Good on Paper (14 page)

The fifth poem concerns the pleasure the narrator takes in artifice and orifice (
artifizio e orifizio
), and his concern, the perennial concern of the male lover, over his lady’s pleasure: Is it real or is it Memorex?

Charming. This was what Romei wanted to share about his wife? I couldn’t imagine why.

But I was troubled by something else. I went through the pages again—slowly—and counted seven images and ideas familiar from my stories: stone hitting bedroom window, woman helped off a bench, a first kiss to the back of the neck, roast chicken on a plate … They weren’t extraordinary, I held no patent. But still: coincidence?

Disgusted, I stuffed the pages into my folder and reached for last week’s puzzle. There was still the betrayal of the husband to look forward to.

I couldn’t wait.

•

My crossword was a patchy mess when I realized it was time to go home. I looked over at the playground to call Andi.

She wasn’t there.

She wasn’t running in circles, I couldn’t see her on the swings or on a seesaw. I couldn’t see her anywhere.

Andi! I shouted, grabbing my mom-bag, but leaving Romei’s pages, Andi’s shovel and pail on the bench. Andi! I screamed, and ran barefoot from the fountain. Andi! I screamed as I ran around the jungle gym.

And saw there, behind a tree, the edge of a Marimekko dress. And there, by the whirligig, a science girl, face hidden in her hands, counting to one hundred.

23

OH HAPPY DAY!

I was surprised on returning home to detect the unmistakable scent of an Oh Happy Day Cake. An upside-down macaroon concoction Joe made us on special occasions, as when Ahmad published another book or Andi found a dollar on the street. I guessed that this was yet more camp-graduation nonsense, but resolved to be chipper.

Tradition mandated that the cake be eaten
before
dinner, because that’s the way God intended it, and served with as many candles as the frosting could support, so that Andi, acting as proxy for the celebrant, could blow them out as a way of sharing the joy. Which she did tonight, in just four tries.

Hooray! we cried, and passed around slices, admiring the cake’s macaroon lightness, its admirable upside-downness. Then Ahmad stood and clinked his glass with a fork.

Friends, Romans, and country girls. I have an announcement.

Announcement? He must have heard from Mirabella. He must be about to tell Andi she has a brother—or rather, a half-brother half of the time.

A pause as he allowed suspense to build. Andi didn’t care: she was eating her cake.

I have decided, he said,… to buy a house!

A house?

You’re kidding! Where? I asked, thinking, let it not be Brooklyn! The Village would be a drag, but Brooklyn—impossible!

Connecticut! he said, and named a town, a hamlet known for its green lawns and polite Republicans. It was on the commuter line, but only barely.

Oh, an investment! I said. I was confused for a minute! Good thinking!

We’ll need a bigger place, he said, and looked at me meaningfully.

Have you …?

He shook his head one degree: he hadn’t heard from Mirabella.

But wait, I said, you want to move there? To
Connecticut
?

I’m hoping,
assuming
, that you’ll join us … me there. There will be lots of room.

You’re assuming
what
? I asked. We’ll move to
Connecticut
?

What’s Connecticut? Andi asked, having finished her cake.

A stupid place very far from here, I said. Nowhere you’d ever want to live.

A wonderful place very close to here, Ahmad said, looking at me in disbelief. With lots of kids, plenty of room in which to ride your bike …

I don’t have a bike.

We’ll get you a bike.

You’re not getting her a bike! Ahmad, that’s enough!

I want a bike! Andi cried.

Jesus, Ahmad! I understand that you might need … space, but Connecticut? We are not moving to Connecticut. You can find a bigger place here. What about the university?

They’ve already given me three bedrooms. If the number of my, uh, dependents goes up, technically we’d still only need three bedrooms. Given that you and I are …

I get it! We’ll figure something out.

I can’t buy an apartment big enough for us all, not even on my enormous professor’s salary. And last I knew, you weren’t able …

I
get
it! I said. We’ll rent. I’ll contribute.

In Forest Hills, maybe. If we have to go that far, I’d rather buy. Something nice. With space out back for a studio. And a pool, he added, looking at Andi.

A pool! Andi said.

Ahmad, we can’t just pick up and go!

I don’t think you’re trying to understand my situation.

I understand your situation but aren’t you acting a bit rashly, considering …

Ahmad’s face went hard.

Say it.

Nothing, Ahmad. Sorry. I didn’t mean it.

Considering I don’t know the outcome of
current events
?

I hope it works out, really I do! Why doesn’t he take my study?

Why doesn’t who take your study? Andi asked.

Ahmad shot me a warning look.

We’re just talking options, sweetie. Ahmad, we have a life here.

You
have a life here. If you can call it that.

If you can call it that? What’s that supposed to mean?

SuperTemps has a branch in Fairfield County, Ahmad said. I checked.

I stood, glaring. To Ahmad, I would always be underachieving Shira, Shira-going-nowhere, never-realizing-her-potential Shira. When I published stories, Ahmad didn’t like how I portrayed his precious Jonah. When I temped, he said I’d earn more translating for the UN. Nothing was good enough for his high-achieving highness, not even translator to the stars.

When do I get my bike? Andi asked.

We’ll talk about this later, I said, and began bringing dishes to the kitchen. No seconds for anyone—I was too angry.

Ahmad followed me to the kitchen.

That was snide of me, he said. I’m sorry. But you can’t actually expect Hassan to live in a pantry.

You’re not sorry, I said, slopping Tibetan takeout into bowls and bringing it to the table.

Andi, Ahmad said after we’d passed the food in silence, tell us a story from school.

So Andi talked about Pammy, who’d insisted that if Andi didn’t start wearing a bra
very
soon, her
bosoms
wouldn’t grow. Andi concluded that Pammy wasn’t quite “right in the head,” but she’d put up with her “for the moment.”

Ahmad laughed in all the right places.

Mo’ momos? he asked. Andi giggled.

Dump me momo dumplings! she exclaimed.

I got up with my plate; I’d had enough. Celebrating with an Oh Happy Day cake, as if it were a done deal! Did he no longer even feel the need to
consult
with me? Apparently not, because he knew what I’d say: Connecticut? It was unthinkable!

Moving was easy for Ahmad: he was attached to people, not places. Well, bully for him! With the exception of a few sad years in Suffern and some sadder years in Rome, I’d lived my whole life in Manhattan; it was the only home I’d ever known. I had no family left to speak of, other than what I’d managed to create for myself; I had only this city: New York was witness to most of my past, and the only place I could imagine myself—packing Andi’s lunch for Bronx Science, organizing Bloomsday pub crawls for the Translators of Note, bringing grandchildren to the planetarium, watching the lively world from Slice of Park, eventually joining the
alte kockers
on the Broadway island. When I tried to imagine going back to the ’burbs, I felt panic, as if the world had run out of air. As if I were still married, still oppressed by my husband’s unimaginative good intentions, anxiously comparing lawncare products at Herb Groh’s UGrohIt, saying silent prayers over stunted shrubbery. What could life offer me there, what could life offer us? A place where each day, if we played our cards right, would be just like the day before. I could never let Andi live like that, her horizon no farther than the next picket fence. Could I afford to support her here on my own? Of course not. Is that what Ahmad was counting on? Undoubtedly.

What were you thinking! I said, when he arrived in the kitchen with more dishes. Making a decision like that without consulting me! I am not a child—I have a life here!

We’d be better off there; Andrea would be better off there.

Why would you say that? Why would we be better off there?

Why wouldn’t we? he said, opening the dishwasher.

I started counting reasons on rubber-gloved fingers: museums, the Film Forum, the Balalaika. What’s in Connecticut? Lyme disease, off-road vehicles that never leave the road …

Good schools, Ahmad said, counting on his fingers. Parks not overrun by rats …

Connecticut
? Connecticut isn’t ready for the likes of us!

That’s bollocks, and you know it. I’d think you’d be willing to do this one thing for me. After all I’ve done for you.

All you’ve done for me? You did me a favor by letting me give you a family?

It’s time for a change, Shira. You’re in a rut! We both are. Andi needs role models who can show her how to change, take risks.

You think living in Connecticut is a good example of risk-taking? I shouted.

Ahmad was maddeningly calm. This was how he worked his opponents into a lather. I was no exception. As if on cue, Andi arrived in the kitchen wearing her Supergirl pajamas and clutching Tamika, her African American Orthodontist Barbie. Ahmad growled and chased her around the kitchen. She squealed as he picked her up and held her upside down by the ankles.

Six points if you don’t laugh, he shouted, and she tried, with Supergirl resolution.

Good night, Angel, I said, kissing her feet, then turned half upside down to kiss her nose. Who’s going to give you your story tonight? I asked, thinking,
Pick me! Pick me!

Ahmad! she shouted. Get me down from here!

Ahmad flew her out of the room like a 320 Airbus, my little flying girl, and I stayed behind and cried: big tears, plop, plop into the Palmolive.

24

MYSTIC CLAM SHACK

Over oatmeal the next morning, Ahmad explained Andi’s options: she could hang out all day doing nothing or she could have extremely good fun with him
on an outing
.

This is what’s known in the kid business as a no-brainer.

What should she bring? Andi wanted to know. Bag lunch? Shovel and pail? Should she wear play clothes or dress up, should Mommy curl her hair or braid it?

Ahmad put down his cup, appeared to concentrate. Wear the Gap Kids overalls I bought you, and that green and pink flowered T-shirt. Sneakers. Braids, no curls. Ritz Bits in a baggie. One Ho Ho, pre-wrapped. Two dolls, your choice. And books for the car.

Topeka! Andi cried, jumping up. We’re going on an excursion!

Ahmad had a 1986 Mercedes SLE, with leather seats and a faux-wood dashboard, which he stored at great expense and rarely drove. Andi hopped in circles and shouted again, We’re going on an excursion! We’re going on an excursion! Then ran out of the room to get dressed.

You can come, too, Ahmad said, in what sounded like an afterthought.

I didn’t think so. Ahmad’s excursions usually involved traveling to outer boroughs to find curry ingredients he could just as easily find in Manhattan or driving along Riverside Drive so Andi could count boats on the Hudson. Then they’d find themselves in a park so Ahmad
could read economics journals and Andi could play. Not my idea of a good time. Besides, I had work to do.

I spent that morning considering Romei’s first poem, looking for antecedents in his early books. I’d been right: every line was a fragment of an earlier poem. He’d employed his earlier “anti-narrative” poems to tell a story—of how Esther refilled his inkless pen, allowing him to write “anti-narrative” poems. Twisted!

I had already read all the pages Romei had sent me, I’d read them carefully more than once. It was time to “trot” the work: I’d retype the original, leaving five or six spaces between each line, then handwrite a quick “literal” translation above each line, adding towers of alternative translations above problem words, which is to say most words. I’d use different colored highlighters to note difficult phrases or lines I didn’t fully understand. If its rhythm was complex, I might scan the work, or I might note its rhyme pattern. On the back, I’d make notes about possible approaches, which elements seemed most important, what the author was getting at; I’d also start a
leitwort
lexicon, for key words that appeared several times. I’d end up with an indecipherable page, full of color, ornament, and scrawl, which I’d then throw away so I could get down to the real business of translation, trusting that everything I’d noted had sunk into my cells, available when I needed it.