Second Chance. Elizabeth Wrenn

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СКАЧАТЬ show was almost over. He had mostly finished his painting of snowy mountains behind a glistening alpine lake. A single pine tree stood sentry in the foreground. The lake looked clear and crisp and … liquid. I could never get water to look like water. At least thirty years ago, when I took that painting class, I couldn’t. Elaine had always said I was good at figures, though. Was good at figures. My artwork of the past few decades had been limited to things like glue-and-glitter pinecones, doily valentines and gingerbread houses. Which, to be honest, I loved every minute of. But now … Where had it gotten me?

      As the credits rolled I grew suddenly ravenous. And decisive. The kids would be home in an hour, and until then it was going to be me, a big – no, huge! – bowl of Corn Pops, and Oprah.

      It was one of my favorite pastimes, eating cereal and watching Oprah. I sometimes squirmed a bit when she was doing a program on weight loss or exercise, which, of course, she often did. I didn’t care anymore, though.

      My Tupperware bowl filled with the golden nuggets of carbohydrate bliss, I settled onto the couch just as Oprah was striding into the studio, gently touching the hands of a few of her many-hued disciples. I wondered if I were ever to go see a taping of the Oprah show whether I’d scream and get all teary-eyed and reach for her holy touch. I hoped not. Well, I’d definitely get teary-eyed. Lately I tear up at everything, and nothing.

      ‘Today we’re talking about using your life.’ I clicked up the volume on the TV. ‘You-zing your life! You-zing your life!’ I smiled. Oprah loved to emphasize syllables. After the introduction came commercials, during which I channel surfed and ate Corn Pops. I lingered too long on the Weather Channel and was a little late back to Oprah. But I got the gist of it. A ten-year-old girl had started collecting donated suitcases from friends and neighbors for foster kids to use as they went from home to home. A ragtag group of about a dozen kids, every color and size, bore their suitcases proudly as they left the house. It was hard to eat the Corn Pops through my tears. Next was a piece on a flight attendant who was building a school for orphans in Vietnam. Then there was a man who helped inner-city kids learn new skills and teamwork by building low-income housing. Then a husband and wife who’d adopted eleven siblings so they wouldn’t have to go to different homes. Eleven! Lord.

      I could collect backpacks and suitcases maybe.

      During the next commercial break I scurried to the kitchen and refilled my Corn Pops. This was just what I needed. Fill up the void. I was pouring on the soymilk as the Oprah theme music started in the den. The soymilk was supposed to help with the menopause symptoms, although I hadn’t seen any evidence of that yet. But it was tasty on Corn Pops. I hurried back down into the den as Oprah began speaking.

      ‘My next guest, Annie Forhooth, falls in love repeatedly, for approximately a year each time, only to bid a fond farewell to her loves, again and again. Why does she do this? To help provide loving eyes for the blind. Take a look.’

      The piece opened with an eight-week-old black Lab puppy gamboling over Annie’s lawn. I set my cereal bowl on the coffee table as Annie’s taped voice-over talked about how exciting it is to get a new puppy, to know you’re going to raise it with love and care for a special purpose, a special gift. I sat up, gripping my knees in my hands as I watched.

      The last shot of the piece was of Annie, with a blind woman, during some sort of graduation ceremony. Her voice-over said, ‘You do fall in love with the dogs, but you know from the beginning that you’re raising them so they can help someone; these dogs love to work. They love to be a part of the world. I just help them get started.’

      In the video, Annie, crying but smiling broadly, handed over the leash of a full-grown, sleek, and boxy black Lab to a blind woman, her unseeing eyes also teary, her face uplifted. Annie put the leash into her hands, their four hands clenching around it in a tight ball. The two women then hugged, laughing, crying. The dog was sandwiched between their legs, tail wagging, eyes bright.

      Sitting there wiping my own wet cheeks and eyes, I had only one thought: That’s what love looks like.

       TWO

      I was having another Art Instructor dream. I’d been having them off and on for several months now. They weren’t really erotic dreams, not in the usual sense of the word anyway. Although my definition of erotic was quickly becoming ‘any time spent alone.’ What was especially erotic, by my definition, was that Art Instructor never wanted anything from me; he only offered me things, beautiful things, to look at, to linger over. Then he’d politely disappear.

      This time, we were strolling through an orange grove. Art Instructor was tall and handsome, though far from dark – he was actually stone white. He was always naked, at least the part I saw, which was typically just his chiseled upper back. A David back, deeply muscled and perfectly symmetrical. In this dream, he reached up with his also deeply muscled arm and picked a fat, absurdly brilliant orange, the color pulsating from it. Without turning around, he handed it back to me. This is when I realized he had no hand. The orange was just kind of stuck on the end of his wrist, and its color contrasted deeply with his whiteness. Then he turned, and for the first time ever, I looked down. Between his legs. His yoohoo was broken off, too. Dream-me smiled.

      Suddenly all his detail began to fade and Art Instructor disappeared, as did as the grove. But the orange remained, and I could see each individual pockmark on it. I could even see the shadows in the tiny craters.

      That was when I felt Neil slip back into bed, his hair still wet, his body smelling of soap.

      I remembered with some dread that it was Saturday.

      It wasn’t a given, exactly, sex attempts on Saturday. But over the years it was the one day we could pretty much count on all three kids being either happily mesmerized by cartoons down in the den, at a sleep-over, or, as they grew into teens, dead asleep, sometimes till noon or better. And over the years, in the mood or not, mostly not, I’d obliged. But not for weeks now.

      I knew he was going to work on the clinic – a low-cost health clinic, his dream for years, but finally in its genesis – again this weekend; that’s why he’d showered. So he was clean. Teeth brushed. Shaved. But still, inside I cringed, a shriveled part of me shriveling further. I didn’t want to have sex. I wanted to paint an orange. Probably from watching Bob Ross the other day. I hadn’t painted in years. But lately, I’d rather have a root canal than have sex.

      Neil lay quietly for a moment, then gently began stroking the backs of his knuckles against my upper arm. Sex knocking. And, once again, nobody home.

      Was it my fault? Neil’s? Why was I turned on by a damn orange and not by my husband of over two decades? How and when had sex become one more duty? Part of my job description? Full-Time Homemaker: Be available at all hours to do all things for just about everyone. Must respond attentively to all demands for attention, physical and otherwise. Immediate supervisors include, but not limited to: husband, kids, cat. The pillow still over my head, I pulled the quilt up under my chin and rolled to the other side of the bed, trying to also pull back the cover of sleep.

      ‘Dee? Deena? Dee-deelicious ….’ A pause, then a whispered, resigned, ‘Shit.’ I waited, breathing silently. What was I supposed to say? I’d already said no in every way possible. I could write a book, like a cookbook, but with different recipes for how to deliver the news to your husband that it ain’t happening.

      But I knew I wasn’t supposed to say anything. I was supposed to roll over. Make Love. Or at least Be Compliant. СКАЧАТЬ