The demanding man groaned and slapped at a buzzing fly that had settled on the table, but didn't hit it, and everyone else was silent as the two new men, partners, walked into the kitchen, to tell the cook what they would and wouldn't eat. I wondered in a mild way whether these people would be boons or obstacles in my life, but then the tall balding man slapped the table hard and killed a large, bluebonnet fly, and Contesa muttered, "Beautiful specimen." To what she referred I wasn't positive, since either the fly or the new men might have been in her sightline. When the men disappeared into the cook's theater, I knew they would instantly establish a good or bad rapport, which would likely worsen or ameliorate during their time here, with the cook and the kitchen staff, since certain attitudes shift before they settle and harden. "Beautiful specimen," Contesa repeated, as we all rose from the table. The phone rang, clamoring, finally, for the young married man who raced to it, while Contesa scooped the dead blue and black fly off the table. The newcomers might have precipitated the drama, for the tall balding man sputtered and then uncharacteristically pushed or shoved the demanding man, who was lingering around balefully, and one of the staff saw the incident, scurried over to them, and guided them, presumably, to the director's office. None of us said a word, Contesa's gray eyes found mine, but the disconsolate anorectic clutched her friend's arm and shuddered. Another fly buzzed around me, and I slapped it harder than I meant, killing it. The disconsolate women frowned at me, and I left the dining room soon after, without being introduced to the two men, whose partnership I envied and disliked.
During the summer, at camp or at home, mosquitoes buzzed close around me, and I had extreme, allergic reactions to their bites, fat, pink welts budding on my legs and arms, and later I required antihistamines whenever bitten, but back then calamine lotion regularly dotted my body, its hot pink a humorous retort to my tanned legs, chest, back, and arms. I tanned under the sun for hours when I was young, listening to the ocean or rock and roll on a portable radio set close to my ear, but mostly I listened to the waves as they tossed themselves thoughtlessly against the sand, landing and lapping patiently and repetitively, then retreating, and I had a feeling of contented exhaustion, so complete and good that I knew it wouldn't last, that the best things don't last, and that I should try to preserve a moment which would, like a wave, retreat, but unlike a wave, maybe never come back. I associate this happy exhaustion only with going to the beach, lying on the sand after swimming in the ocean, whose waves sometimes dragged me under, compelling me to acknowledge forces much bigger than myself, whose will I couldn't shake or dent, of walking under a hot sun on the wet sand, leaving footprints whose impressions faded quickly, and letting the ocean nip at my toes and ankles, when standing at the edge of the ocean and the world I knew. The waves crept higher and higher, almost to my tanned knees, depositing a salty residue on my skin, and I thought I never wanted to be anywhere else but at the foot of the ocean and wished I could advance and recede like a wave.
There was always a pink mark on the back of one leg, a birthmark that my father called a cherry, which seemed to please him, either the word "cherry" or the fact that I had one or something else which was unimportant or which has gone with him to his ocean grave off the coast of Maine where his shards were tossed over the side of a sleek, white yacht, by his wife, his daughter, his wife's sister, his only living friend, who was also on his way out, as my mother noted, but not his prodigal son, as my father had regularly referred to him, nearly with pleasure, as if citing the Bible condoned his son's absence or made it palatable, because it was traditional and historical. He told me the cherry birthmark would be a way to identify me always, though it puzzled me why I would need to be identified, and I imagined terrible fates for myself, when it would become necessary to flip my limp body over and find the cherry, so as to he able to record, with certainty, that I was who I was. But in the years since, I often forget I have a cherry on the very top and back of my upper thigh and usually can't remember which leg it is on, but I do know that it could be used to distinguish me from others in time of war, or if I suddenly fell down in the street, unconscious, and did not know anymore who I was. I have never told a doctor about it, or friends, and it may be scarcely noticeable, since, as I've grown, it must have grown smaller, comparatively, and it might even have completely disappeared, which would he sad, as if much more had also vanished, and that's true, it has, so I don't want to look for the cherry, since with its diminution or demise, my father, along with everything else from the past, is deader.
The cherry isn't part of my medical records, since our family doctor, whose visits when I had sore throats were never welcome, but who was a good man, with a face I vaguely recall, especially because of his black, bristly moustache, and whose ministrations I remember better, since once he tricked me with the pain-free rubber needle and could have noted my reaction in his file on me, along with my sore throats, childhood inoculations, allergic response to mosquito bites, sensitive skin, must he dead for a long time. His files must be lost or were discarded after his death, and unless I pointedly remark, Please note the cherry birthmark on the back of my upper thigh, and record that in my file, no one will know about it, it wouldn't identify me. My mother wouldn't remember it, she is not who she was, though she knows her name, often is lucid, and realizes, sadly, that she is incapacitated, but as her memory falters, she knows less of herself and others. One day when she was exceptionally present, she asked rhetorically: If I can't remember, who am I? It's not an uncommon idea, but a poignant observation, the kind I hadn't ever heard her make, she was, throughout my childhood, usually blunt and even brutal in her expressions. Some years before her illness or condition presented itself undeniably, before she and I knew her brain was under pressure from an abundance of trapped fluid, we walked past a store in front of which a man, the apparent owner, stood, when my mother uncharacteristically commented, "I think I know that man. He looks helpless. He's waiting for customers." But even then, as I took note of her unique, jarring comment, I didn't understand it might have indicated or been a harbinger of her own incipient helplessness.
It was my father who first made me conscious of the cherry on the back of my upper thigh. My father paid attention to color, because he had an eye and was in the textile business, and, once, when the Polish woman was gently rubbing my face, in preparation for the steaming my skin needed, the probing of my oil-clogged pores, when she squeezed out any impurities she found, I told her about my father's business. I don't imagine she was truly interested, but I felt that her interest, if it was interest, maybe involvement, in skin, was akin to my father's in fabrics. He had looked, I explained to her, through a special magnifying instrument to measure the warp and weft of every fabric he designed and had manufactured, he weighed individual, single threads with another simple machine, and early on I knew that even a thread, which appeared to be unimportant and without substance, had weight.
In a fabric warehouse, rolls of fabric, which are worlds in a world, beg to be touched. Satin, moire, voile, faille. Jacquard, cotton, silk, brocade. Opaque, transparent, or semi-transparent lengths of cloth. Possibilities array themselves in colors, patterns, warps and wefts, weights and textures, while description doesn't account for what my fingers realize, which is uncategorizable. With a flourish, the polished salesman pulls out a bolt I have indicated, carries it on his shoulder or in his arms, like a body, and then pulling and stretching the fabric across a long wooden table, which usually has scissors and threads over it, it's always messy in a fabric ware house, the salesperson spreads a length of material across it, so that its details may be seen and appreciated, and any mistake in the weave might be caught, and then he, rarely she, grabs a tape measure and cuts the material. It is an event, the gestures and cutting of the material, a high, almost noble, moment in the warehouse, when, I have noticed, other salespeople will stop what they are doing to watch, attentively, a fellow salesman unfurl the bolt, wield the stubby scissors and cut the cloth. The salesman also always pulls out a little more material, making a display of this, too, in a ritual or tradition that all of them follow and which is habitually mentioned to a client, or else you would feel cheated, everyone wants and expects a little hit more than the yards paid for. I could easily stay with these mute bolts of cloth for hours and hours, but I never do, because I'm busy, rushing, so I stay as long as I permit myself, gently fingering the cloth, careful not to stain or otherwise damage the material, and occasionally buying some yards for friends who sew; I don't, but my mother did, and often I merely want to have in my possession the redolent fabric, which appeals to a cosmopolitan primitive.