The Hunchback of Neiman Marcus (22 page)

I wake up drenched

at 3 a.m.,

thinking,

Oh, no…not again…

Wrestling with my blanket

like a rabid beast,

writhing

in tangled smoking sheets,

I keep on reminding

myself while I thrash:

no one ever died

of a hot flash.

And rush out of the bedroom

into the luscious cool of the October night

and—ahhhhhh…

I spread my arms wide,

letting the chilly air envelop me…

And that's when I hear it—

Clementine's shrill cry,

piercing the stillness

like a siren.

How well I remember that newborn bleat—

the way it gripped me,

rattled me, possessed me

till I somehow managed

to figure out what is was

that Samantha wanted…

I'd forgotten how it felt

to be woken up every two hours,

every single night…

I'd forgotten how it felt

to be so sleep-deprived that I

brushed my teeth with Michael's hair gel…

so exhausted

that my eyes felt like they were

sinking into my head…

so out-of-it

that I couldn't even form

a sentence…

And suddenly,

I reach an astounding conclusion:

I am glad…no—

I am positively
delighted

that my baby-making days

are over!

Michael and I spend the morning

digging a hole

where our tree once stood.

Then, together,

we plant a
new
one—

a ginkgo tree.

We chose the ginkgo

because it's highly resistant

to root rot.

And because

we fell in love

with its fan-shaped leaves

which, at this time of year, turn a golden yellow

and shimmer on their branches

like flocks of buttery moths.

Some say

the seed of the ginkgo tree

is an aphrodisiac.

Some claim

it helps ward off memory loss

and dementia.

Some consider ginkgo trees,

which have been around for 270 million years,

to be “living fossils.”

When I tell

Samantha this,

she says, “Just like
you
!”

After Michael has presented me

with a beautiful painting of Samantha,

and cooked me an exquisite lunch,

I head over to Jane's with some cake.

Even before the door swings open

I can hear the chaos within—Pinkie yapping,

Madison throwing a whopper of a tantrum,

the baby howling its head off.

Jane greets me, bleary-eyed,

with her frenzied babe in her arms,

a half-hearted smile on her face.

“It's my birthday,” I say, offering the cake.

She invites me in, murmuring apologies

for the noise and for the state of her kitchen.

“Don't be silly,” I say.

“You've got both hands full!”

I walk over to the shrieking Madison

and kneel down in front of her.

“I've brought some birthday cake,” I say.

She eyes the plate and stops bawling.

“Babies can't eat cake,” I say.

“But big girls can. Would you like some?”

Madison wipes her dripping nose

on the back of her hand and nods solemnly.

“I want da piece wit da rose,” she sniffs.

I find a fork and settle her at the kitchen table.

Next, I turn my attention to Jane and the baby,

who's still screaming bloody murder.

“Can I hold her for a minute?” I ask.

Without a moment's hesitation,

Jane pops her infant into my arms

and flops down onto the couch.

And because,

unlike Jane,

I'm not tense and worn out and frazzled—

Clementine hushes instantly.

I rock her in my arms,

gazing into her calm eyes,

feeling the strength of her tiny fingers

hanging on to my thumb,

and decide, then and there,

that from now on I'll be coming over here

to hold this child for Jane

at least once a day.

That should satisfy me

until I become a grandmother.

Which, God willing,

won't be anytime soon.

Samantha just emailed me a link

to an amazing article about

a recently discovered ancient African tribe

called the Mamalasu,

which, until six months ago,

had been hidden away in the misted depths

of a lush ferned forest

somewhere in Eastern Gabon.

Anthropologists have learned

that the Mamalasu men

believe wrinkles are the sacred handprints

of the gods of good fortune—

so the older and more lined

a Mamalasu woman becomes

the more she is desired

by the men in the village.

The more her breasts sag—

a symbol of her gaining

the supreme wisdom

of the all-knowing ancestors—

the more the men of the tribe

yearn to lie with her beneath the dappled light

of the Moon Mother, while the talking drums

beat their chants into the night.

The young men especially,

their bodies toned and sleek

from the many hours

they spend hunting for food,

vie for a chance

to couple with these women,

whose white hair is thought to be a sign

of the soul's deepest enlightenment.

They run their fingertips

over the shrunken bellies

of these old women,

and are said to feel a stirring in their loins

so powerfully charged

with the animal spirit

that they are often overcome

with unbridled lust…

Is it

any wonder

I am thinking

of moving there?

You knew I was kidding, right?

That I made that whole Mamalasu thing up?

But you found it surprisingly simple

to suspend your disbelief, didn't you?

Well, to tell you the truth, so did I.

Even while I was inventing them.

But each of us believes

what we want to believe.

So let's choose to believe

that the Mamalasu are real.

And, then,

let's take it a step further—

let's allow ourselves to believe

that we are Mamalasu women

and that our husbands and lovers

are Mamalasu men.

From this day forth,

let's think of our aging bodies

as temples

of ever-increasing desirability.

A first

in the annals

of college history:

the freshman

sends a care package

to the parents!

We open the box and find a plastic bag

filled with oak leaves—

fiery gold, crimson, and amber.

We dig deeper and discover

two matching hooded sweatshirts,

emblazoned with the name of Samantha's school,

plus some dark chocolates for Michael,

some caramels for me,

and some catnip for Secret.

And,

at the very bottom of the box,

there's a photo of our daughter—

cheek to cheek with Monkey,

both of them grinning

their goofiest grins.

I reach in,

lift out the photo,

and press it to my heart.

Is it a good sign if you find

that you've lost interest in looking up

all your old boyfriends on Facebook?

And that instead of getting pissed off

when you're offered the senior discount,

you're happy to save a few bucks?

And that, these days, you don't even have to

come face to face with your own mortality

before you'll sit down and write?

Is it a good sign if, now and then,

when you think about your mother,

you feel strangely at peace?

And that if you hear the neighbor's daughter

singing “Now I Know My ABCs”

you feel only the slightest twinge?

And that instead of feeling the need

to write yet another “bad sign” poem,

you find yourself writing

this
poem?

All of us

were young once.

And for each of us

there was a certain afternoon.

An afternoon when we were

as beautiful as we'd ever been,

as beautiful

as we'd ever get—

and not one of us

knew that it was happening.

All of us

are older now.

And for each of us

there will be a certain afternoon.

An afternoon

when we will pass by a mirror

and see that the last bit of youthful beauty

has fluttered from our faces.

And on that afternoon,

our hearts and our minds

will finally be old enough

and wise enough—

not to give

a flying fuck.

Yesterday,

I read a very funny book

about how not to act old.

But I have made an executive decision

to go right ahead and
act
old—

old and
hip.

On the day I turn seventy,

I will not be dying my hair powder blue.

I will be dying it magenta.

(That is,

if I have any hair
left

on the day I turn seventy.)

I am never going to wear

a pair of old lady shoes.

No matter how thick my ankles get.

I am going to flirt

till I'm too weak

to wink.

I am going to become the old woman

who all the
young
women hope they'll be like

when
they
get old.

I am not

going to grow old

gracefully.

I

am going to grow old

dis
gracefully!

No,

thanx!

I hop onto

my bike,

ride down

to the empty beach,

walk across the sand,

and climb onto lifeguard station #3.

I pull up the hood

on my new sweatshirt,

rest my back

against the faded blue boards,

and watch the waves curling onto the shore,

shedding their misty coats as they crash.

Then I reach into my bag

and pull out

my completed

manuscript.

And begin

reading my work aloud,

listening to the rhythm of the poems

mingling with the rhythm of the waves…

And most of what I hear,

I like.

Then, when I've finished,

I close my eyes,

letting the astonishing
done
ness of it

wash over me like a salty breeze.

And when I open my eyes again,

and look out at the ocean,

I see

a whole family of dolphins—

spinning on their tails

just for me.

She says that she thinks

my manuscript is amazing—

and that is was totally worth waiting for.

She says she's talking

to her publisher about positioning it

as the lead title on their fall list.

She says she's pushing

to have it featured

on the cover of the catalog.

She says she's trying

to get the marketing department

to spring for a ten-city book tour.

I always knew Roxie was a good kid.