The Color of Home: A Novel (5 page)

He pictured his grandmother, how she had moved through her prayers, kneeling, head bowed, wisps of hair dangling out of place, beads wrapped around her hands, stockings rolled down to her black, clunky-heeled, laced-up shoes. She advanced the beads between her fingertips, repeating something.

He knelt down in front of the saint and tried to mimic her. Lost, he would have offered up anything that night to save his father’s life. He would be a better son. Next bead. A better son. Next bead. A better son. He had to do better.

He also had to move. How could anyone pray for hours at a time? He jumped up and bounced from room to room, punching walls along the way, trying to wake up God before it was too late. Living room. Dining room. Kitchen. Family room. On the basketball court, he made eighty-one out of a hundred free throws.

Hours later, his mother came back to the house with his neighbor. A sign? She rose from the car, in that moment of uncertainty where fear and hope coexist right before the truth becomes clear. His neighbor eased his arm around her.

A shiver ballooned. He darted from one spot to another, first in the house, then outside on the snow-covered lawn. Barefoot, barely coherent, he zig-zagged into a snowdrift curved like the body of a woman. “No! This can’t happen now. The Knicks? College? My fault, my fault. No more Christmas.” Overcome by the cold, he slowed until he collapsed in the drift, sobbing.

The front door opened. His mother, one foot on the porch and the other in the foyer, waved him in. Pulling himself up off the ground, he hobbled back to the house. He couldn’t feel his feet. In the foyer, his mother cradled him. A moment later, in the kitchen, she put on a pot of coffee.

“I don’t like coffee.”

“Your dad loved it black.”

His father had died at forty-one of a massive heart attack. His mother was forty. Nick was seventeen. Later that year his grandfather died, solidifying his view that his world—at least with men anchoring it—had ended.

But not with women.

Back in the car, Sassa asked, “You okay?”

“It didn’t hold as much charge as I thought it would.”

“Thank you for sharing it with me. Are you up for one more thing?”

“Sure.”

“Can you drive me out to your high school?”

“Sure.” He pulled away from his old house and drove along back country roads toward the high school. No need for further clarification. She had something worthwhile planned. Trusting her was even more important than loving her.

“Stop right here,” she said. She started humming a song he didn’t recognize at first. She pulled out a CD from the glove compartment and deposited it in the car’s CD slot. She rotated the volume way up. “Nothing Compares 2 U” blasted through the car speakers.

“I want to dance around the car. Let’s go, Nick.”

“You want to dance in the middle of an intersection?”

“Yes, let’s go.”

“I don’t dance.”

“Anyone can dance, Nick. Come on.”

He reluctantly got out of the car. Sassa, arms in ballroom dance position, offered to lead. Stiff, he danced in fits and starts as they looped around the car. He was clumsy, silent. She was graceful, beautiful. A total mismatch. He couldn’t go any further. After a few minutes, she gave in. He studied the asphalt.

“We can go,” she said.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

He opened the door for her and she slipped back into the car. With disappointment all over her face, she hit the eject button on the CD player and tossed the CD back into the glove compartment.

“I’m sorry, Sassa. I’m not a dancer. Why was that so important to you?”

She pressed her forehead against the window, and didn’t respond right away. “I imagined dancing would be fun, that’s all. No big deal.” Soon after, she withdrew and fell asleep.

What had just happened? He raced back to familiar ground.

Despite a number of affirmations during their first eight months, despite moving in together, despite writing “Hold You” for her, Nick remained afraid. Did she feel at home? He’d shown her more of himself than he’d ever shown anyone else. He loved her. She was his partner. Still, on the ultimate question in his mind, fear ruled him. He couldn’t bring himself to ask her, even though he came close on numerous occasions. Each time, he imagined what she would say and visualized the look on her face: she would respond with a warm smile; flushed cheeks; rounded, widened eyes; and then she would avow that she too had found home. Each time, he deserted his thoughts, disappointed, fattened with fear, unable to navigate through his self-imposed knothole.

One night as they read on the sofa, facing each other, bare legs crisscrossed under a blanket, Sassa peeked over the top of her book. “It doesn’t look like you’re paying much attention to that book. What’s going on with you?”

“Nothing. I’m having trouble working out a song. No big deal.”

“Why don’t you play it for me?”

“Not yet.”

“You know, I can play the micro-expression game too.” She lifted one leg and stroked his thigh with her foot.

He smiled. He put his book down and ran his hand through his hair right above his ear on his way to scratching the back of his neck. Should he tell her? Why was he so afraid of the answer? “Okay. The song’s a big deal.”

“What’s the song called?”

“‘Hold You.’”

“Why don’t you?” She dropped her book on the floor, and crawled on top of him. Placing one hand over the other on top of his chest, she rested her chin on her hands. “Sometimes you need to take a leap.”

“This whole year’s been a leap.”

“I meant on the song.”

He drew curlicues on her back with his index finger as her breath fanned his face with hints of cinnamon.

A week later, Nick and Sassa pulled up in a taxi to Bobby Flay’s Mesa Grill. Steam rose up from the sidewalk from a flash rainstorm. They sprinted the short distance from the cab to the restaurant and, drenched, waited inside to be seated. Nick had been on edge ever since their “Hold You” conversation. He wasn’t sure why, but they seemed to be averaging a minor squabble a day. Didn’t she hear him? Did he have to spend so much time in the studio? Why wouldn’t he clean up after himself? Things like that. A server seated them in the back corner of the dining room.

“I love your hair wet,” Nick said.

“Strange man.”

“It reminds me of morning.” He ordered the same thing as her, a Mesa Burger with double cheddar cheese, grilled Vidalia onion, horseradish mustard, and Southwestern fries. “How’s work going?”

“Bad week. I made a celery sorbet, which the other chefs made fun of behind my back.”

“Jerks.”

“The customers seemed to like it. I even had one woman ask to speak with me about it. She said it was her favorite dessert of all time.”

“I don’t know why you put up with work politics.” He flicked the salt and pepper shakers over with his index finger. Rubbing the back of his neck, his gaze bounced from table to table, then out on the street. The steam had dissipated.

“Part of the deal, I guess.”

“Why don’t you talk to your boss?” he asked.

“No need. It’ll pass.”

“Why don’t you tell your coworkers off?”

“It will pass, Nick. No big deal.”

“Why are you so unassertive? You need to nip these things in the bud before they get out of hand.”

“I’m not unassertive.” She stood up the salt and pepper shakers.

Under the table, he dug his thumb into his thigh. As he pushed harder, a wave of sadness came. He focused on his breath. In, calm. Out, sadness. In, calm. Out, sadness. In, calm. Out, sadness. Something gave way. He clenched his fist, opened it. Punch someone. Or crawl into bed and sleep for twenty hours. “Yes, you are. Don’t let them run all over you. You don’t want to come across as weak.” He sprang up before she could respond and then headed to the restroom.

In the bathroom, he studied his face in the mirror as he washed his hands. What was he doing? Why was he so angry at her? Where was the sadness coming from? He had to do better.

A few minutes later, he sat back down at the table and folded his hands across his lap. Their hamburgers had arrived while he was away. Mostly they ate in silence, shifting the focus of what little conversation they had to the food. Freshly made ketchup. Horseradish made the burger. Medium rare was the only way to go.

After she finished her burger, she reached across the table and placed her hand on his. “I don’t need you to solve things for me, Nick. I can handle myself at work.”

“I’m sorry. I’ve calmed down.”

“I need you to listen and acknowledge what I’m feeling. That’s enough.”

“I’m sorry. I’m not sure why I got so angry.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

The waitress stepped lightly over to the table and left the bill. Without looking at Sassa, he grabbed the bill, left more than enough money on the table, and headed for the exit. When he reached the door, he whirled around to say something to Sassa only to find that she was still at the table staring at him, eyebrows raised. A moment later, back at the table and on the edge of his seat, he tapped his heel on the floor.

“Why do you keep leaving without me?” she asked.

“I don’t know.”

“You’ve done it a lot lately.”

“I’m so sorry.” Relaxing a little, he pushed back in his chair. Over the past month, he’d often paid the bill, leapt up abruptly, and abandoned her before she’d finished her meal. Each time he left all caught up in something, only for a moment, as if he had no control over the initial leaving. Even after she called him on his behavior, he had a hard time catching himself before it was too late. He’d regretted his behavior. He’d apologized. But fear continued to snake in unexpectedly. He’d caught an emotional cold and couldn’t shake it.

“Let me finish my tea. Then we can go.”

“Take your time. I’m not going anywhere.”

Doubt inched in to stay as Sassa made her way to Allen’s deli. Nick was holding something back. But what? An affair. With a musician at work? Had he tired of her? Or an old deep secret that would end things if she found out? It had to be something big; otherwise, he would tell her.

Maybe lunch with Sarah would help sort through things. She’d become close friends with her over the years; they’d been hired around the same time at DiPosto and had put in many long hours together, slaving at the mercy of the executive chef. A couple of years earlier, they had discovered they both loved deli food and had agreed to regular, almost religious lunch dates every other week at Allen’s.

Sassa arrived in front of the deli first. A moment later, Sarah waved to her from a couple of blocks down Houston Street. Much smaller than Sassa and with short black hair, dark skin, and the most comfortable-in-her-own-skin smile Sassa had ever seen, Sarah had known from a young age that she would become a chef. From her love of food, she carried her few extra pounds with grace. From early expertise, commonsense wisdom had grown. Sassa had grown to trust her. After a warm greeting, they navigated their way through the long, narrow restaurant—past the hundreds of pictures of famous patrons, past the chef’s carving pastrami, corned beef, and brisket like they were gold—and settled at a table in the back of Allen’s.

Without looking at the menu Sarah said, “I feel like pastrami and scrambled eggs on a bagel.”

“You know, I’m going traditional today. Corned beef on rye with lots of mustard and extra bread.”

“So how are you?”

“Fine, sort of, but I could use your advice on something.”

“Absolutely.”

Sassa studied the menu even though she had already decided what she wanted. The matzo ball soup. The Reuben. The knishes. The potato latke. The blueberry cheesecake. There were so many items, and they were all served quickly with high quality. What a difference from her Diposto routine. Life was short. Speed and variety were keys.

“Things have been solid with Nick these past eleven months. In so many ways, it’s the best relationship I’ve ever had.”

“And the sex?”

“Why do you always start there?”

“Easier to fix things when that part is okay.”

Sassa twirled a strand of hair with her fingers. Unlike many of her female friends, she’d never been comfortable talking about sex. It was much better to be publicly modest and privately wild. She didn’t want anyone other than Nick to know that one of her favorite things was to spend all day in bed exploring, repeating, losing herself. And while all-dayers were part of their story, their relationship was much more than physical. He made her comfortable. He made her laugh. Until recently, he understood her better than anyone. “He’s more giving than any other man I’ve been with.”

“And?”

“And I feel like he’s holding something back. I’m not sure what he’s hiding, but I’m sure I’m right. He’s been on edge lately.”

“Best to trust your intuition then. Can you ask him?”

She couldn’t. Why not? They’d talked about so many things and they’d always tackled them head on. Truth warriors. But not with this one. Why? Because they’d lost some of their bliss. What if gradually losing bliss was inevitable, part of the slow decline that happens to everyone? Better to end quickly and move on. “I’m afraid.”

“How does that make you feel?”

“Thank you, Ms. Therapist.”

“Sorry.”

“Like I want to run away.”

“I get that one.”

Sarah passed Sassa a bowl of sweet and sour pickles. She picked out a plump one and took a bite. The best pickles in the world. A waiter came over to their table, took their order, scurried off.

“I’m kind of scared Nick possesses some dark secret that he’s going to spring on me one day. I’m afraid he’s been on his best behavior all these months and the real Nick is starting to surface. I’m afraid he’s going to start treating me like his old girlfriends. He’s been distant. And angry. I kind of want to strike first and take off.” She moved her fork back and forth between her fingers like a divining rod seeking water. For years after the accident, she’d followed almost any mystical avenue that might tell her what to do. Astrology. Tarot cards. Angel cards. Psychics. But she’d given all of that up when she gave up Vicodin. Too bad. She placed the fork back down.

“And you’re about to come face to face with the one-year rule.”

“He doesn’t know about that.”

“He doesn’t know?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I sort of didn’t get around to telling him.”

“He’s not the only one hiding something.”

In college, Sassa had planted the only rule she’d stuck to ever since: never let a romantic relationship go beyond the one-year anniversary. Sassa pushed back in her chair and shifted her weight. She picked out a piece of corned beef from her sandwich, loaded it on an extra slice of bread, and doused it with mustard. Two bites later it was gone. She dipped her finger into spilt mustard on her plate, then licked her finger. Nothing like deli mustard. “I guess that’s a good point.”

“I mean you could tell him, along with everything else you just told me.”

Sassa tilted her head to the side for a second. Why hadn’t she told Nick about the one-year rule? Better to keep her options open, especially since he was holding something back. Better to hurt him first than the other way around. That’s the way she’d always done it, and it had served her well. “How do couples last fifty years in a relationship? There’s so much stuff that can go wrong.”

“If you figure that one out and bottle the answer, we can retire.”

“We’ll start a restaurant together and drizzle a few drops on our desserts.”

“Speaking of which, want to split a piece of blueberry cheesecake?”

“Absolutely.”

Sassa signaled the waiter over. A short time later, he served them an oversized piece of cheesecake smothered with a fresh blueberry sauce and a dollop of fresh whipped cream. Two forks hung off the cake like oars. For a few moments, the cake had their undivided attention.

“That was fanstastic.”

“For sure.”

“Back to fifty years. Maybe longevity has something to do with longing. When the longing in your heart subsides, when you know who you are, when you’re whole, fifty years may seem more doable,” Sarah said.

“How do you get rid of the longing?”

“I have no idea.”

That was the problem. Sassa had no idea either, yet for as long as she could remember there had been an undertow pulling her away, as if she had no choice, as if she’d been sabotaged but couldn’t name the saboteur. Was that longing or something else? “Sometimes I feel like deep, dark things are dragging me away.”

“Me too.”

“I want to get rid of them.”

“You sort of need to trick them into surfacing first.”

“Seems like whack-a-mole,” Sassa said.

“Stop hitting and try embracing.”

How could she embrace deep, dark things? It was like they had been exiled long ago and someone was protecting them. She was willing to give it a try, but only if she knew the outcome ahead of time. Otherwise, she would lose control. “Maybe I’ll ride things out.”

“Has that ever worked for you in the past?”

“I didn’t care so much in the past.”

“What would happen if you didn’t ride things out?”

“I’d have to leave him.”

“You know that for sure? Why?”

Why did she need to leave? She had never said that out loud before. Did she really mean it? An incredible rush of sadness, unlike anything she’d ever experienced before, washed over her. Were the deep, dark things dragging her away from him? Or was that the path to whole? Maybe they were the same. “To find whole.”

“Oh . . . It’s not with him? I thought you loved him,” Sarah said.

“I do. That’s kind of the problem.”

“What?”

“I don’t know. Never mind.”

“You need to figure this out.”

“He’s sort of the one who started me down this path. How can I leave when this is all his doing?”

“How can you not?”

“Maybe I’ll wait a little longer.”

“Why?”

“He’s a good man.”