The Hunchback of Neiman Marcus (10 page)

Is it a bad sign

if the only thing

that can actually get you

to sit down

at your computer

and write

is the thought

of your own

mortality?

And I finally
finally
find

the exact right word—

I feel as though

I've been trudging though the sand

all day long

under a seething sun,

the soles of my feet

melting,

the sweat pouring from me

like beads of mercury,

staring out at the sun-starred water,

scanning for dolphins,

and, suddenly, I've caught sight

of a sleek gray fin breaking the surface.

And I
can't
find the exact right word

(or even a halfway
decent
word)

I feel as though I'm trying

to light a fire.

I surround the dry logs

with crisp fists of newspaper,

touch a match to them,

and watch them flare up like greased torches.

But when the blazing paper turns to cinder,

I see that the logs are barely smoldering.

So I crumple up more newspaper, and more—

a whole Sunday
Times
worth,

lighting it and relighting it…

blowing, stirring, stoking…

But no matter how fiercely I fan

those first flickering antlers of flame,

no matter how hard I coax

those gasping yellow-gold ghosts,

the damn fire

just won't catch.

Worn out by this business

of always having to see things

with “fresh new eyes.”

Just once I'd like to sit by the fire

without trying to figure out how to describe it

in a way that no one else ever has before.

I'm tired of meter, tired of form,

tired of rhyme, tired of off-rhyme,

tired of repetition, tired of metaphors—

those wild…somethings

that never fail to fly south for the winter

just when I need them most.

I am rife with,

no…overrun with,

no…bursting with

the boredom,

the monotony,

the tedium

of constantly

having to look up words

in my thesaurus.

I'm fed up with allusion,

alienated by allegory,

allergic to alliteration.

But I'm especially tired of similes—

those sneaky figures of speech

that ceaselessly elude me,

just as

they're eluding me

right now

on this cloudy morning

that's like…

a cloudy morning.

I've had it up to here

with trying to invent yet another original way

to say “I'm really sad.”

I'm not as melancholy as the song

of the mateless mockingbird,

I'm just plain miserable—

miserable

and sick and tired

of being a poet.

I'm sick and tired of being a jealous wife, too—

a wife who's been reduced

to sneaking glances at every “to do” list

my husband leaves lying around.

Like the one I saw just now that said:

“buy new brushes”

and “pick up canvas”

and “call B.”

But what the hell

am I supposed to think

when I see something like that?

I mean, what would
you
think?

I'm sick and tired of being a jealous wife—

a wife who's been reduced

to spending her days

Googling detective agencies

when what she
ought
to be doing is writing.

I'm sick and tired

of being

a daughter, too.

But I guess I shouldn't have admitted that.

It makes me sound

like a hideously ungrateful wretch.

Because, I mean, that poor woman,

who's been going more and more bonkers

from those massive steroid injections,

that poor woman,

who calls me twenty times a day

from her hospital bed,

is the very same woman who taught me

to tie my shoes and snap my fingers

and ride a bike,

who fed me vats of homemade chicken soup,

and read me
Horton Hears a Who!

till it must have been coming out of her ears,

and played Go Fish with me

till we were both

practically brain-dead.

That poor woman, who Coppertoned me

and Calamined me and VapoRubbed me

in the middle of so many nights—

she deserves

better

than me.

I feel burdened and bitter and

selfish and saddled and

surly and rankled and

ravaged and rattled and

battered and buried and

pummeled and tackled and

testy and trampled and

needled and shackled and

seethey and swiney and

whiny and wilty and

guilty, guilty,

guilty, guilty!

Like I'm being sucked into the vortex

of a vicious downward spiral

that's spinning me straight to hell,

I can't help wishing

that someone,

anyone,

would just pull me over

and arrest me

for being too damn hormonal.

But then I'd just be

too damn hormonal

in jail.

Even if I
weren't
hormonal right now,

(which, of course, I totally
am)

I'd have plenty of reasons

to be seriously bummed—

Roxie's been bearing down on me

like a guided missile,

my mother's so nuts

she thinks she's dating Elvis,

my daughter's getting ready

to leave me,

and I'm pretty sure

Michael is, too.

Though Alice insists

I'm wrong about this.

But even if Alice is right

(which I highly doubt),

I've got
plenty
of reasons

to be seriously bummed.

And—

wait a minute…

Omigod…

is that what I
think
it is?

A moving truck

just pulled up next door.

Nooooooooooooooooooo!

Why couldn't it have been

a lovely deaf couple who speak

to each other in sign language?

Or maybe

some nice quiet Tibetan monks

who meditate 24/7?

Or a pair

of retired mimes

who've taken a vow of silence?

Why did it have to be

Duncan and Jane

(a drummer and a trumpet player),

plus a yappy poodle named Pinkie

and a tantrum-prone toddler

named Madison?

Any
one could have moved into that house.

Once you get to know her

Madison's not so bad.

In fact, she's pretty darn lovable

when she isn't kicking and screaming.

I didn't notice it

when we went over there

to bring them some butterscotch brownies

on the day they moved in,

but Madison looks

a
lot
like Samantha did at that age—

with that same sweet storm

of wild brown curls,

those same

irresistible peachy cheeks…

The only problem with this is

that every time I glance into their yard

and happen to see Jane

pulling her daughter in for a nuzzly hug,

I remember how

my
own
two-year-old felt…

those warm pudgy arms of hers

circling me like a wreath…

that soft soft skin

on her neck…

I remember how she used to grab hold

of each of my ears

then lean in and plant sloppy kisses

on the tip of my nose…

And every time

I remember these things

my heart shatters

like a glass bell rung too hard.

I've got to wrap the nightgown

I just bought my mom for Mother's Day,

then rush to the post office before it closes.

But I can't find

my freaking scissors.

I
never
can find them.

Because Michael's always

borrowing them for his collages

and then forgetting to return them.

I call him on his cell to tell him

to bring my scissors downstairs—now!

But it goes to his voice mail.

So I slam out of my office,

fume across the yard,

and mutter my way up the stairs to his studio,

the thunder

of Duncan's warpath drums

mimicking my mood.

But I can see,

through the window,

that he's talking to someone

on the phone—

to someone

who's making him laugh…

someone who seems to be

charming the pants right off of him…

When I push open the door,

he hangs up fast,

whips his cell out of sight,

and shoves it into his back pocket.

“What's up?” he asks,

his face suddenly as blank

as a slate wiped clean—

a study in nonchalance.

What's
up?

I'd sure like to
know!

But if I ask my husband

who he was talking to—

I'm afraid he might tell me.

He mumbles an apology

for forgetting to return them

and starts rummaging through the chaos.

A moment later,

he cries, “Eureka!”

and pops my scissors into my hand.

I thank him gruffly, avoiding eye contact,

then get the heck out of there—

telling myself, as I dash down the stairs,

that, surely, there's a logical explanation

for the way he rushed off the phone

when I came in…

I wrap the nightgown for my mother,

in a sort of numbed zombie state,

then race off to the post office,

my thoughts boiling

like a sauce in a pot

with the heat turned up too high.

Maybe

Michael wasn't talking

to who I
think
he was talking to.

I mean,

it could have been anyone.

Right?

Or maybe I'm just kidding myself.

Maybe I'm just as blind

as all those wives you
hear
about—

the ones who think their husbands

are the straightest arrows ever,

right up until the day they run off

with the sexy mother

of one of their daughter's

BFFs.

She looks as if

she's undergoing

chemotherapy.

The bees

have stopped humming

in her branches.

The squirrels

no longer seek

her company.

Even

the doves

have deserted her.

Samantha writes a parody

of an
E! True Hollywood Story—

about
me
!

Each insulting private joke

makes me laugh harder

than the one before it.

But when I call my own mother

to tell her I love her, she says, “Who
is
this?”

And she isn't kidding.

I suck in a breath.

My heart feels like

an anchor has pierced it through.

Who
is
this?

Come on, Mom.

It's
me
—Holly—

the one you used to whistle for

when it was time to come home

for dinner,

the one who always kept her ear cocked

listening for that whistle,

its minor key soaring over
olly olly oxen free…

that whistle

that I hated

and that I yearned for,

that whistle

that could always find me,

that seemed to sing my name,

making me feel safe,

feel loved,

feel remembered.