The first night in Missoula, Jessica and I found each other and became partners in cynicism about this whole weird commune idea our parents dreamt up. We each bet on how long it would last, and how it would end. My ten dollars said the animals would all run away right after eating all the vegetables. One year tops. Jess thought the adults would all get on each other’s nerves within six months, and we’d go our separate ways by Christmas.
Our hope for failure had the polar opposite effect on the house. (So much for Freddy’s philosophy about thoughts manifesting reality.) Every night, there was more explosive laughter than the evening before. The adults constantly reminded each other what a brilliant choice they’d made. Asia recited her creation-of-paradise grace before every meal. Dinners were so plentiful they looked like knight’s feasts. Only now can I appreciate the purity of eating dinners that we planted and grew ourselves. From plates that Asia threw, painted, and glazed. On a table my father built. With burning vanilla candles hand-dipped by my mother. In a house that we built. In a life they created. With the people we chose to make our family.
I don’t remember exactly when it dawned on Jessica and me that Todd was gorgeous. There weren’t grades to mark the time like we had in our previous life. It was the same year as Jessica’s Red Party, though. I remember because she was embarrassed that he knew about her first period, so it must have been right around when we were both thirteen years old. We sat on the porch watching the men chop wood, pretending to read the assigned
Canterbury Tales,
but really peeking over the pages to watch Todd’s tanned and newly developed chest as it contracted with every swing of the ax.
Todd had just taken his SATs and we all knew he’d be off to an Ivy League school in the fall. Everyone always said Todd was brilliant, but Jessica and I thought that was just a bunch of hippie talk. We thought he was pretty smart and seriously beautiful with his shoulder-length wavy black hair and his Flathead Indian bone structure. But when Todd took his PSATs the year before and scored 234, with a perfect score in math, we conceded that perhaps he really was brilliant.
The adults weren’t thrilled about his desire to attend an Ivy League school, but they were also big proponents of letting us kids chart our own course. They felt Yale or Dartmouth, Todd’s first choices, were too “establishment” and feared his good values would unravel there. Francesca assured them that if they raised the boy right, he could attend the University of Hell and still come out the same good person. Maybe even better. “That boy has spent his entire lifetime book-learning about privilege and power,” Francesca explained at the dinner table as this issue was debated. “Let him experience it firsthand. He’ll grow more compassionate in the environment. Let’s not assume the environment will affect him. Todd is a strong presence that we must now share with the world. Imagine the love our boy will take out into the world.” Her eyes welled with tears as Jessica rolled hers.
Todd and I never went on dates like normal teens. But we were definitely an item and everyone knew it. It happened the summer he turned seventeen. At his birthday party, in fact. Birthdays were huge celebrations in our family. Everyone got a big party with the theme of his or her choice. Babies and elders were especially celebrated with dozens of horns and rituals and poetry readings. They really knew how to celebrate life, I will say that. Anyway, Todd chose a beach party theme, which meant we built a tremendous bonfire and set blankets around it. Bags of cookies, marshmallows, and Hershey’s chocolate sat promisingly in a crate. The sight of packaged food was an oddity in our home. We could hear Freddy lecturing the younger kids about the packaging of the sweets, asking them why they thought the manufacturers used an illustration of a teddy bear on its plastic bagging. “It’s cute,” my brother, Oscar, answered. “Okay, but let’s take this a step further and talk about why the marshmallow company wants to put cute pictures of teddy bears on their bags.” Freddy’s inquiry was punctuated by Oscar’s little head dropping to his lap.
My mother serenaded Todd that night, changing the gender in The Beatles “I Saw Her Standing There.” When she sang that he was just seventeen, and asked if we knew what she meant, I blushed. I knew what she meant all right. I also knew that it meant that in one year from now, we’d be hosting his off-to-college party. Or so I thought. I don’t know what Todd was thinking, but our eyes met from across the fire, stayed locked on each other a second too long, and we both knew the other was interested. The vibe, my parents called it.
Morgan drove an hour to buy two dozen lobsters, which Todd wanted for his birthday beach party. Todd had never tasted lobster, so it wasn’t as though it was an old favorite. Rather, he was starting to dabble in the finer things so he wouldn’t look like a sheltered Indian boy straight off a Montana commune. I think he had this wild notion that Ivy League kids were going to walk around campus talking about yachting and tennis, snacking on caviar and sipping champagne at polo games. I knew he felt terribly intimidated by the whole thing, but was going to go anyway. That’s one of the things I really loved about Todd. He knew what he was afraid of, but didn’t let it stand in the way from his doing it.
While we were sunbathing by the lake, he told me he wanted to attend an Ivy League university mostly because he wanted to measure himself against the standard that terrified him. Greta would have loved him. “Rich people scare me,” he said, using his finger to draw a line in the dirt in front of us. “Everyone here tells me how smart I am, but I have to wonder what they’re comparing me to, you know? My ‘report cards’ from them are always Groovy Plus, but what does that mean? I ask them if I would’ve been an A student at a regular school and they say that there aren’t any letters to characterize my performance. I know what they’re saying, but it doesn’t really answer my question, you know?”
“Todd, you got a perfect score on your math PSAT,” I assured him, reaching my hand to his forearm. He was lying on his stomach and rolled onto his side.
“Yeah, but not English. I don’t have the vocabulary down.”
Todd wasn’t just talking about learning Latin roots and scoring higher on the English sections of the SAT. When he said he needed the vocabulary, he said what all of us older kids thought
—
we don’t speak the language of the real world. Our college classmates were going to talk about movies and television shows we’d never seen, and have favorite teams of sports we never saw. Of course, as my father’s apprentice, Todd could make furniture. He was one of a small group of American teens who spoke Russian fluently. He played piano, bass guitar, saxophone, and harp. And he knew every plant and flower indigenous to the state of Montana, if not the entire country.
“Todd, relax,” I said, thrilled to be his confidante. “You never even studied for the test. You’ll buy one of those books, bone up on your vocabulary.”
He sighed, then feeling guilty for monopolizing the conversation, switched gears. Todd penetrated me with his gaze. “You’re beautiful,” he said.
“See, I think you have a great vocabulary. I love your vocabulary.” I giggled.
“I love the way I feel when I’m around you, Mona. It’s so easy hanging out with you.”
I adored my new role as his girlfriend. He was without a doubt, mind-blowingly amazing, and if he chose me, then I was wonderful by association. If he thought I was beautiful, I must be. After all, he was the genius. “I love your smile,” I said somewhat clumsily, afraid to overwhelm him with the tidal wave of things I loved about him.
“I love everything about you, Mona.”
“I love everything about you, too.”
“I love you,” he said for the first time.
“I love you, too.”
Long after I’d graduated from college, I went to New Haven, Connecticut, for an engineering conference, and visited the Yale campus. I smiled with deep regret that Todd had never discovered that the students there ate Big Macs and wore hooded cotton Mexican tops just like his. Many of the kids wore frayed denim, hemp chokers and peasant shirts just like we wore. Commune chic.
We didn’t celebrate Christmas at our home in Missoula because the adults felt the holiday had become too commercial. Instead, we made half-inch stars from tin foil and cellophane and hung hundreds of them with fishing wire from the ceiling. Freddy set the lighting so the stars would gently illuminate, creating a “winter nights” theme inside the house. My father and Freddy made a sheet-thin moon from quarry rock, and backlit it with blue. We strung freeze-dried berries and wrapped mistletoe in ornate handmade lace bows and knotty silk ribbon. The kids painted clay peace signs in rainbow colors and made God’s-eyes from homespun, vegetable-dyed yarn. It looked like the holiday spread when
House
& Garden meets
Mother Jones
.
The only gifts we were allowed to buy were books. Everything else had to be made by our own talents. I saved up enough money to go to town and buy Todd the Barron’s SAT study guide, then Asia helped me make a ceramic coffee mug for Todd’s late nights of studying. I painted bright pink bitterroot blossoms on it before glazing it. He carved a chess set for me because we spent so many hours playing the game. In fact, we used chess as an excuse to stay up late and fool around after everyone else had gone to sleep. The first time we had sex, we tiptoed out of the house and into the barn, after the others had retired. Our excuse
—
as always
—
was an intense game of chess.
Todd and I talked about getting married after he graduated from Yale, which I think we both knew was more of a sweet fantasy than a realistic plan for our futures. I always figured he’d meet a blond, blue-blood from Yale, marry her, and have 2.3 kids. I was going to be a singer with an edgy alternative rock band, which now seems such an alien idea I can’t even believe it was once mine. Though I realized Todd and I would probably go our separate ways, I always assumed we’d remain lifelong friends, which I suppose we did. I just never imagined that his life would be so short.
Never bring flowers.
—Maximum for Him, October
Unless they’re for Claudia Schiffer.
—December amendment
The pounding on the door made my heart jump. My pulse raced; a layer of sweat appeared on my skin. It was the hour of reckoning. Seven. Dog time. Interestingly, he was right on schedule despite the fact that his dating rules include showing up ten minutes late with no excuses or apologies. I guess Claudia Schiffer is the exception to the rules.
I opened the door to the sight of a chiseled masculine face with soulful brown eyes and a five o’clock shadow. His dark blond hair had a slight wave and was flopped to the side in a scruffy, compellingly sexy way. His jaw shot out slightly from a centimeter under bite. He wore well-tailored casual pants, a cashmere high-neck plum sweater, and soft brown leather slip-on shoes. In his right hand, he casually held two dozen red roses with baby’s breath and greens volumizing the impressive bouquet.
“Hey,” he greeted me with polite dismissal, as though I must have been the supermodel’s assistant. “Mike Dougherty to see Claudia.”
“Come in,” I offered. “Can I offer you something to drink? Lemonade? Beer?”
“I’ll take a beer.”
I poured his beer into the mug I had frosted before his arrival. He sat boyishly on my couch as I placed roses in a vase, feeling quite guilty for accepting flowers meant for a German supermodel who’d never step foot in my home. I returned to the family room, sat across from Mike, and thanked him for coming.
“Yeah, no problem,” he snorted. “It’s my pleasure. I’m real flattered she likes my column. Believe me, plenty of women don’t.” His focus swerved past me as Mike watched the stairs expectantly for Claudia Schiffer’s descent. “She gonna be down pretty soon?”
“Look, Mike, I’ve got to confess something,” I said. He said nothing. “I’m really sorry about this ... it’s just that you never returned any of my calls and this was the only way I could think of to get you here, and it really wasn’t me anyway. My friend Greta called and said she was Claudia Schiffer’s assistant and I was like, ‘Stop, stop!’ but she wouldn’t listen because she really wanted me to, um, she thought it would be a good idea if we met because I really do have an exciting proposition for you, and, and ... could you say something, please?”
Mike looked annoyed, but not entirely sure what I was saying. “So, you’re Claudia Schiffer?” he clarified.
“Well, no, I’m not Claudia Schiffer. Of course, I’m not Claudia Schiffer, but if what you’re asking is whether Claudia Schiffer is going to be here tonight, then, um, well, I have to apologize again, but, well, no. No, she couldn’t make it.”
“Couldn’t make it?” he queried.
“Right.”
“Couldn’t make it? Or has no idea who you are, and never set up this bullshit meeting?”
My heart pounded like a frantic neighbor running to tell you the house is on fire. I desperately needed The Dog’s help, and he was less than sixty seconds from the door.
“Um, no idea who I am,” I stammered.
Mike stood up and grabbed his jacket. “Listen, I really wish you’d hear me out as long as you’re here.”
“Lady, I think you’re psycho.” He started toward the door.
I laughed nervously. “I assure you I’m not a psycho. I’m just very determined. Can’t you respect that? I really wanted to meet with you because I value your opinion and want to make a business proposition. So I did what I had to do.” As he got closer to the door, I knew I had about another thirty seconds to win him over, or become tonight’s bar story. “Look, I’ve read a year’s worth of back issues of your column and you’re always complaining about how you wish women could think more like men. How cool it would be if women
really
knew what guys wanted? I’m offering an opportunity to do just that. You create the ultimate girlfriend. Think about what a service you’d be doing. You could write about the woman you’re creating in your lab like Frankenstein’s monster, um Frankenstein’s bride?”
Lose the whole Frankenstein thing. He already thinks you’re a freak.