Tales From the Crib (35 page)
Adding to the list of Anjoli’s changes was that she not only agreed to take Adam to the Central Park Zoo last summer,
she
was the one who suggested it. When I was a child, she said the zoo was dull. “The animals don’t even
do
anything, darling,” she explained. “I’ll get tickets for you and your father to go to the circus this Sunday. The lions will do tricks instead of simply standing around and growling.
That’s
supposed to be entertainment?!” Thirty years later, she realized that children love to see animals, and the entertainment for the adults was witnessing the look of delight and discovery in a child’s eyes.
When Anjoli and Adam returned from their days at the zoo last summer, my mother was a bit miffed because a goat ate a Playbill that was sticking out from her purse. “What in my consciousness attracted
that
interaction?!” she asked Jack and me, who were waiting at my mother’s apartment.
“What?” Jack asked, not because he didn’t hear her, but because he wanted to clarify what she meant. And truth be told, I’m sure he understood exactly what she meant, but delighted in having her repeat it. He said that getting to hear all of Anjoli’s new age musings added to the benefits package of this marriage. Meaning, he enjoyed laughing at my mother’s frivolity. It was just one of the many things we shared in common.
She repeated, “What in my consciousness attracted that animal?”
“Mother, it’s a goat. You had paper hanging out of your purse. Goats eat paper,” I said, nudging Jack with my elbow.
“Darlings, several people had paper in their possession!” she explained.
Jack rested back in the couch, hoping this conversation would continue. “How close were you to the gate?”
“Who knows?” Anjoli said, shooing with her hand. “Who pays attention to that sort of thing? I don’t know, a foot, three feet? Ten feet? Somewhere around there.”
“Anjoli,” Jack said, laughing. “If a goat ate from your purse, you must have been pretty close to its enclosure.”
I added, “What were you doing when the goat took the Playbill, Mother?”
“I don’t know. Alfie called and said there was some sort of problem with the credit card machine at the store. I guess I was near the goat cage.”
Mocking Perry Mason, Jack added, “Was your bag zipped, Anjoli?”
“Zipped?” she said as though she’d never heard of the concept.
He continued, “Or was it wide open like it is now?” He rushed over to her purse and held it up as if he were presenting Exhibit A to the ladies and gentlemen of the jury. “Look at this bag. There are two take-out menus, a day planner, five sheets of loose paper, and a pack of tissues. You’ve got a regular goat feedbag here.” By this time, Anjoli was laughing her silent inhale of a laugh. Jack continued. “I must argue that it was not, in fact, your consciousness that attracted said goat, but rather the paper, paper, paper tempting, taunting, dare I say
inviting
any normal red-blooded goat to help himself to the contents of your purse!” Anjoli laughed and declared herself guilty of being a flake.
Jack was such fun these days. It’s hard to imagine that just three years earlier we almost divorced. My cousin Richard always says that everyone has two marriages, but the lucky ones get to have them both with the same person. Jack’s and my marriage was far from seamless, but it was definitely experiencing a renaissance. Appropriately enough he’s a painter. And my body is pale and doughy.
As I thought back to the day last summer when Anjoli’s Playbill was snatched from her purse by the goat at the zoo, I hoped that she’d be more careful now that Paz was her cargo.
Of course, at the core, Anjoli was the same goddess of her own universe. She still dabbled in every new age healing workshop New York offered. When Jack and I first moved in to our new place, Anjoli offered her “space-clearing” services to us as a housewarming gift. She’d just completed a six-week ghost-busting class and danced around the house burning sage incense and ringing tingsha bells in every corner. For Christmas she gave us a refresher cleansing, using the techniques she recently learned at an advanced space-clearing class in Los Angeles. She chanted and blew high-pitch notes through a thin bamboo flute-like instrument. Jack and I learned long ago to just roll our eyes and thank her. There was no use fighting Anjoli and her magical thinking. She was convinced that all old homes were potential apparition hotels, and insisted she save us from some crotchety dead colonial dude with an ax to grind. Jack and I just shrugged and let her chant away while our neighbors sang “Silent Night” at the doorstep. She is odd for sure, but she’s my mother. Plus, what harm could she do?
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