The Unfolding, page 6
She says nothing. Just stands there, as if paralyzed. It’s a staring contest—which he loses. He marches out of the room.
In his undershorts he marches around the side of the house, opens the closet where the heater is, and as he moves to turn up the temperature on the pool heater, a hedge trimmer falls out followed by a small axe, both landing dangerously close to his bare toes. “Fucking ass-ate,” he says, and then wonders what ass-ate means. He turns up the heater; grabs the lawn tools, one in each hand; and heads off aiming for the bushes and palm trees. He attacks the yard with a vengeance, using the hedge trimmer like a machete, swinging it wide, wishing it was a sword, treating the greenery as if it were a thick-scaled dragon. He slashes wildly; debris flies in all directions.
When he’s done, the ground is littered with dismembered branches, limbs that look like they’ve been hacked at by a murderer. Sweat stings the fresh cuts on his skin. A neighbor pauses as she’s driving by. “You’re gonna need to take care of all that junk or you’ll get an HOA violation. And remember that the trash service doesn’t take lawn cuttings.”
He’s tempted to scream, Shove it where the sun doesn’t shine, but catches himself.
He bags the debris in Hefty bags and puts the bags in the garage. He’ll let the house guy, or the lawn guy, or whatever guy there is figure out what to do with them. But he definitely doesn’t want the public shaming of a homeowners association write-up or his neighbors pausing to reprimand him.
Streaked with sweat and now stinking, too, he jumps in the pool again, and this time it’s warmer. He takes his own version of a victory lap, making mental notes to even out the hedges—some look like they got a bad haircut.
Then he goes inside and makes lunch. For his wife he makes an open-faced sandwich, turkey on thinly sliced white bread with a layer of mayo so thin that it’s a film, a sweep, the essence of mayo. He puts the sandwich on a plate with four bread-and-butter pickles, pours her a glass of water, and delivers both to where she’s sitting in the living room reading a book.
“Feeling better now?” Charlotte asks.
“Statement or question?”
“Question.”
“Something has to change.”
“Something did change—they voted for Barack.” She’s calling him by his first name, presuming an intimacy to annoy her husband.
He takes a pickle off her plate and pops it into his mouth. He hates bread-and-butter pickles. “It’s like biting into a sour frog. And by the way, it’s bigger than that. It’s me.”
“You’re bigger than Barack?” Charlotte’s eyebrow is raised.
“That’s not what I mean. I’m trying to say that something needs to change. Something about me.” This is not the kind of thing he usually talks about. “If I’d had a heart attack in that pool, which is maybe fifty-five degrees, you wouldn’t have been able to fish me out. I’d have drowned and died for sure.”
“I would have done what was necessary. I’m stronger than you think.” She picks up a heavy book and hurls it at him.
“That’s funny,” he says. “Am I the only one who sees this as a turning point?”
“There were thousands if not millions of people in the streets last night,” she says.
“They were celebrating; that’s not the turning point I meant. The question is, what is expected of me?”
“By whom?” She wants to know.
“My country.”
“Your country doesn’t know who you are. It’s only about what you expect of yourself.”
“I can’t live like this,” he says. “I can’t spend the next thirty years watching it all come undone.” He shakes his head. “How can you not be in a rage?”
“I am not the same person as you. I have different desires. Someday you might ask what they are.”
“I assume you mean something about me, some failure of mine, of the marriage.”
Charlotte says nothing.
“I’m talking about something else; it’s not about our marriage but a new America, an idea of who we’re meant to be, like what the founding fathers talked about. What I realized last night was that there’s something inside me, profound anger and grief at why I spent all my time trying to get rich but didn’t do something more interesting with my life, something that might change the course of the world.”
“Did you come up with an answer?”
“No.”
She takes out a notebook and writes something.
“You know I can see you,” he says.
“I am aware.”
“What did you write down?”
“Just now I put today’s date and I wrote, ‘Weird.’ Usually, I write what I’ve eaten. What I’m hungry for. What I miss.”
He is silent.
“You know what Joan Didion wrote?”
He shakes his head.
“She wrote: ‘Keepers of private notebooks are a different breed altogether, lonely and resistant rearrangers of things, anxious malcontents, children afflicted apparently at birth with some presentiment of loss.’ ”
“Is that who you are?”
“In part.”
“It sounds like you’re bored.”
“I am.”
“Me too.”
It’s the most honest conversation they’ve had in a long time.
“You do realize that the number of people who change the world is small.” Her comment is meant to be comforting.
“I disagree. Every person changes the world in some small way.”
“Since when did you become Mr. Spiritual?”
“I don’t know—it’s just coming out of me, bubbling up.” He pauses. “Like bile.”
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
Reagan National Airport
Washington, DC
3:50 p.m.
The cabdriver who picks Meghan up at the airport is the same one who drove her from school the other night. He’s one of the regulars from the local cab company; his rearview mirror is festooned with air fresheners, a cardboard banana, the Rolling Stones tongue, the classic Little Trees Royal Pine. All of it combines to create a sickly mash of sweet and sour fruits. It’s like the driver is either desperate to improve things or masking some kind of unnamed horror. The girls at school call him Mr. Tooth—because he has bad teeth. A lot of people who interact with the girls don’t have actual names as much as descriptions: tooth taxi, fat taxi, man-with-the-hair taxi, lady with the thick shoe at the health center, mailman with the missing finger.
“Do I look older?” she asks him.
“Older than you are?”
“Older than the day before yesterday? Have I aged?”
“Rough flight?”
“No. The flight was fine but I wouldn’t want to be a stewardess.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah. The pilot sits in a little cabin of his own and does the fun stuff. If he gets hungry, they bring him something. If he has to pee, they block off the aisles so he can use the bathroom without anyone bothering him. Meanwhile, the stewardesses are banging around in the back of a tuna can wearing a uniform that’s a cross between a gym suit and a cocktail waitress outfit, and dealing with the nonstop needs of the passengers. Why would anyone sign up for that?”
“I guess you’re saying you don’t want to travel the world and meet interesting people? I’d apply for the job but I don’t think I’d look good in the uniform.” He laughs, his broken teeth showing.
“People are rude to the stewardesses and they have to keep smiling and take it.”
“Dealing with the public can be trying,” he says. She doesn’t pick up on the irony. “It used to be that landing a stewardess gig was a plum job. It was a way out.”
“A way out of what?”
“Whatever it was that a woman wanted out of; there didn’t used to be a whole lot of job opportunities. And for some it wasn’t a way out—it was a way in.”
There’s a pause. She has no idea what he is talking about.
“It was a way to travel for free and maybe meet a guy from a different social class, you know, marry up.”
“That’s gross,” she says.
“Is it? Where’d you go anyway? Did you go back to the future? Time traveling? Is that why you asked if you looked older?”
“Did you pick me up because I’m on your route or because it’s me?”
“I take the jobs they give me.”
“It’s not personal?”
“Uh, no, it’s definitely not personal.”
“Do you remember when you picked me up and took me to the orthodontist and had to wait while they fixed my retainer?”
“I don’t remember the details, Lady Girl, but I can comfortably say we have met before.”
They drive for a while.
“Did you grow up here?” she asks.
“Nearby.”
“I was with my parents for twenty-four hours. When I’m with them, it’s like I evaporate; I barely speak. Seen and not heard. Every time I go back, it feels weirder and weirder. Is it them or is it me?”
“What’s happening is not unique to you; they call it growing up,” he says. “Books have been penned on the subject.”
She doesn’t reply.
“Over that way’s where my great-grandfather was born; the house is still there. His brothers fought in the Civil War. That’s what we are in my family, soldiers, farmers, and taxicab drivers.”
“Which side did they fight on?”
“That’s the big question, isn’t it? They fought on both sides on account of living so close to the Mason-Dixon Line and having complex personalities. Where are your people from?”
“My mother is from Texas and my father is from Wilmington, Delaware.”
“Home of DuPont, the folks who brought you forever chemicals and other problems like Teflon. You should ask your dad about his life. Every family has its stories, mysteries, and secrets.”
“Maybe not every family. Maybe some are just regular.”
The driver shrugs. “Anyone I ever met who seemed regular turned out to be a head case as soon as you scratch the surface.”
“Do you still farm?”
“I grow some beans and melons, but I’m famous for my tomatoes.”
“That’s my favorite sandwich,” Meghan says. “Tomato and sea salt on fresh bread.”
“With mayo?”
“So much mayo.” She laughs. “It was my great-grandfather’s favorite as well, or so I’m told.”
“Did you ever have homemade mayo?” he asks.
“There is no such thing as homemade mayo. It’s like ketchup or mustard; it comes in a jar.”
“Funny how young people are,” he says to himself. “Acting like they know something.”
A few minutes pass in silence.
“I voted,” Meghan says.
“Oh.” He pretends to be surprised.
“That’s where I was. My dad made me fly out west to vote.”
“Who’d you vote for?”
“John McCain,” she says, as though it’s obvious. “Who did you vote for?” she asks tentatively, knowing it’s not considered polite.
“That’s a bit like asking what side you fought on, but I’ll tell you in a minute. First, tell me why you voted for McCain.”
“Well,” she says, “I voted for John McCain because he’s the best candidate. He believes what we believe.”
“And what is that? What do ‘we’ believe?”
“That this should be a good country, a strong country, and that we should all work hard.”
“And the other guy? Does he believe the same?”
She doesn’t say anything.
“Pretty much anybody running for president wants those things—the real question is what are his goals for the country. You can tell the difference between someone who is in it to make a name for himself or get time on TV and someone who really cares. A lot of guys are big old liars; they’ll even tell you they served their country and it’s not true.”
“John McCain served.”
“Yes, he did.”
“And he was taken prisoner. I think McCain really cares. I’ve met him face-to-face and I believe in him.”
“That’s the first thing you’ve said that I can buy. You believe in him.” He pauses. “And your parents voted for him?”
“Yes.”
He nods. “So, in part you voted for him because your parents did.”
She shrugs. It had never occurred to her to do anything else, but she wasn’t about to tell him that.
“Why did you vote for Barack Obama?” Meghan asks. They’re getting close to school; she wants him to go slower; she wants to keep talking.
“I didn’t vote for Obama. I voted for McCain. He’s a veteran and a maverick, and I like that. I might not always agree with him, but I’d rather have him calling the shots than some guy who does what the party says.”
“Does Obama do what the party says?”
“I have no idea.”
She feels like she owes Mr. Tooth an explanation for the confusion she feels. “I wasn’t just in Wyoming. I also went to Phoenix. I went to be with John McCain when he accepted the victory, but . . .” She begins to cry. “Can we go around the block?” she asks. “I don’t want to go in looking all puffy.” Her mother has taught her that puffy can be cured by applying cucumber, tea bags, or a cold compress, none of which she has on hand.
Mr. Tooth does a few extra laps; the meter clicks higher, and then he pulls into the driveway of her school, drives past the stone pillars, and continues down the long road of arched oak trees. Entering the Academy is like stepping back in time. Everything is calm, contained, groomed, and well tended. There are rules, traditions, ways of doing things that have not changed since the Academy was founded in 1904. They don’t walk on the quad; Sunday church is mandatory, as is the Wednesday morning all-school meeting. And every time the student body is together, they sing the school song, “We Look to You on High,” which has an unofficial version as well, “We Look Like We Are High.”
Mr. Tooth pulls up by the main office. The ride gets charged to her school account, but she wants to tip him and all she has is the hundred dollar bill her father gave her that morning. She hands Mr. Tooth the hundred.
“I suppose you want ninety back in change?”
“I just want you to have it.”
“It doesn’t work that way,” he says, handing back the bill.
“I hope I didn’t offend you.”
“Take care, Lady Girl,” he says, as she gets out of the cab.
Lady Girl. She likes it. She’s not a lady and she’s not a girl, and it reminds her a little bit of Lady Bird, Lyndon Johnson’s wife, who was friends with her mother’s mother.
Lady Girl, she has a new nickname for herself.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” one of the international girls says, as Meghan walks up the dormitory stairs.
“Thank you,” she says, not sure whether the girl is talking about the election or mistakenly thinks that someone in Meghan’s family died—that’s usually the only reason they let a student go home midsemester.
“In my father’s country, when the government changes, many people die. That is why we left; he did not want to be there when the people would die. My mother tells a different story; she says that we had no choice but to leave. She said that it would not be safe. And so we came to America.”
Meghan nods.
“That is the good thing about democracy,” the girl says. “No one dies.”
Meghan nods again, and as the girl is about to start talking again, she says, “Sorry, I’m late,” and runs up the final flight of stairs.
“I hope you feel better soon,” the girl calls after Meghan as she flies past posters announcing last night’s Election Viewing Party and a note announcing that lights-out had been pushed to midnight.
She closes the door to her room and changes into her riding gear.
“The icing on the cake.” That’s what her father called it. When she was in eighth grade, her parents started talking about her education. When they moved to Wyoming, they felt the schools weren’t challenging enough to shape her into a “global citizen.” Her mother was convinced that girls learned better without boys around. And neither of her parents wanted to return to Washington, where she was born, or Connecticut, where they lived when she was younger. So they pitched Meghan the idea of boarding school. They visited with admissions people from several schools, who asked Meghan questions about how she saw herself and what she hoped to be and did she have any “special skills.” To Meghan, boarding school was Harry Potter, so she confessed to the admissions person, “I’m afraid I have no magic.” To which her mother added, “But she’s an excellent rider.” “Well, we happen to have a strong equestrian program,” the admissions person from the Academy said. Her father chimed in, “If she goes to your school, I’ll buy her a horse and that will be the icing on the cake.”
The stuff they say about girls and horses is corny but sort of true. “That’s the problem with stereotypes,” her father says. “They start with a little bit of truth.”
The icing on the cake was a beautiful black gelding named Ranger.
As soon as she is in the barn, she feels returned to herself. The physicality of the work, the familiar steps of getting Ranger tacked up, and the peppery leather scent of the stable brings her back into her body. “I’m here,” she says, stroking him. “I missed you yesterday.” She gives him a sniff of basil snatched from the herb garden outside. He loves basil.
“Don’t look down; always look in the direction you want the horse to go,” the instructor outside shouts to the younger girls learning to ride.
With a gentle kick of Meghan’s heels, Ranger walks on. They loop around the short trail that encircles the school and trot off into the woods. Meghan has been riding since she was three. People are surprised her mother allows it, given how overprotective she is; they forget that Charlotte grew up in Texas on a ranch. Until recently, when Charlotte’s back got worse, riding was something she and Meghan did together.
