The Color of Home: A Novel (9 page)

After a long time, the dancers, spent, stopped one by one, and Nick’s drumming came to an end. It was a warm July night, and everyone was dripping with sweat. Some men laughed. Some hugged each other. Some shed tears. Nick watched. A short time later, he made an excuse about being exhausted and retreated to his room. With a heaviness in his body, he reached for his journal and wrote “Dancing Ground” in one pass.

Today I go to the dancing ground,

to stomp and pound on the dirt around you

Wait for your soul to rise slowly,

through uncovered feet,

no longer frost bitten by death,

through legs destined to run

through my uncentered groin

into my heart and eyes.

I begin to dance

At first the movements are slow, awkward

I feel like I’m learning to walk again,

in rehab after a car accident.

It’s slow going

I think I may give up

Then a swell of anger, tears

I hear myself say,

“I’m going to get through this”

And for a short time

I’m certain about something.

Strength radiates from the ground

The dance becomes fluid

Blood rushes. Sweat pours down.

A wild glow surrounds me.

I soar and remember

I dance soft rhythms of touch

a hug before you go to work

a pat on the back after baseball

a backrub after working in the yard

even wrestling now seems tender

I dance sacred rhythms of forgiveness

I did not kill or replace you

I am going to stop clutching trust

move with it

through it

in it

toward the world

I dance rhythms of connection

After years watching everything

closed circuit, out of sight

I feel part of the trees and dirt and sky and people

just as I now feel that you are part of me

I look down

The ground glistens as

I dance

When Jackie returned to their row, Nick kicked a few ice cubes he’d accidently spilled on the floor out of the way before she passed. The short break was exactly what he had needed. It was as if she knew when she left that he had to replay the entire memory, that he had to reread the poem before he could talk with her. It was as if he she knew there was power in space. He was even more impressed. After she had buckled back in, he asked, “Is there something in particular you want to know about ‘Dancing Ground’?”

“Like many of your poems, I think the images are lovely.”

“But?”

She smiled. “Did you ever hear the story about how people respond to the word
but
versus the word
and
?”

“No.”

“Okay. Here goes. If I told you that you’re a handsome guy, but you need to shave more, how would you play that back to me?”

“I’d think that you believed I was unkempt and needed a shave. I’d ignore the part about being a handsome guy.”

“Exactly. Now, how would you respond if I told you that you were a handsome guy and you needed to shave more?”

“I would hear the ‘handsome guy’ bit, and note that I still required a shave.”

“Right. By simply substituting
and
for
but
in a sentence, the correlation between what’s heard and what’s intended increases dramatically, especially in Western cultures.”

“Why Western cultures?”

“We like to beat ourselves up.”

“I thought that was universal,” Nick said.

“And there in a nutshell is the problem with America. So, back to my original comment. I think your poetry is beautiful and I wonder if you actually danced?”

Flashing on his aborted attempt to dance with Sassa at his high school, he started to fidget and his face warmed. In no time, a drop of sweat tickled his forehead, causing him to turn away from Jackie to scratch it. Head still turned away, he softly said, “I’ve never danced, at least not well. I don’t know how.”

“Ah . . . You’re an observer, Nick.”

What else did Jackie know? In a matter of a short hour or two, he had opened up to her, aimed to impress her, shared his story, and allowed her to dive into his poetry. In one insightful question that summed up years of emotional work, she suggested a way to balance the constant chatter in his head with a physical counter-weight. He needed to dance. Not immediately. There was time. He needed a plan. Lessons. Video tutorials. Best to ease in. And first he needed to tell her.

A weight lifted, and he literally couldn’t stop talking about Sassa. He told Jackie more about his relationship than he’d previously shared with anyone else. His recurrent dream. His last conversation. “Hold You.” Home. His true love. As he shared his story, she occasionally asked a clarifying question, but otherwise remained silent.

When he finished, she asked, “Did you believe Sassa when she explained why she needed to leave?”

“Yes. Do you?”

“I don’t know. She’s either one of the wisest women I’ve ever heard about or she’s scared and a fantastic liar.”

“Do you ever take male clients?”

“No, and if you are interested, I’ll make an exception.”

Sassa strolled into Life Alive, an urban oasis and organic vegetarian café on Massachusetts Avenue. She loved the vibe of the place. Each of the tables and chairs were one of a kind, hand painted with bright colors and pictures reminiscent of the sixties. A wisdom chalkboard relayed the quote for the day. “Whether you and I and a few others will renew the world someday remains to be seen. But within ourselves we must renew it each day. —Herman Hesse” Wheat grass shots infused the air with sweetness. All of the menu ingredients came from local, organic farms, and all the meals were prepared from scratch. She ordered her favorites from the menu, a swami bowl and a superhero alive juice. She found a table, settled down, and opened her laptop.

After devouring the top ten “Most E-Mailed” entries from the
Times
, she glanced up and noticed an older man occupying the table next to her. He appeared to be in his mid-forties and had dark brown hair peppered with gray. Dressed in a solid black suit that looked hand tailored, a white oxford button-down shirt, and a yellow silk tie, he sported wire-rimmed glasses. Banker? Doctor? Her arms tingled. Crossing her legs, she placed her hand over her mouth to bar her grin. Dopamine rushed through her like Vicodin. Guilt inched in and waited.

“Life Alive is a wonderful restaurant. I’ve often flirted with the idea that the owner should franchise the place,” the man said after noticing Sassa glance in his direction.

“Too bad there’s no money in organic food.”

“Not yet.”

“I’ve been in Cambridge for a few months and I’ve already eaten here many times. I always order the same thing, too: a swami bowl and a superhero alive.”

“I like the green goddess, as you can see.” He lifted the clear canning jar that contained his vegetable juice and tilted it her way. “Where did you live before you came to Cambridge?”

“New York City.”

“Next to Boston, my favorite city in the world.”

“My favorite.” She pictured Nick on their sofa playing his guitar, writing a new song for her, with lyrics about truth, about home, about some unobtainable ideal.

“ . . .
New York Times
fan?” The handsome man’s collected voice brought her back.

“Yes.” Her phone rang. Nick. She turned away from the man, pushed decline, and pretended to answer. Cupping her hand over her mouth, she spoke a few words, then ended the fake call. While slipping her phone and her laptop into her backpack, she said, “I’m sorry. I’ve got to run. I’ve been called back to work. Maybe I’ll see you around sometime. My name is Sassa. It was nice to meet you.”

“I’m Brayden Long. See you.”

Sassa breezed into Life Alive for the seventh time in as many days. She ordered her usual meal, occupied her regular table, and opened to the first page of her Walker Percy novel. Life Alive bustled until a loud noise startled and hushed the occupants. She glanced up in the direction of the noise.

Brayden, hovering around ten feet away from her table, smiled. “Someone dropped a plate.”

“Oh.”

“Do you mind if I join you? We could continue our conversation from the other day.”

“Sure.”

“Give me a second.” He went over to the counter to fill his coffee.

She slipped her thumbs into her jean pockets, leaned back in her chair, and watched him fill his cup. She needed a lift. Her three-month stretch in Cambridge was the longest she’d been without a lover since college, and while she’d cherished the alone time, she missed conversation, touch, and sex. As he walked toward her, his smile, confident, experienced, pulled on her. Was she ready? He must be looking for a fling with a younger woman, something light filled with lots of laughter, lots of sex. She closed her book.

He sat down across from her and extended his legs out just to the left of her. His alligator shoes were the supple, expensive kind. Folding his hands across his lap, he asked, “So, where did we leave off? I think I was about to ask you what brought you to Cambridge?”

“I’ve always loved it here.”

“There’s much to do. Did you come by yourself?”

She placed her hand on her book, and stroked the title with her index finger. In a way, yes. In a way, no. “I ended a relationship and wanted to start fresh.”

“Ah. What happened, if you don’t mind me asking?”

She shaped a few strands of hair into a bow, which quickly lost shape. Did she really want to go there? Couldn’t he skip the history part? Why was history even important if all he was looking for was a fling? “Well, you know, we spent a pretty good year together. In the end, I wasn’t sure we were workable. To tell you the truth, I’m not sure any relationship is workable in the long run.”

“You’re not alone.”

“Sometimes I wonder.”

“Long-lasting love is probably all luck.”

“That’s not a common view. Why do you think staying together is so hard?”

“Each of us has a story in our heads of how we want to live our lives. It’s rare when two stories remain in sync for a lifetime.”

“But don’t a lot of people have a soul mate, or whatever you want to call true love, included in their story?”

“Yes, but underneath that part of the story it’s often about ‘I’. I love this movie. I love this food. I think you’re beautiful. I need you to be honest with me. I, I, I. It’s almost never about deeply understanding what your partner feels or believes. Few people distinguish their apparent soul mates from themselves.”

“That’s sad. So you might be lukewarm on a movie, for example, but if you took the time to understand why I love the film, and could hold onto both of those feelings at the same time, then you truly would be in the relationship.”

“Almost there. Now, if you extend what happened with your movie example to all aspects of how you interact with a partner, you would eventually see them completely. Then the world is about more than ‘I’, and world peace soon follows.”

She laughed. “Has that ever happened to you before?”

“Hell no.”

She could feel herself being pulled in. A good-looking, well-dressed, intelligent man sat next to her who, after only a few minutes of talk, appeared to share her current worldview on relationships. Although she had the feeling that he’d had this conversation many times before, she didn’t mind. It was only a fling. And he was interesting. And she’d never been with an older man before. “I’ve got my bike with me, but I was wondering if you’d like to walk me home?”

They left Life Alive and strolled toward her apartment. The Harvard Square sidewalks and cafés brimmed over with students and street musicians. There was something about the place that put her at ease, as if she’d been there here whole life, as if the collective intelligence of the place had wrapped her in a wisdom blanket.

“By the way, what do you do for a living?” he asked.

“I’m a chef. I work at Sirellina’s downtown.”

“I’ve been there a few times. Great place.”

“What do you do?”

“I’m a math professor at Tufts. Math is abstract enough that I can lose myself in it.”

“I like the feeling of losing myself. Sometimes I think that’s the main ingredient to a full life.” She vaulted on her bike and tried to wobble along next to him. Smiling until she lost her balance, she steadied herself with one foot on the ground, dismounted, and resumed walking. “Family?”

“I was married once. Divorced ten years ago. I have a daughter, Chloe. Fifteen.”

“That’s a fun age.”

“Sometimes. By the way,
Good Will Hunting
is my favorite movie. I like the Skylar character.”

“That’s Minnie Driver, right?”

“She approximates the ideal woman.”

“Why’s that?”

“Just by being herself, she pulls Will forward and he changes. There’s no greater gift one person can give another.”

“She walks in truth, I guess.”

“Well put.”

They turned onto Brattle Street and stopped next to a large tree with new green leaves, right in front of her house. Red and pink azalea bushes in full bloom bordered the porch, and variegated hostas lined both sides of the walkway.

“Want to go out to dinner sometime?” he asked.

“Sure. Give me your phone.” She dialed her number, then handed it back to him.

“Thanks. Today was fun. See you around.”

“For me, too. See you.” One hand steadying her bike, she watched Brayden walk away with a slow, steady gait. He had good posture. And nice hair from the back. She’d never dated a man before who wore cuffed pants. As she stepped her bike up to her apartment she judged him perfect, except his taste in leading actresses.

That summer, Sassa and Brayden spent all of their free time together. Something light permeated the relationship. She couldn’t put her finger on it exactly. He took care of her in a way no one else had. He encouraged her, believed in her, even more than she believed in herself. In his eyes, she’d already become who she was meant to be. In his eyes, the diamond was no longer in the rough. On top of encouragement, he knew a ton of stuff. He was so knowledgeable in the arts and sciences that it was almost as if she was cramming a full masters program into one summer. Except that it was effortless. The Museum of Fine Arts. The Museum of Science. He walked her through paintings and sculptures and inventions in glorious detail. And he loved music. Not the same as Nick. Softer somehow. They attended the Newport Folk Festival, the ballet, the symphony, the local folk clubs. And he was a foodie. After dining at almost every good restaurant in greater Boston, sometimes for four-hour meals, there was no doubt about it. Nick, still in her thoughts, gradually dropped back and gave her space. It was as if somehow he knew that she was exactly where she needed to be.

One morning in late September, Brayden and Sassa ambled toward the East Coast Grill for Sunday brunch. Sassa wore cut-off shorts and a halter top. She snatched up the sunlight as she walked arm-in-arm with him down Cambridge Street. A few blocks from the restaurant they stopped at a side street to let traffic pass. A car pulled out too fast and grazed a biker, causing him to lose control and crash to the ground.

Sassa rushed over to help. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. A few scratches,” the man replied.

“Crazy drivers in this city.” She reached out and helped him to his feet. Covering his hands with hers, she shook her head.

“Thank you.” The man brushed the gravel off his clothing. He smiled. “It’s nice to know there are people like you in the world.”

She glanced at the asphalt and smiled. “Take care.”

For a time, she strolled with Brayden in silence, replaying in her mind what had just happened. A life could change in a moment for better or worse. Had she finally accepted that? “Do you want to hear about my accident?”

“Of course.”

“It was such a long time ago.”

In the morning, after dancing around the car the night before, Sassa and her family eased into her dad’s car and motored away toward Mackinac Island. Still tired, Sassa dozed off for the first hour of the trip in her normal spot, the left back seat of their Oldsmobile, right behind her father. Her little sister slouched next to her and stole a quick nap.

Sassa dreamed she was the lead in a Broadway musical about the life and times of Phil Schmidt. She danced her part in red roller skates laced all the way up to her knees. She fell often during the theme song, “All I Wanna Do,” but always jumped back to her feet and continued with her routine. When the play finished, she rolled to the front of the stage, reached out for Phil’s hands, and took a bow into the dark.

A screeching sound woke her. Smoke in front of their car blinded her view. “Get down,” her father shouted. Her mother and sister screamed. Sassa balled up. A crushing sound. A sharp burning pain clenched her back.

She stretched. Beep. Beep. Beep. Lifting her arm toward her face, she wiped off the sleep. Something inserted into her arm pulled pain until she lowered her arm. A hospital room. Lysol and ammonia, like when she cleaned at home. She hated the smell. Her legs, both in casts. She wiggled her toes. Her left arm also in a cast. She curled her fingers until they touched her plaster palm. A dull, constant pain in her back. Shifting back and forth, she tried to make it go away. A nurse came in and adjusted something. Sassa tried to speak. Had to be a dream. Wake up.

When she opened her eyes, Uncle Joe and Auntie Lucy hovered over the bed. Lucy’s skin was unusually splotchy, like someone had used a pin to tattoo small circles on her cheeks. Her uncle’s arms crossed his chest and he massaged a famous scar on his bicep from a bullet he took in Vietnam. Rain rivered down the small window, distorting the view of the hospital parking garage.

“Mom? Dad? Joanie?”

Lucy started to cry. She reached over and took Joe’s arm.

“They’re gone, honey.” Joe gently placed his hand over Sassa’s, just above where the needle was inserted.

An enormous unseen weight pinned Sassa to the bed. Swallowing dryness, she closed her eyes, but a burning heat behind her eyelids pushed them open again. The last seconds in the car. The smoke. The screams. The blistering pain in her back. She dug the nail of her thumb into her index finger. Stiffening her body, she matched the casts on her arm and legs. “What happened?”

Uncle Joe sat down on the edge of the bed and put his arm on Sassa’s shoulder. Aunt Lucy stood behind him and put her hands on his shoulders. A chain formed. “Your dad couldn’t navigate out of the way of the truck in front of him. The truck driver fell asleep. When he woke, he yanked his emergency brake to avoid crushing a car in front of him. The back of the truck broke when your car smashed into it.”

“We slid under the truck? That’s when they died?” Sassa asked.

“Yes.”

She pieced together what she’d just heard with what she remembered of the crash. Dreaming. A loud noise. “Get down!” Pain. As soon as she reached the compartment crushing in on them, like one of those movies in which two walls pushed in on the heroes, she had to stop. There were no heroes left.

“Were they in pain?”

“It all happened very fast, thank God,” Joe said.

“I don’t want to . . . My dad told me to get down.”