Twelve years ago, after Lisa had become pregnant and announced her intention to have a child out of wedlock, I sought out Dorothy. She responded to my request for a meeting with charm, grace, and a wholly appropriate reserve. I could tell that her loyalty to her difficult, talented, adult son was every bit as deeply rooted as my loyalty to my difficult, talented, adult daughter. In the years since, Dorothy and I have accepted our symmetrical positions in Samantha's family tree, knowing full well that ours is a contingent alliance: we both want the best for Samantha, and as long as Samantha's parents agree on what that means, Dorothy and I will agree as well. At Samantha's birthday parties, I've learned to avoid mentioning my corporate clients, lest I agitate Dorothy's liberal Catholic outrage at the profit motive; for her part, she has learned to keep her views on war to herself, lest she and I promptly re-enact the Oxford Union debate of 1933.
Which is why, earlier today, I found Dorothy's lack of cordiality so notable. My daughter Lisa has been in Boulder, Colorado for the past week, leading workshops at a retreat for community organizers. In her absence, the primary child care responsibilities have fallen upon Samantha's father, Gary. And it was he who called me yesterday, in need of a favor. Gary seemed to be in a state of mixed elation and overwork as he described his dilemma: an exhibition of his paintings was opening that night at Centro de Barrio Lange, and though it might seem a relatively minor affair, a few paintings hanging at a neighborhood community center, the curator had connections, the other artist was from L.A., people from New York were coming. Samantha would attend the first hour or so of the opening, then Dorothy would pick her up, but the schedule got tight on Saturday, when the people from New York wanted to take Gary and the other artist out to lunch and Dorothy had matinee tickets for the repertory theater. Gary is not a person who finds it easy to ask for help; beneath his bluster the awkwardness was almost painful to perceive; though I daresay that if his artistic career continues to advance, he will get much better at this sort of thing. In any case, I agreed to take Samantha; it would be, as always, my pleasure. I would be at the Tangled Bank; Dorothy could drop Samantha off on her way downtown to the matinee.
A brief meeting of the executive committee had come to an end not long before; I was sitting at a table in the main room of the Tangled Bank with Melissa, a fellow board member who has taken on a rather large job: temporary director of the center. Our discussion included a few budgetary matters, and the progress of the search to find a permanent director. Perhaps we had finished with the official business; perhaps the conversation had moved on to lighter matters; perhaps we were talking about her child, or her research, or the politics of the biology department. It is not unlikely that we were laughing when Dorothy appeared in the door.
"Samantha's on the nature path," she said.
"Dorothy," I said. "Come in."
"Louise is in the car," she said. "We're running late."
"Of course," I said. "Is it still the Chekov?"
"You might want to talk to that child," she said, and was gone.
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
Gary, February 20, 2008
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So this cart, I told him, it's about 4 feet long—actually it's exactly 53 inches and three eighths but I didn't want to waste time with that kind of detail—so I just gestured to him, about like this big? You got me?
I told him it's not like any of your carts here at El Centro, it's not metal, no es metal...
My Spanish is worth shit, it's a total fucking joke that I'm trying to mount a show in this place...
It's made of wood, I said, two by fours, de madera, dos por cuatro...
Shit, I thought, this is getting nowhere, I tried to sketch it in the air with my hands, it's tall and thin like this, and the one piece at an angle, like this, and it's covered with old carpeting, cubierta con moqueta...
Look, I said, it's my cart, I made it, it's for moving paintings, and I left it right here about ten minutes ago.
By this time Erasmo had come up, he's the kid who's been helping me hang the show, a sharp kid, a talented artist, actually he's the one getting paid to hang the show, it’s a dual exhibition, me and that guy from LA, which means I'm the fucking unpaid supervisor on this project. Don't get me wrong, shit, even if El Centro had a pro gallery director on staff, I'd want to hang my own show, and I like working with Erasmo, he listens, like when I tell him about the math of hanging paintings, I mean he's smart enough to know what he fucking doesn't know, know what I mean?
So I told Erasmo the cart was missing, and he turned to the maintenance guy, Curro, his name is, and they talked for a while in Spanish, way too fast for me to follow but not half as fast as Curro talks to the other guys from Venezuela, and finally Erasmo turns to me and tells me that Curro saw the cart, a few minutes ago, the nurse lady took it.
The nurse lady? I said. You mean that gray-haired white lady?
Si, Si, says Curro, and he starts laughing, and the only words I can catch after that are la educación sexual and jovenas, and then Erasmo translates for me that the nurse lady took the cart so she could move her posters for the class she's teaching.
Those foam-core posters? I said. The ones that were over there?
I walked over to the place and pointed, to make sure Curro knew what I meant, because I sure as hell wasn't going to try to translate "foam-core" into Spanish.
Curro nodded.
What the fuck! I said. That cart is for moving stretched canvas oil paintings—what the fuck does she need my cart for to move foam-core posters that don't weigh a goddamn thing!
And Curro backed away like he thought I was about to start a fight, and I thought, oh shit, no, no, this isn't happening. Here I am fucking things up with the community and the opening is the day after tomorrow!
It was a fucking awkward moment. I started to tell Erasmo to tell Curro that I didn't have a problem with him or El Centro—I just couldn't understand why that white lady—
But Erasmo gave me a look and said, take it easy, man, take it easy. So I took a deep breath and stepped back. Then Erasmo said something to Curro, and Curro glanced at me, just once, kind of wary, and started mopping the gym floor again.
Then Erasmo told me he was going to the classroom to get the cart back, and he'd meet me at the loading dock. So I said okay, and Erasmo went off, and Curro kept mopping the floor. I stood there for a moment, but Curro wouldn't look at me, so I made my way to the loading dock. There were three crates waiting for us—from that gay Latino painter in LA. Two fucking days late. We had a lot of work to do, Erasmo and me.
He's a smart kid, Erasmo. A talented artist. A good listener.
So this cart, I told him, it's about 4 feet long—actually it's exactly 53 inches and three eighths but I didn't want to waste time with that kind of detail—so I just gestured to him, about like this big? You got me?
I told him it's not like any of your carts here at El Centro, it's not metal, no es metal...
My Spanish is worth shit, it's a total fucking joke that I'm trying to mount a show in this place...
It's made of wood, I said, two by fours, de madera, dos por cuatro...
Shit, I thought, this is getting nowhere, I tried to sketch it in the air with my hands, it's tall and thin like this, and the one piece at an angle, like this, and it's covered with old carpeting, cubierta con moqueta...
Look, I said, it's my cart, I made it, it's for moving paintings, and I left it right here about ten minutes ago.
By this time Erasmo had come up, he's the kid who's been helping me hang the show, a sharp kid, a talented artist, actually he's the one getting paid to hang the show, it’s a dual exhibition, me and that guy from LA, which means I'm the fucking unpaid supervisor on this project. Don't get me wrong, shit, even if El Centro had a pro gallery director on staff, I'd want to hang my own show, and I like working with Erasmo, he listens, like when I tell him about the math of hanging paintings, I mean he's smart enough to know what he fucking doesn't know, know what I mean?
So I told Erasmo the cart was missing, and he turned to the maintenance guy, Curro, his name is, and they talked for a while in Spanish, way too fast for me to follow but not half as fast as Curro talks to the other guys from Venezuela, and finally Erasmo turns to me and tells me that Curro saw the cart, a few minutes ago, the nurse lady took it.
The nurse lady? I said. You mean that gray-haired white lady?
Si, Si, says Curro, and he starts laughing, and the only words I can catch after that are la educación sexual and jovenas, and then Erasmo translates for me that the nurse lady took the cart so she could move her posters for the class she's teaching.
Those foam-core posters? I said. The ones that were over there?
I walked over to the place and pointed, to make sure Curro knew what I meant, because I sure as hell wasn't going to try to translate "foam-core" into Spanish.
Curro nodded.
What the fuck! I said. That cart is for moving stretched canvas oil paintings—what the fuck does she need my cart for to move foam-core posters that don't weigh a goddamn thing!
And Curro backed away like he thought I was about to start a fight, and I thought, oh shit, no, no, this isn't happening. Here I am fucking things up with the community and the opening is the day after tomorrow!
It was a fucking awkward moment. I started to tell Erasmo to tell Curro that I didn't have a problem with him or El Centro—I just couldn't understand why that white lady—
But Erasmo gave me a look and said, take it easy, man, take it easy. So I took a deep breath and stepped back. Then Erasmo said something to Curro, and Curro glanced at me, just once, kind of wary, and started mopping the gym floor again.
Then Erasmo told me he was going to the classroom to get the cart back, and he'd meet me at the loading dock. So I said okay, and Erasmo went off, and Curro kept mopping the floor. I stood there for a moment, but Curro wouldn't look at me, so I made my way to the loading dock. There were three crates waiting for us—from that gay Latino painter in LA. Two fucking days late. We had a lot of work to do, Erasmo and me.
He's a smart kid, Erasmo. A talented artist. A good listener.
Wednesday, January 23, 2008
Dorothy, January 12, 2008
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St. Stanislaus Parish, $1,820. They always send her a receipt, first thing every January, which is nice, but Dorothy takes out a calculator and adds it up anyway. $35 a week. You wouldn't think it would come to that total, the sevens turning into sixes, but somehow it does. Is it still the right amount? Dorothy reaches across the dining room table, and finds a hand-written sheet on one of the stacks of paper. In 2007, her gross income was about $36,000, what with Social Security, her mutual funds, and the annuitized payment from her husband's life insurance, about a thousand more than the year before, the mutual funds did a little better this last year, so for this year Dorothy will continue to follow Father Wilkes' formula, and start putting checks for $36 in the envelope each week. One dollar more each week, it doesn't really seem to matter, except when you look at yourself in the mirror, that's what Father Wilkes used to say. His formula was simple—however many thousands of dollars you made last year, before taxes, give that many dollars weekly to the parish. He called it "half-tithing." Father Wilkes expected that you would tithe, of course, but he only expected that half of your tithe would go to your church. Dorothy liked that—the acknowledgment that her other giving was, well, valid. It wasn't the only reason Dorothy had stopped attending her suburban parish in the 1980's, and started driving in to St. Stanislaus, in the old Polish neighborhood near downtown, where because of her name, Shepanski, everyone thought she was one of the old-time parishioners coming back, but of course she wasn't, her maiden name was Sullivan, and Walter had come from Pittsburgh, not from any parish around here. No, it wasn't the only reason, but it was part of it. Her old pastor had looked at every other charity in the world as competition, practically enemies. Father Wilkes had been so much more reasonable. Dorothy still liked Father Wilkes, in spite of everything. Centro de Barrio Lange, $125. Dorothy has found the shoebox where she keeps the notes she writes herself about her charitable donations. She takes out a new sheet of paper and begins to add them up. Friends of the Parks, $100. It still upsets Dorothy that the county won't keep up the parks the way they used to, it offends her to be asked for money to support something that tax dollars ought to take care of, but Dorothy gives anyway, the parks are too important. Northern Day School, $100. Samantha's school, too rich for Dorothy's blood, but she feels obligated to contribute something, a school like that, she wonders if they get annoyed at $100 checks, the way waitresses get annoyed if you leave pennies on the table. Public Radio, $100. The young man on the phone allowed as how the station would take any amount, but he kept talking about their minimum suggested donation of $75. Then as soon as Dorothy agreed to the $75, the slippery young fellow tried to talk her into upgrading to the $150 level, saying how at that level she would get a discount card that she could apply to various cultural events around town. Dorothy let him read her the list, but the only one Dorothy would be interested in was the Repertory Theatre, and she and Louise already had season tickets to that. So after half an hour of discussion with the young man, Dorothy proposed a compromise—instead of $75, she would give $100, sort of a $25 tip, and they could keep the discount card for someone who wanted to go to the symphony, and the nice young man eventually agreed that was good solution. Public Television, $160. Dorothy shakes her head as she reads the note, how ridiculous these so-called "gifts" are! For her donation, she received a set of four "Comfort Food" cookbooks as a thank you, and a note telling her she must reduce her IRS deduction by $40 for "fair market value." Well, she thinks, the IRS can figure it any way they want, for her own personal purposes the donation was $160, those cookbooks weren't worth a damn anyway. Catholic Relief Services, $75, Doctors without Borders, $50, American Friends Service Committee, $50. She doesn't know which one does the most good, so she spreads it around, her little bit. Save the Children, $336. $28 a month for the child in Sierra Leone. Her friend Louise sponsors a child too, and Louise puts the photos and letters and drawings from the child on the refrigerator. Dorothy can't do that—the shame of having so much more overwhelms her. She reads the letters, looks at the pictures, then puts them in a drawer. Tangled Bank Nature Center, $250. Louise had suggested the two of them make their gifts in memory of Professor Jorgensen, but Dorothy had quietly refused. St. Stanislaus Stained Glass Restoration Fund, $75. It had broken Father Wilkes's heart to have to cover those gorgeous windows with Plexiglas. Dorothy didn't care much for the new pastor, Fr. Knoll, but this was one project where she had to support him. American Heart Association, $300. Walter died in 1968 at the age of 47. She was 42. Gary was only 12. In the late 1980s, she had opened a mailing from the American Heart Association, asking her to make a donation in the memory of her late husband. She threw the mailer away, offended. How did they know he had died of a heart attack? And how did they track her down, twenty years after the event? But the next year, the mailer came again, and this time she put it on the table. Maybe she should call them, and complain. The next day, when she was volunteering in the rectory office, she took a coffee break with Father Wilkes. She told him about the mailer, how offended and angry it made her. She had never considered that her husband had died of a disease, simply that he had died and left her, that's the way it was. At the end of the coffee break, Father Wilkes gave her absolution. Father, she told him, I wasn't going to confession. Yes you were, he said. He suggested she join a widows group. She resisted. It was so long ago, she told him, I've been widow for twenty years. He kept urging her. She finally joined. She didn't like most of the ladies, especially the ones who made whatever disease their husbands had died from into a cause. Death was just death, she thought to herself, not a personal insult. Eventually she spoke up and said so to the group. The other women didn't know what to say. But they weren't all bad, the widows. There were some women she didn't mind listening to, the ones who were having troubles with their kids now that the fathers were gone. She tried to tell them what Gary had been like in high school, how he had always been in trouble with school, but never in trouble with her, not really. Maybe some of the women understood. There was one other "veteran" in the group, a woman, like her, who had been widowed a long time. That was Louise, the beginning of a friendship. Anyway Dorothy had kept going to the group for several months, until they changed the time and it didn't fit into her schedule anymore. And the next year, when the begging letter from the American Heart Association came, Dorothy made a memorial in her husband's name. And every year since.
St. Stanislaus Parish, $1,820. They always send her a receipt, first thing every January, which is nice, but Dorothy takes out a calculator and adds it up anyway. $35 a week. You wouldn't think it would come to that total, the sevens turning into sixes, but somehow it does. Is it still the right amount? Dorothy reaches across the dining room table, and finds a hand-written sheet on one of the stacks of paper. In 2007, her gross income was about $36,000, what with Social Security, her mutual funds, and the annuitized payment from her husband's life insurance, about a thousand more than the year before, the mutual funds did a little better this last year, so for this year Dorothy will continue to follow Father Wilkes' formula, and start putting checks for $36 in the envelope each week. One dollar more each week, it doesn't really seem to matter, except when you look at yourself in the mirror, that's what Father Wilkes used to say. His formula was simple—however many thousands of dollars you made last year, before taxes, give that many dollars weekly to the parish. He called it "half-tithing." Father Wilkes expected that you would tithe, of course, but he only expected that half of your tithe would go to your church. Dorothy liked that—the acknowledgment that her other giving was, well, valid. It wasn't the only reason Dorothy had stopped attending her suburban parish in the 1980's, and started driving in to St. Stanislaus, in the old Polish neighborhood near downtown, where because of her name, Shepanski, everyone thought she was one of the old-time parishioners coming back, but of course she wasn't, her maiden name was Sullivan, and Walter had come from Pittsburgh, not from any parish around here. No, it wasn't the only reason, but it was part of it. Her old pastor had looked at every other charity in the world as competition, practically enemies. Father Wilkes had been so much more reasonable. Dorothy still liked Father Wilkes, in spite of everything. Centro de Barrio Lange, $125. Dorothy has found the shoebox where she keeps the notes she writes herself about her charitable donations. She takes out a new sheet of paper and begins to add them up. Friends of the Parks, $100. It still upsets Dorothy that the county won't keep up the parks the way they used to, it offends her to be asked for money to support something that tax dollars ought to take care of, but Dorothy gives anyway, the parks are too important. Northern Day School, $100. Samantha's school, too rich for Dorothy's blood, but she feels obligated to contribute something, a school like that, she wonders if they get annoyed at $100 checks, the way waitresses get annoyed if you leave pennies on the table. Public Radio, $100. The young man on the phone allowed as how the station would take any amount, but he kept talking about their minimum suggested donation of $75. Then as soon as Dorothy agreed to the $75, the slippery young fellow tried to talk her into upgrading to the $150 level, saying how at that level she would get a discount card that she could apply to various cultural events around town. Dorothy let him read her the list, but the only one Dorothy would be interested in was the Repertory Theatre, and she and Louise already had season tickets to that. So after half an hour of discussion with the young man, Dorothy proposed a compromise—instead of $75, she would give $100, sort of a $25 tip, and they could keep the discount card for someone who wanted to go to the symphony, and the nice young man eventually agreed that was good solution. Public Television, $160. Dorothy shakes her head as she reads the note, how ridiculous these so-called "gifts" are! For her donation, she received a set of four "Comfort Food" cookbooks as a thank you, and a note telling her she must reduce her IRS deduction by $40 for "fair market value." Well, she thinks, the IRS can figure it any way they want, for her own personal purposes the donation was $160, those cookbooks weren't worth a damn anyway. Catholic Relief Services, $75, Doctors without Borders, $50, American Friends Service Committee, $50. She doesn't know which one does the most good, so she spreads it around, her little bit. Save the Children, $336. $28 a month for the child in Sierra Leone. Her friend Louise sponsors a child too, and Louise puts the photos and letters and drawings from the child on the refrigerator. Dorothy can't do that—the shame of having so much more overwhelms her. She reads the letters, looks at the pictures, then puts them in a drawer. Tangled Bank Nature Center, $250. Louise had suggested the two of them make their gifts in memory of Professor Jorgensen, but Dorothy had quietly refused. St. Stanislaus Stained Glass Restoration Fund, $75. It had broken Father Wilkes's heart to have to cover those gorgeous windows with Plexiglas. Dorothy didn't care much for the new pastor, Fr. Knoll, but this was one project where she had to support him. American Heart Association, $300. Walter died in 1968 at the age of 47. She was 42. Gary was only 12. In the late 1980s, she had opened a mailing from the American Heart Association, asking her to make a donation in the memory of her late husband. She threw the mailer away, offended. How did they know he had died of a heart attack? And how did they track her down, twenty years after the event? But the next year, the mailer came again, and this time she put it on the table. Maybe she should call them, and complain. The next day, when she was volunteering in the rectory office, she took a coffee break with Father Wilkes. She told him about the mailer, how offended and angry it made her. She had never considered that her husband had died of a disease, simply that he had died and left her, that's the way it was. At the end of the coffee break, Father Wilkes gave her absolution. Father, she told him, I wasn't going to confession. Yes you were, he said. He suggested she join a widows group. She resisted. It was so long ago, she told him, I've been widow for twenty years. He kept urging her. She finally joined. She didn't like most of the ladies, especially the ones who made whatever disease their husbands had died from into a cause. Death was just death, she thought to herself, not a personal insult. Eventually she spoke up and said so to the group. The other women didn't know what to say. But they weren't all bad, the widows. There were some women she didn't mind listening to, the ones who were having troubles with their kids now that the fathers were gone. She tried to tell them what Gary had been like in high school, how he had always been in trouble with school, but never in trouble with her, not really. Maybe some of the women understood. There was one other "veteran" in the group, a woman, like her, who had been widowed a long time. That was Louise, the beginning of a friendship. Anyway Dorothy had kept going to the group for several months, until they changed the time and it didn't fit into her schedule anymore. And the next year, when the begging letter from the American Heart Association came, Dorothy made a memorial in her husband's name. And every year since.
Thursday, December 27, 2007
Melissa, December 17, 2007
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"This has nothing to do with Lisa," said Gary. "It's only because I pretty much fucking built the place."
I nodded. "That’s... what I understand," I said.
"Not the electrical, of course. Or the plumbing. Or the concrete pours. Though I could've done a better job than those assholes the contractor hired."
"It was very generous of you," I said. "I mean, it is, still—"
"Fuck that," said Gary. "There was nothing fucking generous about it. Okay. I'm going out."
He opened the door and walked out into the snow. I looked out at the roof, the snow, the night, the big guy in the jumpsuit.
"Are you all right?" I called after him.
"I'm fine," he called back. "Close the fucking door. You're letting the heat out. It's a fucking green building, remember?"
I closed the door and tried to keep an eye on his progress through the window. Framed by the vertical slit, the scene had become even more disorienting: snowflakes illuminated from below, the hulking figure trudging among the vents and boxes. I saw him tug at something, kick it, then lift the thing, a snowy mass, and toss it into the darkness.
A minute later he was back on the landing, stomping the snow off his jumpsuit.
"Fucking big-assed tree branch," he said. "From the oak tree. Totally blocking the intake. It must've fallen in the windstorm. That was two weeks ago, before the snow. You been having problems that long?"
"Maybe," I said. "I thought it was just winter. I... I just... turned up the thermostat."
"You shouldn't let shit that go that long. You gotta get a regular maintenance man for this place."
The snow was flying off his clothes and boots. I stood as far from him as possible on the little landing.
"I'm working on it," I said. "With the board. It takes time."
The shaking and stomping and brushing stopped. He looked at me.
"Hey," he said. "I'm not getting down on you personally. Sorry if I came on too strong."
"No problem," I said. "It was so great for you to come over and help. I really didn't know who else to call. Let me get you some coffee."
"You're pretty much a volunteer here yourself, aren't you?" he said.
"Sort of," I said. "One of the donors made a deal with the biology department. Next semester my teaching load will be reduced by one class."
"That's not much," he said. "This is a big job here."
"There's a search committee," I said. "Maybe by summer we'll have a new executive director. C'mon, let's get that coffee."
Downstairs, you could already feel the warmth returning. I fixed a cup of coffee for Gary and a hot chocolate for me. We talked about our kids for a while. I asked about Samantha. He said she was trying to find her mother a job. He asked about Jake—how was he handling the steroid scandal in baseball? I said he was trying to use it as an excuse not to take his asthma medicine. Smart kid, he said. Smart at being stupid, I said. Gary had stopped swearing—as if he no longer needed the sparks of profanity to keep him warm.
His eyes wandered around the center for a moment. Builder's eyes. The same attention to detail that a biologist brings to the field, but something else, too. More willful.
"You did all the carpentry?" I said.
"Yeah," he said. "The rough and the finish."
"You did a great job," I said. "It must be difficult for you, now that Lisa—"
"Nothing fucking to do with her," he said. "I mean, she was the fucking client, but that wasn't why I did it."
He seemed to want to tell me something, but he wanted me to ask.
"Why then?" I finally said, after a pause.
"Sam's grandpa," he said, after his own pause.
"Raymond?" I said.
"You know," he said. "At the time, I had no fucking clue. Only when I looked back, I could see how old Raymond had put it all together. Know what I mean?"
"I don't quite follow..." I said.
"Look," he said. "This was the early nineties, after the band had finally gone fucking south. There I was, living off the book, no reported income, no visible fucking means of support."
"You were in a band?" I said. "I guess I should have known... from the tatoos."
I smiled awkwardly.
"Yeah," he said. "I was in Arbeit Macht Frei."
"No way!" I said. "My older brother had all your albums. And this disgusting t-shirt.... I thought the band was from West Berlin or Amsterdam or..."
"Someplace cool?" he said. "Nope. Three jews and a polack from right fucking here. Fucking suburbs, actually."
"Wow," I said. "You guys really had a following in Columbus. You were like... grunge before there was grunge."
"Like grunge before there was money," he said. "We toured for ten years. Most of the time we were crashing on our fans' fucking floors. I was telling you a story about Raymond. You wanna hear it?"
"Uh, sure," I said.
The story started with the breakup of the band. He told me how, in its last two years, Arbeit Macht Frei had made a little money and they had all started to hate each other. How he walked away with just enough cash to buy an old crackhouse in Barrio Lange and fix it up. How he built himself a studio and started painting again. How he and Lisa had had a thing. How Lisa had been almost as much of a fringe character as he was back then, this fucking crazy environmentalist chick. How she got pregnant. How she wanted to keep the baby, which surprised the fuck out of Gary. But how he knew she was serious because she quit drinking right away.
Then he leaned forward and gave me a little sociology lesson. He told me how the fucking state comes in and fucks up everyone's lives if a dad can't pay his fucking child support. He leaned back and shook his head. Fucking Lisa had been about to go ahead and apply for fucking welfare anyway.
But that was when Raymond Deveridge, Lisa's dad, whom Gary had never even fucking met before, showed up with a package deal to solve everyone's problems.
Gary lifted his arms and looked around the room.
"You mean the center?" I said. "The Tangled Bank? This was Raymond's idea?"
"Oh, the idea was Lisa's. But you gotta understand, Lisa had lots of fucking ideas. Raymond picked the one he was going to make happen."
The deal took a year or two to play out. Lisa got a job running the center, Gary got a job building the center, nobody had to get married who didn't fucking want to (the two of them sure as hell didn't), their paychecks were nice and low, but not too low, which looked good for the fundraising, which Raymond took care of, at least in the early years, until Lisa got good at it.
And when Samantha was born, she got a trust fund, with monthly payments right from the start. So the small paychecks didn't matter, because Lisa and Gary didn't have to use those paychecks to support their kid.
Gary paused, to let me catch up. I sat in silence for a moment.
"It's... it's a lot to absorb," I said.
"The trust fund even sends me checks when I take Samantha for the weekends," he said. "Fucking sweet, hey?"
"So that's how this place started," I said. "Kind of a... family thing."
"Hey," he said. "This place is real. Fuck the family drama. That river is real, all the nature is real, you know the science is real, and I can guarantee this building is fucking real."
"I know," I said. "Thanks. For everything. Well, I gotta get home. I have to be back here at 7:30 to unlock the doors for a busload of seventh graders."
I stood and picked up the cups. Gary stood up too.
"Yeah," he said. "I should get back to the studio."
"I'm sorry I had to interrupt you," I said.
"Don't worry," he said. "I never get started before midnight."
"This has nothing to do with Lisa," said Gary. "It's only because I pretty much fucking built the place."
I nodded. "That’s... what I understand," I said.
"Not the electrical, of course. Or the plumbing. Or the concrete pours. Though I could've done a better job than those assholes the contractor hired."
"It was very generous of you," I said. "I mean, it is, still—"
"Fuck that," said Gary. "There was nothing fucking generous about it. Okay. I'm going out."
He opened the door and walked out into the snow. I looked out at the roof, the snow, the night, the big guy in the jumpsuit.
"Are you all right?" I called after him.
"I'm fine," he called back. "Close the fucking door. You're letting the heat out. It's a fucking green building, remember?"
I closed the door and tried to keep an eye on his progress through the window. Framed by the vertical slit, the scene had become even more disorienting: snowflakes illuminated from below, the hulking figure trudging among the vents and boxes. I saw him tug at something, kick it, then lift the thing, a snowy mass, and toss it into the darkness.
A minute later he was back on the landing, stomping the snow off his jumpsuit.
"Fucking big-assed tree branch," he said. "From the oak tree. Totally blocking the intake. It must've fallen in the windstorm. That was two weeks ago, before the snow. You been having problems that long?"
"Maybe," I said. "I thought it was just winter. I... I just... turned up the thermostat."
"You shouldn't let shit that go that long. You gotta get a regular maintenance man for this place."
The snow was flying off his clothes and boots. I stood as far from him as possible on the little landing.
"I'm working on it," I said. "With the board. It takes time."
The shaking and stomping and brushing stopped. He looked at me.
"Hey," he said. "I'm not getting down on you personally. Sorry if I came on too strong."
"No problem," I said. "It was so great for you to come over and help. I really didn't know who else to call. Let me get you some coffee."
"You're pretty much a volunteer here yourself, aren't you?" he said.
"Sort of," I said. "One of the donors made a deal with the biology department. Next semester my teaching load will be reduced by one class."
"That's not much," he said. "This is a big job here."
"There's a search committee," I said. "Maybe by summer we'll have a new executive director. C'mon, let's get that coffee."
Downstairs, you could already feel the warmth returning. I fixed a cup of coffee for Gary and a hot chocolate for me. We talked about our kids for a while. I asked about Samantha. He said she was trying to find her mother a job. He asked about Jake—how was he handling the steroid scandal in baseball? I said he was trying to use it as an excuse not to take his asthma medicine. Smart kid, he said. Smart at being stupid, I said. Gary had stopped swearing—as if he no longer needed the sparks of profanity to keep him warm.
His eyes wandered around the center for a moment. Builder's eyes. The same attention to detail that a biologist brings to the field, but something else, too. More willful.
"You did all the carpentry?" I said.
"Yeah," he said. "The rough and the finish."
"You did a great job," I said. "It must be difficult for you, now that Lisa—"
"Nothing fucking to do with her," he said. "I mean, she was the fucking client, but that wasn't why I did it."
He seemed to want to tell me something, but he wanted me to ask.
"Why then?" I finally said, after a pause.
"Sam's grandpa," he said, after his own pause.
"Raymond?" I said.
"You know," he said. "At the time, I had no fucking clue. Only when I looked back, I could see how old Raymond had put it all together. Know what I mean?"
"I don't quite follow..." I said.
"Look," he said. "This was the early nineties, after the band had finally gone fucking south. There I was, living off the book, no reported income, no visible fucking means of support."
"You were in a band?" I said. "I guess I should have known... from the tatoos."
I smiled awkwardly.
"Yeah," he said. "I was in Arbeit Macht Frei."
"No way!" I said. "My older brother had all your albums. And this disgusting t-shirt.... I thought the band was from West Berlin or Amsterdam or..."
"Someplace cool?" he said. "Nope. Three jews and a polack from right fucking here. Fucking suburbs, actually."
"Wow," I said. "You guys really had a following in Columbus. You were like... grunge before there was grunge."
"Like grunge before there was money," he said. "We toured for ten years. Most of the time we were crashing on our fans' fucking floors. I was telling you a story about Raymond. You wanna hear it?"
"Uh, sure," I said.
The story started with the breakup of the band. He told me how, in its last two years, Arbeit Macht Frei had made a little money and they had all started to hate each other. How he walked away with just enough cash to buy an old crackhouse in Barrio Lange and fix it up. How he built himself a studio and started painting again. How he and Lisa had had a thing. How Lisa had been almost as much of a fringe character as he was back then, this fucking crazy environmentalist chick. How she got pregnant. How she wanted to keep the baby, which surprised the fuck out of Gary. But how he knew she was serious because she quit drinking right away.
Then he leaned forward and gave me a little sociology lesson. He told me how the fucking state comes in and fucks up everyone's lives if a dad can't pay his fucking child support. He leaned back and shook his head. Fucking Lisa had been about to go ahead and apply for fucking welfare anyway.
But that was when Raymond Deveridge, Lisa's dad, whom Gary had never even fucking met before, showed up with a package deal to solve everyone's problems.
Gary lifted his arms and looked around the room.
"You mean the center?" I said. "The Tangled Bank? This was Raymond's idea?"
"Oh, the idea was Lisa's. But you gotta understand, Lisa had lots of fucking ideas. Raymond picked the one he was going to make happen."
The deal took a year or two to play out. Lisa got a job running the center, Gary got a job building the center, nobody had to get married who didn't fucking want to (the two of them sure as hell didn't), their paychecks were nice and low, but not too low, which looked good for the fundraising, which Raymond took care of, at least in the early years, until Lisa got good at it.
And when Samantha was born, she got a trust fund, with monthly payments right from the start. So the small paychecks didn't matter, because Lisa and Gary didn't have to use those paychecks to support their kid.
Gary paused, to let me catch up. I sat in silence for a moment.
"It's... it's a lot to absorb," I said.
"The trust fund even sends me checks when I take Samantha for the weekends," he said. "Fucking sweet, hey?"
"So that's how this place started," I said. "Kind of a... family thing."
"Hey," he said. "This place is real. Fuck the family drama. That river is real, all the nature is real, you know the science is real, and I can guarantee this building is fucking real."
"I know," I said. "Thanks. For everything. Well, I gotta get home. I have to be back here at 7:30 to unlock the doors for a busload of seventh graders."
I stood and picked up the cups. Gary stood up too.
"Yeah," he said. "I should get back to the studio."
"I'm sorry I had to interrupt you," I said.
"Don't worry," he said. "I never get started before midnight."
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