Parts Unknown (12 page)

“Sounds like you’re keeping busy,” I said, smiling.

“Don’t I know it. I was wondering, have you heard from Alex lately?”

“No, not for a while. You know how he is, always in the middle of something. Just like you. He’s working at Morgan Stanley these days.”

“I wish he would call sometimes,” Mom said softly.

I knew he wouldn’t.

 “Anyhow—” her voice brightened. “How’s my little Lucy?”

“She’s fine. She’s been pretending to be farm animals this week. I think today she’s a pig.”

I handed the phone to Lucy, who made oinking noises. I heard Mom’s voice distantly with a cooing sound in it that she only used with Lucy. It was like she’d been saving all her love—years’ worth of love—just for her grandchild. I was a little jealous of Lucy sometimes; my parents never spoke like that to me.  But grateful, too: Lucy brought us all together. She was the one thing we finally had in common. And the one way Mom had found to make amends. Phone calls, twice weekly. Christmas and birthday presents. Never an apology, but she was showing, by what she did, that she was sorry. Not making amends for me or Alex, but for Lucy. It was, in fact, more than I would have expected.

“Bye, Gamma,” Lucy finished, and I got back on the line. “Is Marty around?”

“He’s holed up in his room, I’m sure. I haven’t seen him all day. How is George doing?” Mom’s voice faded in and out as she carried the cordless phone up the stairs.

“Same as usual. He’s got a lot going on this semester. He comes home so late—I’m just counting the days till summer vacation.”

“Say hi to him for me,” Mom said coolly. “Well! You’ll be visiting this summer, won’t you?”

“Uh—sure. Not sure when.”

We visited my family grudgingly, twice a year, once in the summer, once during Christmas, and only for Lucy’s benefit. George had pegged my parents right off the first time they’d met for dinner years ago. I saw his eyes glaze over about two minutes into my mom’s detailed description of the massive kitchen renovation she was planning, which I knew would never occur because the cost would be too high. But she loved to talk about it, and had been describing her dream kitchen, in fact, for years. Seeing his slightly curled nostril as he looked down at his soup bowl, I felt relieved. We could stay away, then. I could finally stop coming home.

“Here he is,” she was saying, and then, “Goodbye, Vivian. I’ll call Lucy again on Sunday.” Not me. Lucy.

The crazed child Marty had been had turned into an morose teenager. He fit right into the family now, that was for sure. He spoke in monosyllables, if at all, but we had a weird kind of rapport these days.

“Hey, bro,” I offered. “What’s the news?”

“Painted my room,” he replied.

“Oooh, that’s nice. What color?”

“Black.”

“Good for you,” I said. “How’re the drums?”

“Good. Been practicing a lot. Mom hates it.”

“I bet. That’s why you do it, right?”

He snickered softly. “Is everything okay over there?” I asked seriously.

“You know. It’s always the same.”

“Don’t I know it,” I agreed. “It’s always the same here too. Well, we’ll see if we can visit soon.”

“Like that’s going to happen.”

I laughed uncomfortably. “Well, come on down and visit us. I know how much you love harassing Lucy. Just don’t dangle her upside-down over the outside banister like you did last time.”

“I wasn’t going to drop her!”

“I know. George was about to kill you, though.”

“Alright, alright. Would’ve been a good fight though: two skinny nerds battle to the death.”

“Oh, shut up. I’ve gotta go put Lucy to sleep. Good-bye, Marty.” Then, tentatively: “I love you.”

He grunted and handed the phone back to Mom. But it was a start.

I had never told George about Uncle Paulie, but this had been his gift to me: with him, as I had been in my childhood bedroom, I felt absolutely safe. He would take care of me, and nothing could hurt me. I was Rapunzel, happy in my tower, a dizzying height away from the monsters and dragons lurking beneath. And I wanted to be there, my days planned, everything fallen into place, and I didn’t have to do a thing. George took care of it all. All I had to do was be there.

I missed Alex terribly, though. He had never come home. He never called them, he never e-mailed, and he had vowed to me that he never would. And he and I could still not speak except in inconsequential pleasantries, locked in memories we each could not escape.

~ ~ ~

It was Sunday night, and we were dining at Madame’s, as we did every week. George’s Volvo had ferried us to many a miserable meal in Madame’s large, unkempt house. George’s mother had never warmed to me. She’d once been a high-school French teacher in the LA city schools, and even though she’d been born and bred in Los Angeles, she affected a French accent and called herself Madame Anglin. I did, too, out of politeness at first, and then—because she never stopped me and said, “Oh, please, call me Mom!”—Madame it still was.

George’s Volvo was so safe—perfect to drive Lucy around in, when she was born. In fact, as soon as Lucy was home from the hospital, George presented me with a surprise gift: a used Volvo, twin of his silver one, just as boxy, just as practical, nearly as old. I was thrilled—no one had ever given me a car before! And dismayed—what was I supposed to do with my ancient, beloved, Kharmann Ghia? She was completely unreliable, and about as large as a postage stamp—but she was bright orange, the color of California poppies in springtime. And she was mine, all mine. She had been my first car, and I’d named her Angelina. This boxy Volvo was the kind of car that you just didn’t name. I tried, but the only name that I could imagine for it was “Isosceles.”

It was less than two miles to Madame’s house, but as each block passed, Lucy’s boisterous chatter lessened until, by the time we arrived at Madame’s, she was silent, still, and wide-eyed, as if by magic. I didn’t need to instruct her anymore, as I used to on the way there. She knew exactly what to do, by heart:

Do not play Grand-mère’s piano.

Do not touch the pretty glass people on the shelves.

Do not run.

Sit quietly in your seat and only speak when Grand-mère speaks to you.

Never forget to give Grand-mère a hug and kiss when you leave.

For a three-year-old who existed on the tenuous verge of reason, one might think that these rules would be impossible to follow. But Lucy lived in mortal terror of her Grand-mère’s wrath, which had occurred only once in her presence, upon the breaking of a particularly treasured Lladro figurine. At Grand-mère’s, she was silent as a thick beige carpet, and just as still and characterless.

We pulled in front of Madame’s house on Las Palmas. The large, vaguely Mediterranean-style home was, incongruously, painted pink, with light-blue trim and matching blue bars on the windows. It had, apparently, already been this color when Madame had moved into the house nearly forty years before, and would remain so until the paint chipped off completely. She had passed her frugal nature on to her son, and avoided any unneeded expense aside from maintaining her extensive Lladro collection.

They didn’t build houses like this anymore. This was a grand old home, built in the 1920s and purchased when real estate was still affordable enough that George’s father, an orthopedic surgeon at the old Cedars of Lebanon Medical Center, could buy it for less than $100,000 in the late 1960s. Now the former Cedars of Lebanon had been transformed into a church of Scientology, and houses in this neighborhood sold for millions of dollars. But you could always tell the homes of the elderly, with their fading, bizarre paint colors, and their landscape of blighted lawn and imperfectly sheared foundation shrubs. In these homes, old women bided their time, and waited, and planned.

There was a specific ritual upon arriving at Madame’s house. Lucy would ring the tarnished brass doorbell, and Madame would open the door after a proper sixty-second pause. Everyone would present a cheek to be kissed, and one of us would always comment on how fine she was looking that evening. Then Madame would crouch down, and would say some variation of: “George, she’s growing so tall. And doesn’t she look just like her father.”

As a matter of fact, Lucy had George’s hair, but my face shape, and was quite small, like me. I always offered a strained smile, and George always said proudly, “Doesn’t she, though.”

Then we trooped into the living room, which was an homage to late-1960s style. The sofas in the grand living room—a room nearly as large as our apartment—were crafted of some nubby ochre-colored early polyester blend from the 1960s; they were excruciatingly uncomfortable, and seemed to be filled with bags of sand instead of stuffing. Flanking the hideous sofas were two wing-backed chairs featuring bright floral patterns on a white background. They were encased in custom-made plastic covers that were never removed. It was important to avoid those chairs during hot summer days, because Madame’s house had no air conditioning and bare legs would stick to the plastic. Getting up was akin to pulling off a Band-aid.

I held Lucy’s hand for moral support and carefully settled us on the sofa. Madame had placed a cut-glass tray with drinks on the coffee table—apple juice with a straw for Lucy, and glasses of rosé for me and George. We clinked glasses. “To family,” George said jovially. He sat across from me and Lucy, next to his mother, and rubbed her hand affectionately. “I missed you, Mother. It’s been a long week—I thought Sunday would never get here.”

She gazed at him adoringly. “I keep busy, too, but I always look forward to Sundays.” Her gaze settled, more or less, in an air pocket between me and Lucy. “And always so lovely to see your beautiful family. Now—eat—I put out a little appetizer here. And I’ll just go see about dinner.” She rustled off into the next set of rooms.

We nibbled on stale Wheat Thins and a strange vegetarian pâté that Madame purchased weekly, without fail, at the Erewhon health food market.  She had put out cubes of cheddar for Lucy. As soon as Madame disappeared into the kitchen, Lucy dunked the cheese into her apple juice, choking back giggles. She followed the rules of her Grand-mère’s house to the letter, but reverted briefly to her usual self as soon as Madame’s back was turned. I gave her a covert grin of solidarity, and hastily crumbled some pâté so it looked like I’d eaten more than I actually had.

Now was my cue to offer to help. Leaving George with Lucy, I dragged my feet to the kitchen, as if heading to trial. “Madame, the pâté was delicious, as usual. Can I help you out in here?” She turned, her heavily mascaraed eyes widening, giving her the appearance of a sly raccoon. “Oh, no, it’s fine, I’ve got everything under control in here!” she said brightly, struggling with a large round cast iron pot.

“No really, can I help you with that?” I pleaded. It was clearly too heavy for her. But, her back turned, she shook her head energetically. Her hair was dyed the same jet black as her mascara, and she kept it girlishly long, always wound into a large, loose bun at the back of her head.

“Oh, no, go enjoy yourself. I’m fine, really.” Only family members were honored with the privilege of helping her with dinner. I asked every week; every week she said no. I returned to the living room, shoulders sagging. Madame was making far louder clattering sounds in the kitchen than was necessary.

George walked toward the kitchen and Lucy and I to the dining room. We sat silently at the table, waiting to be served. I rubbed her shoulder reassuringly. The long table had seating for ten, and the four of us were always scrunched up at one end of the table—Madame at the head, of course, in the regal chair with armrests. George always sat to one side of Madame, Lucy to the other. My chair was that house’s equivalent of Siberia—next to Lucy, two seats away from the matriarch. Fortunately, it meant I had far fewer dinnertime responsibilities, conversation-wise, than Lucy and George, and was free to gaze at the vintage mural opposite me. It dated from early in the house’s history, and was actually hand-painted wallpaper, rolled onto the wall in sequence to form a scene. In the scene, men and ladies from an indeterminate era that appeared to combine horseback riding with motor cars were undertaking some sort of journey. The ladies wore numerous diaphanous layers of clothing; the men were dapper in knee breeches and shiny top hats. The strange thing about some of the ladies was that, riding sidesaddle, either their veils were covering their faces, or they were riding with their backs to the scene, so you could only see their streaming head coverings. But why would they cover their faces with those colorful layers? And why, in contrast, were all the men looking straight out at the viewer? And if the ladies’ backs were turned, what exactly were they looking at in the distance? I had puzzled over these mysteries for many previous Sundays, and continued to do so this evening, falling into a brief stupor as my eyes, glazed, gazed inwards.

George clattered through the swinging door leading from the kitchen, bearing steaming plates: one with a lone slice of potato on it, for Lucy (the only white component of the meal), the other for me. I assessed the gray piece of pot roast; the festively colored mix of peas and carrots, clearly previously frozen; and the sliced, boiled potatoes. Madame liked to make a big deal, both of cooking for us, and of displaying that she made do with only the bare necessities on a fixed income.

At dinner, Madame first turned to Lucy, whose face was pale and set. “Lucy:
comment ça va
?”

Lucy, having been posed this simple, inane question weekly by Madame, knew the answers by heart: “
Ca va bien, grand-mère
.”

“
Et ton école—tu l’aime
?”

“
Oui, grand-mère, je l’aime
.”

“
Et moi
?”—Coquettishly. “
Tu m’aime
?”

“
Oui, grand-mère, je t’aime
!”

Madame beamed. From inside her plaid housecoat, she produced a crumbling shortbread cookie, from last year’s crop of Girl Scout cookies, and handed it to Lucy. My daughter was flushed with pride. She had to take this exam every week, and the penalty was the withdrawal of her grand-mère’s love, a dulled look in Madame’s eyes as she turned to George. My heart would ache for Lucy, those weeks when she tripped up her French—or more precisely, for myself, because the look in Madame’s eyes would imply: you’re going to be a failure, just like your mother.