Double Happiness (15 page)

Raymond? If the way I feel about you? If that's the problem? Don't worry. I get it completely now. I said something stupid about love?

Oh, boy. She seemed to be speaking from the floor. He could see the shadow of her head moving on the threshold beneath
the door. The little pink spot of her lips pressing in. And now he noticed the tiles around the sink were coming loose, she was wrecking everything.

Raymond, she whispered, please. This is killing me.

He was nearly seated in the aisle when Megan returned from her stolen nirvana with a peace offering. He could tell by the unfocused smile. Wow, he said, squinting. I can barely see.

It's that bad?

Yup.

Come on, you, she said.

Come on, what?

She pitched her head back with a playful wink. With her Audrey Hepburn haircut growing out, sideburns were curling in front of her ears. He followed her glance and saw her friends the stewardesses had sequestered themselves behind a drawn metal door to prepare dinner. Follow me, she said.

He gave her a look to say his indulgence had a short lease. This better not be about herbal tea. But no, she was leading Raymond behind the magic curtain and tucking him into the very last seat in first class. She'd made a sweet little nest, with M&M's and Scotch on the rocks, his personal weapons against every trouble, large and small. There was even a flower in a tiny stick-on vase. For me? he mouthed.

Who else? she whispered. She blew a kiss then tiptoed back out to economy. And he understood. All the bloating, all the coyness had been a ploy, an act, she was still his ace in the hole. And he was hers, of course. He settled deep into the leather ergonomic recliner, a perfect fit! He pressed the release until he lay nearly flat. Every muscle in his body relaxed into the cushions. He turned his face toward the closed window shade, the rising sun completely obscured. It was peaceful here and Helena was far away.

Farther away by the second, back in Rome where he wouldn't return for a very long time. And when he did, he'd be a father. Something Helena would never understand. How could she? He was safe. A whole new time well begun. He pulled the sleep mask over his eyes and a smoky lavender scent whacked him into a lulling contentment. There were hard truths out there just waiting to be dusted off. And he would do it.

F
ULL CHOP IN THE WATER ON
F
RIDAY EVENING DIDN'T
necessarily mean no sailing in the morning. All week, her husband had fulfilled the list of tasks he'd written down on a yellow legal pad as if he'd never done them before. Then the enormous worry about time. And what about the new owners at the marina, could they be trusted to get the basics right, get the slips ready and the buoys secured, mark the channel, clear the fallen trees from winter storms, clear out the boats of the dead? Sad truth, they were an old dwindling club and every spring brought a tag sale of leather cushions and rusted saucepans. The old boat dragged to inland children wherever they were. Once, Philip Kellstone drove to Oregon with a Chris-Craft twenty-footer. My great adventure, he called it. The new marina owners were unlikely to keep up the tradition. Already they were making noises about a dance club overlooking the inlet, and family memberships for a swimming beach. Who in their right mind would swim in the Hudson? But they
claimed the cleanup would be better than anyone could imagine. They'd import pink Bermuda sand. And sell organic fruit drinks.

He was thinking of a change, he told his wife. The decision to stay or go wouldn't affect her, it was purely his thing, but he looked so forlorn.

They were standing in the upper parking lot of the Rhinecliff train station, getting the full vista of the whitecaps on the water and the gusts in the distant trees, a lowering gray in the sky. So unlike Mother's Day last year when every flower in the Hudson Valley had bloomed right on time, but Melody hadn't come, and hadn't for a very long while. This year the forsythias were still green and nearly closed, only sparse tips of yellow. The lilacs were just budded, no more, and wisteria hung with desiccated fronds. Wouldn't you know it, said his wife.

She doesn't bother with that kind of thing anyway, he said.

Oh, I don't know, I always thought the garden mattered in a way, maybe not so much to talk about, she said.

She says what's on her mind. No big mysteries there. I promise you.

His wife kept quiet, and opened her eyes wider toward the river. She shifted her hand above them, but there was little sunlight to block out. Her eyes felt strained, nearly distended in their sockets, as if she had extra-duty seeing to attend to. She felt serious, settled, grounded in new ways, tried, You'll
be fine tomorrow. This breeze is just stirring the pot out there.

He nodded, and the train blew a sharp hoot coming into the station. She caught a first sweet gush of a lilac scent out of nowhere. He started down the stone steps to the station. She smoothed the front of her skirt and followed, looking carefully as she went, holding tight to the rail.

The train was on time. And crowded. So many people taking the large leap from the dangling silver platform in the train door to the three-legged plastic stool like a toddler's plaything. Too big a step, she thought, for some, and felt no impatience when the conductor slowed someone down, let the bags be passed into his arms first before a tentative foot was allowed. Sixty, maybe seventy, people got off the train, but who would have guessed that Melody would travel all the way in the very back, the car barely in the station.

She spotted Melody first—over there!—yanking a green rolling bag off-kilter, something out of whack with the wheels. There! she said, and started the zigzag through the Friday commuters too tired to let her by. She lifted an arm and waved but nothing too flashy, she didn't want to embarrass Melody, as she knew she'd done in the past. She wasn't too old to learn how to get along with the people she loved. No one was. Melody, she said, low, smiling, and only the old conductor caught her voice and smiled back. He'd been around forever, and held his arm
out stiff for the young mother making the jump out of the train. Melody, she said to herself, felt the draft of her husband behind her. Excuse us, he said, please. They were moving in entirely the wrong direction.

The daughter looked up, saw the mother's face, stopped moving, and dropped the ragged strap on her bag and rubbed her shoulder, until they were close, then said, Hey, Daphne, hi.

And the mother frowned but caught herself, reminded herself of she wasn't sure what. There was no time for analysis, except whatever Melody wanted to call her that was okay, wasn't it? Sweetheart, she said back, and she reached out and felt, quick as a leaf brush, the dry tired peck from her tall, too-thin girl. Long trip? she asked. Though she knew the timing to the second. Are you tired?

Nope, said the daughter, who looked, at thirty-five, not a great deal different than at nineteen, too thin, dark sad circles under her eyes, a halo of black hair all in squiggles near her shoulders. What now, the mother thought. But she felt her eyes relax, the commuters jostled her in their hurry, she didn't mind. The same thrill rushed through her, and wasn't it silly. This girl-woman who barely spoke to her, wouldn't call her Mother, because she didn't deserve the title, that's what Melody had said at nineteen and apparently stayed with the decision, this teetering frowning wretch could fill her with such happiness. It was ridiculous, and so certainly chemical. A great rise and something
she should discuss later on. Sweetheart, she said again, thank you. Thank you for coming.

Her husband picked up the green suitcase, said, Hope you brought your sneakers! Boat's in the water.

You think I'd miss it? asked the girl, who looked committed to missing everything.

Not in a million, he said, hefting the suitcase higher, showing off. The train already just a dark distant groan. After you, he smiled, following slowly, struggling now to settle the unbalanced thing against his chest while the mother waited below to watch, perfect, as Melody climbed the whole long way up the high stairway, so quick and light and lovely.

I
T'S NOT LIKE
I
GAVE UP A LOT IN LEAVING
T
OKYO, BUT
I did forgo a few things I barely knew I counted on. My roommate, for instance, and our apartment in the Roppongi district. The tatami mat bedroom and the electric rice cooker. Who knew that rice was slimming? We were models, and then, so quickly, I was married. My husband three times my age, but handsome. Tall in the American fashion, his chest lifted up and wide. Not like the drooping tulip boys we left behind, not like old Stefan and Hec. Better to be thick-topped, compact, than bent over and complaining about a bad back every second of the day. Or debating the taste of vinegar and fish, good, bad. All of that is no longer relevant. And my roommate, Betsy, might have to find her own American husband now without my help.

At first Betsy was welcome at all my new husband's parties. Then, one morning after an impromptu sleepover she may have made an unsavory observation, maybe a sarcastic remark about
an important friend or client. Not that I was paying attention, I don't even know where she slept! But next thing I knew, my husband was saying, Out! And hustling her toward the foyer. She barely had time to find and grab her model's bag, a satchel full of every secret to keep us beautiful. She tracked all of that, and once she was gone, I had to learn to improvise. I'm still not even twenty, so I have options. But I miss her.

Betsy wouldn't much like it in Jakarta, it's hot. But there were compensations. I had my own compound, for instance, built of stone with marble floors even in the garage. The servants had a small wooden hut, without any floors, so it was very easy to tell who was who. I suspect this was where Betsy ran into trouble with my husband, saying whatever she thought to everyone. There was privacy in Jakarta, not that I was looking for that, I had no problem sharing a tatami with Betsy. At the compound I had a master's suite, a dressing room, and a terrace where I could sit naked because no one could possibly scale the twenty-foot wall, and since the air space was embargoed small planes and helicopters were out of the question.

I did get a quick thrill one day early on when a young servant, Mustache, ran through my private terrace with a machete. He was chasing the ratsies he said and held his hands wide so I understood the pressing nature of the hunt. Mustache seemed not to notice my breasts or the unusual pattern of my pubic hair—I liked to change it pretty frequently, but not as often as
Betsy!—he seemed blind to me, except to the notion of a superior being who required an explanation. He trembled not with lust—I really know the difference—but with fear.

You're okay, I said, but that wasn't enough. Okay! I barked, adding a haughty growl. He bowed his head, so like Stefan and Hec, though small and malnourished and brown-skinned. Okay! I said again, and he backed away. And I rested on my chaise. I put my ice water to my forehead. I had a nice little fantasy about the urgent reason for his surprising appearance, and poof, I came, with barely a tickle. A heat situation, I wanted to tell Betsy all about it, as if she might move after all for the crazy advantage. But it wouldn't last. Soon I was pregnant with twins, and an entire squad of Mustaches with machetes would leave me supine and quiescent. Big words. I'm starting to read my way out of here.

I like to think I made an impression on Dewi Sukarno and that's why I came to Jakarta at all. It happened right when Betsy became unmentionable. That morning, after showing Betsy the door, my husband waved my life management book before my eyes like a magician, slow backs and forths as if I wouldn't catch on right away. Then he walked to the balcony rail and with an overhand toss released it to destiny. There was a whole career in that book. I hoped some beautiful girl from Denmark with a knack for clearing her face of all expression, letting the textures and colors speak the human language, someone just like me, might pick it up and continue
where I left off. Like a torch passing, because I'd done some very jazzy work already.

But there was Dewi, in an off-white silk suit, her hair in a classic chignon, sipping an espresso. She watched my husband move in his long red kimono as if he was the center of a Noh drama. Yes, she hummed, and now she was looking at me, saying, Such a cute girl. I smiled, she smiled back. I winked, she looked startled. I told her the story of the baby fawn that appeared in the cottage the night I was born.

Speckled? she asked. Freckled! I said, no need to point out the constellation that covered my nose and cheeks. She's perfect, said Dewi to my husband. I'll put on some clothes, he said.

But neither Betsy nor Dewi showed up at my surprise nineteenth birthday party at the Jakarta Hilton. Dewi obviously I didn't know well, but Betsy would have been the best surprise of all. In the center salon of the penthouse, which occupied the entire top of the main building, an orchestra, with both Western and gamelan playlists, blasted tunes from a raised marble plinth. There was plenty of room but the music was mildly deafening so the party assembled on the covered wraparound terraces as wide as freeways. And also in the head-of-state dining room. Some sat for earnest conversation in deep leather bucket chairs in the long library, which had not a single book on the elaborately carved shelves. It's worth saying that everything in Jakarta is elaborately carved. My husband explained
the economics of woodwork. The cocktail bar of the Jakarta Hilton, for instance, had required more artisan laborers than St. Peter's Basilica in Rome. But they finished the whole thing in three weeks, not three centuries!

In the penthouse there was a back bedroom draped in various silks, large swooping swaths of fabric, held back, just barely, by silver dragon curlicues. There were actually four of these bedrooms, color coded. I chose red for the power of my birthday, and sat on the bed to make a phone call to Betsy back in good old Tokyo. No one would miss me at the party. No one actually knew me. Except Mustache who'd been hired to sit in a small chair by the front door doing nothing. The hotel operator was very polite, and when I told him my name, said, Happy Birthday, Fawn! Still, he regretted he could not connect my call. Party rules.