I reclined in bed while my mother stood with her back to me folding washcloths, the morning news blaring in the background.
“Mom, did you love Dad?”
“Sometimes more than others,” she said without turning.
“Why did you stay with him?”
“You don’t leave someone when they’re down. And he was always down.” She thought about it a moment longer. “He was a good man, mostly.”
“What made you marry him?”
She turned to me then. “He made me feel safe.” We remained silent for a long while as I rubbed my belly.
“What did Dad say when you told him you were pregnant the first time?”
“He said, ‘Oh shit.’ Then he went for a walk, came back, and was fine.”
“That wasn’t very supportive.”
“He was very happy, but he was scared, too. That’s how he dealt with it.”
“Do you think he would have liked Chris?”
“I think they would have gotten along. As much as your father got along with anyone.”
“What kind of thing is that to say?”
“Your father’s whole goal in life was to be left alone.”
“But you stayed.”
“Where was I going to go?” She gathered the pile of washcloths, putting them in the laundry basket. “I really did love him, you know.”
Then she headed to the linen closet, leaving me with my thoughts.
Jackie was at the door. I hadn’t known she was coming, but here she was introducing herself to my mother, who was thrilled to meet one of my friends. They were chatting about foot cramps and potassium, and my mother was asking Jackie for the number of her orthopedic doctor. I looked down at my belly, knowing one day I, too, would embarrass my child, talk too much, and ask strangers inappropriate questions. I’d better get that meatball recipe so they’d keep me around.
“You probably don’t want me here. I’ll go into the other room,” my mother said, turning to leave.
“Ma, you can stay.”
“No, no, you visit with your friend. I’m happy to sit by myself.” She turned and left.
“How’s the pain?” Jackie said.
“Not so good, but better.”
“Life is full of pain, sweetheart. I’m going to help you. One word. Visualization. Got that?”
“I may need another word or two.”
“Relaxation techniques. It works. Half your pain is stress. There’s nothing like a mental vacation to escape your uterus for a while.” I raised an eyebrow and Jackie scooted herself up to the edge of the pink-and-blue-striped chair. Sitting up tall, she clasped her hands in her lap. “Take a deep breath. Find a place you want to go or a place you’ve been, and go there. Really go there. Get out of this stuffy house.”
“I wish.”
“Are you talking to your baby?”
“No.”
“Oh, honey, you have to talk to your baby. Tell him what’s going on. You never have to be alone. You have another person there right inside you. Soon they want nothing to do with you, trust me. My daughter isn’t answering my calls. Right now, that baby is a captive audience.” She pointed at my belly. “Don’t you think the baby is wondering what’s going on?”
I assumed my child thought the Monsters were its brothers and sisters—talk about sibling rivalry. I have a pretty intense relationship with my brother, but he never tried to steal my blood; he just tried to spill it as often as possible.
“I can’t stay long. Doctor’s appointment. Look at the size of my leg, all swollen.” Jackie pulled up her black pant leg and showed me a heinous bruise the size of a small melon.
“What the hell, Jackie?”
“Phlebitis. Going now.” She rummaged through her bag and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. Then she pointed at me, a cigarette now dangling between her two fingers. “Visualize. Do it. Report back. Feel better.”
“Stop smoking,” I yelled as she headed toward the door.
I moved to my lounge chair on the deck, taking with me three couch cushions to prop up and place between my legs. My yoga instructor had told me a story about a yogi who had been ill and bedridden, and so, to keep himself fit, he went through a series of yoga poses in his head. I took a few cleansing breaths, closed my eyes, and began my Sun Salutation, stretching up to the sky and swooping back down again to reach the floor, one foot back, and then the other. Plank, Chaturanga, and Upward Dog. I moved on to Warrior One and then Warrior Two. It was in this pose I felt most powerful, and so I stayed here. And then onto Triangle, and finally Pigeon.
It was working; I was deep inside myself. I hadn’t moved this much in months. I was lighter. A truck pulled up to the house and cut its engine, breaking my concentration. Out stepped Dave, the Charlie Chaplin UPS guy. With a smile permanently glued to his face, and always bearing gifts, he was officially one of my favorite people. He came through the deck gate, his dark tight curls slicked back and neat, his collar open an extra button.
“Got a package for you.” Satchie Red ran over to him, putting her two front paws up, muddying his beige uniform. “Can’t fool this dog,” he said as he reached into his pocket and pulled out a biscuit. Satchie Red looked at it, deciding if she would give him the satisfaction of accepting his offering.
“Hot today,” I said.
He nodded.
“I mean the weather,” I clarified. Oh my God, I had no idea how to talk to people anymore, especially men.
“Yeah. No air conditioner in the truck. Makes for a long day. At least I can look forward to it at home. Your dog doesn’t like cookies?”
“She doesn’t trust you, or anybody else for that matter.”
“Well, I’ll leave it here for her.” He placed it on the ground and stepped away. Satchie Red ignored him. Charlie Chaplin and I had built up a sweet rapport, and over time I had learned tidbits about his route, his family, and his life. “Don’t tell anyone,” he said, leaning in, “but I might be up for a promotion. It would mean I wouldn’t be on this route.”
“I’ve got nine and a half weeks to go. You can’t abandon me now. I’m in no condition to start over with someone new. Try to wait it out.”
“Don’t worry, I won’t leave you high and dry. Tons of red tape. Hang in there. I’ll see you in a few days.”
Satchie Red followed him to the deck gate with her purple tongue lolling to one side. I watched her panting, the quick, deep intake of oxygen, the drool, her drooping jowls, and I suddenly had the most brilliant thought. It was something Charlie Chaplin had said. What was it? Oh, yes! Air-conditioning! We needed an air conditioner!
I dialed.
“Lawn and Power . . .”
“Do we own an air conditioner?” There was no time for hellos.
“What?” I didn’t answer him. I could wait him out forever. I had no place to go. Finally, he broke. “We don’t have an air conditioner. No one who ever lived in that house needed an air conditioner.”
“The people who lived in this house didn’t need support beams in their basement either. I’m ordering an air conditioner.”
“You’ll never find one that fits our windows.”
“Is this a challenge?”
“We have jalousies, what the locals call trailer windows. They don’t make an air conditioner that will fit those. Anyway, gotta go. Line of customers.” I heard the phone click before I had a chance to say “I love you.” I pictured Chris juggling three customers and the phone all at once . . . in an air-conditioned shop.
“Oh, it’s on, baby!” I said to no one.
Chris’s days were speeding up as mine slowed down. Everyone around me was constantly in motion. My mother couldn’t sit still, and even Jackie only had time for short visits. What was so pressing? Where was everybody going? Had everyone always been this busy? Was I the only one who lay in the quiet stillness of the long afternoon listening to the birds, observing the same two hawks swooping over the field looking for a meal every single day? No one had time to notice the birds anymore. Satchie Red sniffed the biscuit Charlie Chaplin had left on the deck. She took one tentative lick and turned away, leaving it for the ants.
While my mother locked herself in the guest room with a fan and a pile of paperwork she had brought from home to sort through, I spent the rest of the afternoon becoming an HVAC expert. I already knew how to sand floors, could throw around some pretty impressive power-equipment jargon, and had figured out how to rent an apartment from bed. Now I was learning yet another skill that no one back in Brooklyn would ever believe. By the time I concluded my exhaustive search for cooling systems, I could have installed tubing for central air. Since that would never fly in this old house, I found one air conditioner with terrible reviews that would fit the small crank window in the formal living room.
If anyone had ever told me that true salvation comes in the form of a big brown UPS truck, I would have thought it was a lie. But a few days later, as I was sunning on the deck, there was Charlie Chaplin, shirtsleeves rolled up high past his biceps, sweat stains under his armpits. Even the fine, curled chest hairs peeking out of his uniform glistened. He walked up the deck steps, and the first thing I spied in the glaring sun was a faded rose tattoo on his forearm with the name “Linda” on it.
“Who’s the lucky lady?”
“Sister . . . she died.”
“Oh. Sorry.”
“Long time ago.” He shrugged. “Listen, there’s no way this box is coming off the truck. Too heavy.”
“It’s an air conditioner.”
“That explains it. I got a slipped disk.” He placed his hand on his lower back.
I was so close to having cool air, I was salivating.
“Maybe you can help me pull it off the truck.”
I cocked my head, biting my lower lip. I thought Charlie Chaplin and I understood each other. We had this great thing where he spoke and then I spoke, he gave me a present, and then he left. It was the perfect relationship. But now I felt like it had all been a lie. I wasn’t even supposed to lift my lunch, let alone an air conditioner. How could he not know this?
“It’s going to take about twenty minutes for me to even contemplate getting up from this lounger.”
“Right. Maybe I can use that wheelbarrow over there?” I studied his features. He was older than I had thought. The lines on his face told a story. I didn’t know if it was a story of sadness, resignation, or just hard living.
“How about this: leave it anywhere you like. My husband has superhuman strength. I’ve seen him lift a refrigerator by himself. He’ll get it inside.”
As he turned to go, I called to him. “Hey, any news about your promotion?”
“Nah, nothing yet. Don’t worry, I won’t leave you.”
I smiled. “You deserve it, Dave. I hope it happens for you.”
He nodded. “Thanks.”
“Dave, do you like your job?”
“Yeah. You know, it’s a job. I have a son.”
“Preschool, right?”
“Yeah.” He stood there, thinking. “I like to draw, make art. But you know, that don’t pay the bills.”
“What do you draw?”
“You see this tattoo? I designed it myself. Maybe I’ll show you my work sometime.”
“I’m going to miss you.” And then I wondered if I shouldn’t have said it. That is not what you are supposed to say to the UPS guy. But Dave had become much more than just a random stranger who brought me little pieces of happiness once in a while.
A few hours later, a screech followed by a bang stopped my mother in the middle of her lecture about the precision required to blacken a whole onion in a pan so that it flavors, but does not char, the chicken cutlets. “Fuck,” I whispered. I threw my head back on the pillow and covered my eyes with my hand. Satchie Red strained her ears and ran to the window.
I cringed at the sound of the slamming screen door.
“There’s a big box in the middle of the driveway,” Chris said.
“I heard.”
“Scratched up your car pretty good. Just the bumper though. We’ll touch it up at the shop.”
“Oh. Okay. Just the bumper? What about the box?”
“Just the bumper. The box is fine. Mostly grazed the wheelbarrow.” He disappeared. Moments later I heard him struggling to fit the box through our narrow hallway, followed by a gentle thud.
“House isn’t wired for this type of AC. Going to have to make a couple of calls.” He placed it in front of the bed, where it would stay until we found someone to rewire the house.
Progress.
The next afternoon Chris came home with a buxom brunette and headed to the bedroom without stopping to say hello. There was nothing I could do. I wasn’t even interested in watching. About ten minutes later, I heard the woman say, “I can’t reach. Can you try to push it through the hole? I’ll let you know when you’re in.” My eyes widened. I wished they would be quiet about it. But then I heard footsteps approaching. Maybe they were done.
Chris came in with the woman trailing behind. As she adjusted her work belt, I noticed her sculpted arms.
“This is Theo. She’s working on the electric.” Theo came over, extending her hand. Her skin was rough and her nails were raw around the cuticles. I tried not to be skeptical about the idea of a woman electrician. I wasn’t worried about her electrical prowess; it was more the other kind of prowess I had concerns about. It is pure fact that men love women with power tools.
“Your wiring’s shot. You plug that air conditioner into an outlet, probably blow up half the house.”
Tempting.
The two of them worked together for the remainder of the afternoon, her pushing, him pulling, sparks flying, and finally we were ready for the great unveiling. Together they opened the box and pulled out the air conditioner. It was beautiful. I could almost feel the relief. Until Chris turned it around to face me. It was crushed on one side.
I put the back of my hand to my forehead. Defeated. Again. Perhaps I should have invested in a fainting couch instead.