“Go ahead,” he said. “And don’t worry about whether or not it’s good. Good doesn’t matter. We both know that. It’s arbitrary, anyway.”
She felt her heart beat very loudly. Her hands were wet. Her throat seemed to swell. But she began to read, very carefully, very slowly, as though each word were an egg.
For reasons of mothers and others mine is a hamster life. On a wheel most of the time, unable to stop long enough to tell you this story. It was always summer in my childhood. Yellow beach, big green house. My whole life right there. Even love. Twenty years later. Another house. Very small. Twenty years between summers and stories. No twenty-four hours anywhere. No children. No histories. No long connected breathing the way yogis teach. Only moments here and there. Standing in suns.
She stopped reading, but didn’t look up right away. She was a little afraid of Jake, afraid he would judge her by her poem, and not by her heart. That he would do what she did very often.
He spoke first. He was gentle with her, and she knew then that he might possibly love her. “So,” he said very slowly. He looked at her with unmistakable kindness. Even more. “I liked your poem. Will you continue? Let me tell you a story now,” he said. “Even though I’m not very good at stories.”
“Good doesn’t matter,” she smiled.
“My father and mother didn’t love each other,” Jake began. Arlette’s face was turned to him. She looked at him fully. “I don’t know that either of them loved me. They were both so damaged by the war. They were in Poland. They’ve been afraid all their lives. It’s hard for me to think about them. So I just don’t. As a boy, I never knew much about where they were from. They didn’t really want to say. Where they were born, who their parents were. I still know very little. I would ask sometimes, and they’d reply, ‘Wait. Wait. Someday you’ll know.’ But I never did. They raised three children and sent us to college by working very hard. They never said a word. They both died as silently as they lived. It has taken me years and years to think about them, and their impact on my life. I guess their lives are part of my own.”
“Thank you, Jake. You never quite said it that way before. It’s so funny that we rarely discuss our past.”
“That could be the only thing we have in common.” He smiled, and it was hard for her to tell what he was thinking.
She laughed, and wondered if there was some truth to that.
“Now you,” said Jake. “Say something. Anything.”
“My real life began when I was eighteen. But my memories are from before. Those pictures that you hold in your head, bright red pictures full of smells and sounds, mine are all from childhood. But when I was able to leave my family, to go to college and hang paintings on a wall, to live in a world that had restaurants on the corner, and a park, and the promise of a broader life, then I felt as though I was finally beginning to live.
“My first day of college was one of those days you remember, and remember. My parents seemed relieved that I would be gone. I was not an easy child. They drove me to school, took me to dinner, and just drove away without the slightest drama. No tears. Only relief all around. In my room was a girl my age. She wore one long sausage curl hanging down the back of her head, to her waist. Her name was Divine, and she was from a religious family, from Baltimore, Maryland. She had a twin sister named Charity. I later found out it took hours to get that curl just to sit there the way it did. She was lost. What was funny was that I could feel how lost she was. And I who had never been in that city before felt very sure. I asked her to come out to dinner with me, and then I sat on a chair, and watched her get dressed. She wanted to change into a flowery skirt. I was wearing a black dress. My first. I didn’t take it off, except when I had to. I loved that dress, and the life I expected to live in it.
“We went to a Vietnamese restaurant on our block. I had a noodle dish with bright green lines. They could have been coriander or cilantro, or spring onions. We sat there talking, and I remember thinking to myself that I had never been so happy. And that, in a way, was the beginning.”
Slowly, they continued talking through the night. In and out, easy words, just like breathing.
5
dikran aram boyajian
Dear Miss Rosen: Should I call you Ms? That doesn’t make a lot of sense to me. Maybe it’s my generation (I’m 74) but I think either you’re married, or you’re not. If you’re married, it’s Mrs., and if not, it’s Miss. What’s so bad?
If you don’t believe me that Miss is not offensive, take a look at history. Not that history’s always right. I’ll bet you’ll find some awfully successful Misses. Take a very close look. Then you tell me. I’m waiting. You can let me know what you find any time. And if you don’t agree, don’t worry. I’m a mature man by now. I accept disagreements. I even went once to couples counseling.
So what’s he writing about, I’ll bet you’re wondering. And you’re probably thinking to yourself, a million to one he wrote a book. Well you’re right, and you’re wrong. I wrote the beginning. Not the whole book, because I don’t know if it’s of interest. If anyone’s going to want to read it besides myself. That’s an important question to know the answer to because if they don’t, should I bother? Does a tree fall in the forest if there’s no one around to hear it? My son, who told me about that tree, said yes, but I say no. You need an ear for sound. Otherwise it’s nothing.
I wrote a book about God and the transmigration of ancient souls. You’re probably thinking to yourself, now that’s an unlikely subject for a 74-year-old man to write. Does he have any credentials? Did he study? And what can he possibly know?
All I have to say to that is a lot. I’ll tell you the categories, and you tell me if I’ve covered the subject: Mercy and Love, Joy and Praise, People and God, Dignity and Responsibility, Integrity, Freedom, and Our Ancestors at the Gates of Heaven. And that’s only Volume One (ha! ha!).
Are you interested? Tell me the truth. On the one hand, I think to myself “Who wouldn’t be?” and on the other hand I think, “What am I, kidding?” You tell me. Of course I will pay for your opinion. You’re a professional. I understand what that means. My children too. No opinions without money in advance. So how much?
Jack Green
Dear Jack Green, Who wouldn’t be? What am I kidding? Or, OK I’ll tell you. You can ask for my opinion. Send me the amount that you think your book is worth. That’s up to you. Is it a $5.00 book? $50.00? $500.00? How long is it, by the way? I guess I’ll see for myself, if you send it. Arlette R.
Dear Arlette Rosen,
You’ve heard of any number of bizarre and unique detectives, I’m sure. One-eyed, orchid-growing, feminist, etc. I propose an Armenian mystery series with Dikran Aram Boyajian as hero. He’d be Dikran the Dick. His nickname’s Deeke. A former Orthodox priest, photo-engraver, opera singer, and lighting designer, Dikran sells Oriental rugs. He is short, dark, sexy, suave, and mustachioed. He plays the oud and eats grape leaves twice a day. He is divorced, because divorced detectives seem to have more interesting sex lives. Using his special skills as an
