I’m not even sure that I loved that house. Or that husband.
We’d gotten married with the agreement that it would be open. We had explicit and implicit permission to pursue sexual partners outside of our marriage.
The only rule: Don’t fall in love.
But how could such a rule ever be enforced? How could anybody make such an unrealistic promise?
In any case, our open marriage was only slightly ajar.
Despite all his best efforts, my husband had only gone to bed with an older woman from work. She was a talkative lady who was bad with money and couldn’t retire, so she’d have to keep answering phones until the moment she died.
And while I could have had sex with many men — every woman can have all the men she wants if she lowers her standards a bit — I’d only made out with three guys while dancing in crowded bars. It wasn’t fun. And it was with great relief that we closed the marriage. Hell, we slammed it shut.
So, newly faithful, my second husband and I defeated a wildfire.
We won.
We saved our house.
Our barn.
Our three horses.
Three months later, my husband left me for that near-elderly receptionist. She was sixty and he was forty-two. I was happy for him. And I was especially happy for her. Old men always have young girlfriends, but how often does an old woman land a young guy? And my husband was rich, too. That elderly receptionist was living in a goddamn fairy tale. How could I not be happy with that romance?
We conjured up a no-fault divorce. And my dear husband honored the prenuptial agreement.
He kept the horses; I kept the house.
My first husband died in a motorcycle wreck. We lived in a state that didn’t require helmets so he split open his skull on the windshield of a Toyota Corolla.
I loved him so much that, twenty years later, I still keep a photo of him in my wallet. I don’t talk about him with anybody.
Though I’ll dance with almost any man in a crowd, I prefer to grieve alone.
I’ve slept with thirty-two men in my life. I suppose that’s a high number. My male friends give me high fives for my carnal productivity, but my female friends think it’s too many.
“You’re just trying to fill up all the emptiness inside you,” said my best friend. “You’re just trying to not be lonely.”
“You’re right,” I said. “But I fail to see why feeling that way should prevent me from trying not to feel that way.”
I remember all of my lovers’ names. I write them down in a book with the Titanic painted on the cover. But, on the front page, I’ve only sketched a nameless portrait of that Indian boy fancydancer, who made love to me in a wheat field that had been left fallow that season.
On my computer, the bathroom mirror, the front door, and the refrigerator are sticky notes that share the same message: “I’ll respect your various hungers if you respect mine.”
Two hundred and sixty-six days after I had sex with that Indian boy, I gave birth to our daughter.
“Who’s the father?” my parents asked me.
“I’m not going to tell you,” I said.
I never held my baby. I didn’t want to touch her. I thought it would hurt too much. So they took her away before I could change my mind about the adoption.
It was my choice to give her away. I felt that I deserved the punishment. I needed to serve a lifetime sentence in a jail of my own making.
My daughter was black of hair and brown of skin. It was strange to see such a dark shadow slide out of my white body.
Strangers adopted and raised my daughter. I don’t know her history. Sometimes, I think about searching for her. In this Internet age, with its invasions of privacy and wholesale distribution of all the information in the world, I would guess it’s easy to find people, especially those who have no reason to hide.
My daughter would be thirty-one now. I’m sure she is dark, pretty, and slender. I wonder if she, like her father, covers her mouth when she laughs.
I wonder if I would recognize her if I saw her on the street.
“Hey,” I’d say. “It’s you. It’s you. I always knew I’d find you. I always knew I’d recognize you.”
But I never see her. Or rather, I always see her. Every other woman in Los Angeles is dark, slender, and pretty. And it seems like half of them cover their mouths when they laugh.
I sometimes stop those women and ask them if they recognize me. I love it when they take me seriously and study my face. But they always smile with regret and rue, and say, “I’m sorry, but I don’t know you.”
BREAKFAST
The son cracked an egg, expecting yolk and egg, but instead dropped his father’s impossibly small corpse into the mixing bowl. The son was only mildly surprised. His father had died eleven years earlier, so grief had become a predictable clown.
But what should the son have done with his father’s body? He couldn’t recycle it or toss it into the trash or compost bin. And he didn’t want to wear it around his neck like jewelry or hang it from the rearview mirror like a dream catcher.
The son wondered what advice his father would have given him.
He would have said, “Don’t embarrass me.”
He would have said, “What kind of warrior are you?”
He would have said, “Put on the war paint, you faggot, and ride your pony into battle.”
So, like his father would have done, the son added onions, green peppers, diced ham, and egg yolks and whites into the bowl, folded his father into the mix, poured it into the oiled frying pain, and cooked it golden.
One would have expected the omelet to taste bitter, but the son only thought that it needed salt — more salt — tons of salt — all the salt in the world.
NIGHT PEOPLE
Across the street from my apartment there is a twenty-four-hour manicure joint. This is only possible in New York City. Amazingly enough, there are a few other twenty-four-hour salons in town, but those are modernist little palaces. The joint across the street looks more like a 7-Eleven — brightly lit, inadequately mopped, and likely to be robbed soon. When it first opened, I was convinced that it was a front for a drug and/or prostitution ring. But, night after night, I sat on my minuscule terrace (I fit into it like it was a bathtub) and watched through the large picture windows as women — and men dressed as women and/or on their way to becoming women — arrived in the middle of the night to get their fingers and toenails done. Who knew there were so many insomniac transsexuals and transvestites?
The manicurists were all Asian women, most of them older than fifty and battered by their graveyard-shifted lives. But there was one twenty-something woman who fascinated me. She was plain-featured and plain of dress, but she gave the appearance of beautiful without being beautiful. I wasn’t the only male fascinated with her confident mirage. My building’s night doorman, a polite and quiet man otherwise, shouted street poetry at her and tried to find every rhyme and half rhyme for “Japanese,” though I’m pretty sure she was Korean. She’d always smile and wave, but would not acknowledge his advances in any other way. I don’t know if she ever looked up from my doorman to see me watching her from my third-floor terrace. Could I be seen in the dark?
And so I watched her ply her trade. While her coworkers labored with a silent hostility that I could feel from across the street, she was animated. She seemed to enjoy her customers. She laughed often and made them laugh as well. What kind of person can be that charming at 3:33 A.M.?
After months of this surveillance, I decided that I needed to see the woman up close. I needed to speak to her. I needed to get a manicure, though I knew I could never get a pedicure. A manicure seemed like a public act but a pedicure felt like something private, even sexual. I felt like I’d be cheating on my girlfriend if I got my toes done. But I had a bigger problem than podiatric infidelity. I’m a nail biter. A nail chewer and eater. I was too embarrassed to walk into a manicure place with disfigured nails. So I gave myself an amateurish manicure, worried that my clipping and sanding would wake my girlfriend, and then left my apartment and walked across the street for a professional one.