SHE’S GOT A TICKET TO RIDE November 1991 CHAPTER I The first snow is tight in the air the way deliberate words begin in the back of your throat--heavy cold, imbued with meaning: my window must be open, even in November; clean air now circulates through the acrid, oily odors of my work. My day is easy, very direct, little risk of danger. The stone wheel turns, my hands at one with the moment. I've carved out my corner of freedom, this in spite of the outside forces that conspire in far off places I can only touch from behind my heart, where doubt lifts on murmurs of hope. So here I am, her notes and detailed journal open for what I must reconstruct, find the ultimate truth: am I part of the equation now, after our lives have been thrown up in these ineffable dreams, the likes of which take me back so easily in a hush of honest breath drawn in silence. Am I only repeating moves out of fiercely held habit? Do I exist for others? Really give? I know she does. Lives it. Does what she says. And beyond. Can I become closer to her- even though she's far from me now? Hang with me. It begins with Janine's friend, Desire. I'd see her at one with her moment, there in her next door's bedroom, suspended above the everyday routine: Desire being your New Age devotee, a virtual medium to that world. Yes, in my mind's eye she'll be forever vivid, more real than one could possibly imagine--a neighbor, no less. And there in her solitary state, wearing her red kimono, the sweet cool silk surrounding her the way parallel universes may, outward she'd venture, on beyond the room with several wigs and falls at rest upon anonymous Styrofoam heads: some fifteen or more years of personalized style--chocolate Afro, one straightened strawberry blonde, along with a wryly done Farrah Fawcett variety, the waves and furls encouraging flight. In the background, smooth instrumental sound sweetens that late summer evening air that blows the curtains in and about. The candles allow the shadows on the wall, ceiling to dance about, the way some mischievous character would. Here, in mid air is Desire Barrone, a senior hair designer; she is divorced, an amateur seer-astrologer in love with life, especially the male species. And here I'd see her levitate, wearing a blue facial mask, cucumbers over her eyes, mouth parted in her yen for experience. Ever so serenely, her scarlet robe slinks to the floor: the fish- bony saxophone exhales on high as our Desire projects herself on up, outward--perhaps through the bedroom window. Believe me, she's out there. I try not seeing, suppressing thoughts of her. Just the same, these images dance, congeal in their separate place before departing through this window. Yes, out: around, upward and surely about... I see her passing over the house I now sit in, coursing above our yard, the street, then swirling the way a Sirocco would, right above our modest, white Cape Cod. She might see Janine preparing our dinner; two girls of twelve and sixteen and a boy of five anesthetized by TV. Then, smacked by miasmic winds, Desire's form sweeps on back inside her room: Damn! I'm ‘at one’ with--, she'd possibly plead. The phone rings out. And again. On the third ring she'd pick up. Yes? Hello? ,Desire says, maybe she could also see who the caller is. Is this the lady of the house? ,the phone solicitor says. I'm the woman of the house. Thank you. She hangs up. Out of her astro-projected state, back to earth now, Desire senses the demands of her evening: her Zen yoga; a candle-lit shower; two more unsolicited calls and something she has to share with my wife, Janine -- or lose this forever maybe. Sometimes, when at work upstairs on a piece of clay or torching metal, I'd allow myself the luxury of eavesdropping. I would soon understand that women compete, work one another just as we do--of course, it comes out differently. I'd always know when Carla came by for coffee, usually altering the flow of energy from Desire and my dear wife: a veritable chill of deliberation would spiral through the house; Desire would not appreciate Janine's friend of many years. For Carla would be coldly objective in her discernment of others: "He must work out at an ego-health club," she would offer, assessing one of our politicians. The truth would be that underneath the attorney exterior ran the impassioned heart of the very first marine to hit the beach. In time, we would come to understand each other. On this one day, though, Desire poured on about how "...doing the Rites," as she'd refer to her yoga-style exercises, gave her "...the power to be at one with what you can see. Be." In my mind's eye I'd see Janine nod in her warm, affirming manner, this while Carla looked on, her cool detachment offering, "She still watches Bandstand, doesn't she", not a minute after Desire's departure. In married life one rarely experiences, directly, the failings or successes of your spouse: it unveils itself in curious nuances that would fall to the ground with others. For it would be with Desire that I'd suspect that something was up; nothing would be said, other than her speculative concerns, this passion for the beyond that drives her. The very trill of her verbal pudding hid another level: "Neen, we have to try this. They're doing this Zen kind’a workout thing. It evolved from these Tibetan monks. Centuries old stuff." She heaved an existential breath. "Best thing is -- you reverse the aging process! These guys are like 80 looking like 50. And I can't believe they're all celibate. Counter to the energy..." She'd lean forward over her coffee, her body scent undulating a brazen peach that would awaken one out of a coma. She flared a physical presence: her body would send this musical jangling of her jewelry; her earrings and body chemistry adorning the moment. Janine wouldn't blink as Desire breathed, "Probably firm as goats, too." Sometimes I found it hard to understand their basis for friendship; it seemed more like an adoption of wills, some compromise that I would one day, understand. Nearly accept. But Desire reminded Janine to begin the "Rites" that very night, which received the warm, affirming nod of a good friend, though not committed completely. To divine the essence of Desire's system "to attain what must be," Janine confided, she would project her interior state while performing "The Rites"; these involved a yoga set of exercises done with your mind "in sync with your total self." I knew Janine maintained an open mind but would be surprised that she bought into the whole thing. In the silence of her sweat, the effusive steam from her awaiting shower, she willed her body and soul into shapes I'd imagine on the painted screens of Buddhist monks... But she'd push herself the way a long distance runner would, ever aware of some distant wall, yet never to hit this state; there'd be a meditation after completing the four rites, after which some projection of interior self carried her out, away from our known routine, the physical world. The moment before her shower she would discover the contents of this crucible, placing this unknown closer than most could begin to know, understand; here, I would hear her not unfamiliar words, learned early in grade school. "Like an out of body experience, almost the way a dream makes you feel close to something." I would regularly attend the village and the monthly school board meetings; Janine's urgent voice could be heard at the Lincoln Middle School PTA. We made our opinions heard, attempted bringing real world insight and challenge to a group of nodding heads attached to inert smiles. The first Tuesday of each month brought me to Kris' high school board meeting: attended by the kingpins of the system; I'd be the only one unattached to the school machinery or a standing committee. The appreciation for my attendance would fall below the room being unheated or without adequate air conditioning; done to assure the meeting flowed by the standards of the chairman and his cronies. The incident in question would be one of simple funding for extracurricular student events: I'd challenge them to seek out use of the athletic department budget to fund these, as these revenue-producing events had plenty left over for parties for athletes and parents. It'd be about the exclusive nature of how we treat our kids. Somehow, the perception surfaced that our preppy athletes should be treated with adulation, being granted privilege beyond that of the other students. I'd stand. "Mr. Deves, would you kindly not play here on the tax payers' time?" "Mr. Greenway, please. We've already gone over that item last meeting, in August. Those minutes were previously approved here, alright?" I sat down, abruptly. "That's perfect nonsense," I shot back. "We never gave the athletic department the latitude to make--" "Mr. Greenway," the chairman burped out, "it's decided." "Excuse you -- it is not. This 's just an elitist thing that'll come back to us. What about the kids who only participate in the Car Wash Fundraisers? The Food Drive? Those who are in clubs that you don't know exist? Where were we going?" They would bury the voice of dissent -- nothing had changed in over twenty years, which somehow heartened me. The down side here would be that this ugly little scene did not end right there. Identity, one's filtered image through the prism of the male ego, often allows less light than glare; or so I found out through our community feedback process. As much as I'd attempt to fit in, the neighbors kind of considered me anything from an out of work actor to one recovering from some unspeakable illness. I would never mind being ridiculed – of course, in this world things rarely happen face-to-face. The kids Kris' age would gather at the Woodcrest Mall, about four miles from our home. After school Kris would walk about these curious little shops, offering body piercing and tattoos, on to self-designed tee shirts and baseball hats. Kris loved the clothes, the things girls buy for their hair and God knows whatever jewelry. It sprang clear out of the mind-numbing of shuffling kids and older shoppers gawking at the displays of our immediate culture. "Hey Greenway," this loud-mouthed girl called out. At first Kris ignored this classmate by the name of Dory Domabil, who's been in her homeroom class. The sense to avoid conflict would not be deeply ingrained: Kris like her old man, she would be every bit the warrior in silence. (I could feel Kris recoil, sensing the challenge bubble a nasty brew.) "Doesn't your ol' man want us to have any stuff? Our Mardi Gras, the stupid spring dance?" Kris would turn around, coldly facing this mouthy girl with a massive mane of strawberry blond hair seemingly adding to her loud attitude. But Kris refused the advice of her friends, who asked her to ignore this girl: she slowly walked up to the rather large girl, steel and grit clearly at hand. "Did you have something to say to me?" She hands her purse to a friend. "You know. Don't act stupid." "Oh, you're not taking your own advice, then?" She edged closer to Dory, who backed up, closer to the pet shop window; inside, a band of puppies yelping grew in its intensity. "Hey -- don't give me any crap. You get --" The girl made a threat with her eyes -- but Kris, declining advice from her friends to let it go, edged closer to Dory, who'd now be backed flush to the pet shop window, with nowhere to move but to step aside and away. Kris would but stare at her. A crowd of onlookers gathered behind; some boys from school began making ‘hissing’ cat fight sounds, one offering, "The big-haired chick's got longer claws." "Look, Domabil, you have nothing to say -- about my father or anything, understand?" "So, like what're you going to do?" The eyes always have it: somewhere inside, the wages of past wrongs, the inventory of slights and evil half-truths spit out their timely statement of truth, conviction and the one righteous moment pokes up its head, the way some tiny turtle could have beneath them in the pet store window. Dory must have read her bullet eyes, just about to shove her way past when this silence shot out, its serene purpose of soft purple growing into the most certain threat to Dory Domabil's identity: for she could not blurt out two words, uttering a shrill, "Uhn," the threat two inches from her brassy strands of hair; Kris's gum expanding dangerously close to Dory's open soul. "See," Kris began, "that's exactly what you have to say. Understand?" She held the bubble in her hand, as though easing her gun down. She stepped back, allowing the big-haired girl to pass without threat of contact. Over the way a gust of wind picks up dust, fragments of refuse, only to deposit them in a better place. That night, she would explain to her mom this misunderstanding over what some loud-mouthed girl said about me. "We had this disagreement like over dad, these meetings he goes to and stuff. But," she'd dredge up, "we understand each other now, though." The girls grew into their social fabrics the way foreign people relocate to a new job -- everything revolves around new people, attitudes and the all consuming sense of trying to fit in. Kris would make friends easy enough: the mall and the family rooms of friends became her refuge; "sleep-overs" having a whole new meaning, purpose. Melissa would not be as outgoing, preferring her long, intense calls that could go on for hours; she developed an eating problem, wherein she excused herself from dinner, touching but strings of spaghetti and a sampling of a sumptuous Caesar salad. Then, before going to sleep, she'd wolf down a candy bar or several squirreled away chocolate cookies. Janine would have her talks involving the subjects that I have limited to non-existent knowledge. The sad thing, what wore at me would be the sense of them growing away from their protected youth, venturing into insistent independence. The setting cool of fall came the way a bad case of the flu courses through your veins. I knew that my lifetime partner found herself on this mission -- knowing full well her activist past, the demonstrations, the vehement "up against it" stance -- that would eventually launch her into uncharted waters. A very palpable stir of enthusiasm sauntered across the bedroom floor, nearly dancing to me: her energy oozing warmth that would heat turtle soup. That gleam in her dark eyes sent stellar light, a movement of her full face held and drew me toward her. "Something I need to tell you." She touched my arm as though through sleep. "You know, the girls -- Kris had this little thing after school yesterday." A leveling glance buoyed me up. "School? What're we saying?" She weighed my belief. "Well, the kids at school came at her with these lame criticisms of you, your views at the school board meetings." "You mean the Stepford parents infect their young with drivel and half-truths, pulling them from Nintendo and the mall! The mindless bastards." I felt her at my arm. "Hey, hon," she breathed close. "Kris defended you. Stood up. Hey, be proud of her." The moonlight wrapped us in a consuming embrace; her silk robe cool and sweetly warm about my ankles and feet. We'd inhale each other like we would in college. Everything pivoted around the trip to our local Jewel. Janine brought Brian to assist her shopping; this would give me a break, as well as afford her support carrying the bulky stuff, like industrial size kitchen towels, detergent boxes. Janine entrusted him with the divine number oozed out in Desire's formula; Janine filtered these through a curious process involving numerology, yoga and some zeta-brain wave activity –- or, so it would first appear. At the cashier's, everyone received a surprise: the cheerful lady punching in the numbers at her register nearly dropped her overbite, my wife transforms into an instant Amazon warrior queen, her glazed eyes taking in Brian pulling down his pants. "What are you doing? You fix your pants right now!" Somewhere in the hysteria of the moment, Brian yanked up the strip that would contain her numbers, written on the back of an "Uncle Phil's Pizza" receipt. Janine would be soothed as the cashier sprang, "Not the same ol', huh?" "These," Janine leaned closer, her tone lower, intense. "Written on the wind. That a five or-- A five yes--needs his hat. Sorry." "Mighty Mouse gonn’a help his momma out, huh?" "He may survive this year." That evening dinner in the setting daylight felt more like a make-shift lunch; Janine did not have help from Kris. The pasta alternative kicked in. The kids would hardly eat: Brian seemed full of birthday cake and ice cream; Kris had too many chips and, Melissa continued on her way of being ambivalent over any meal, particularly with family. I'd worry that her eating habits reflected the shell of a whole other project. She wore a weak pallor, the down-turned mouth and slouchy posture said it clearly. And what would be worse, I failed reaching her (I knew Janine would help out.) She regarded me as one who'd be "out of it..." Of course she was right. A simple crayon drawing of a train: blue on brown, with yellow seamless wheels rolling on invisible tracks, this with the Van Gogh color curd of fuchsia, orange and periwinkle box cars trudging behind the fire engine locomotive of blue-green algae. He brought the passion of Picasso, with the heart of Peter Pan. Brian threw his whole body into the experience of coloring on the coffee table before the constant tube of disinformation. I craned on into the family room to check on him: apparently, he'd pay scant attention to the "chirpy" announcer spewing out the drawn numbers from the manicured waxy fingers of an aging model. "How we doing, Bri?" "O.K. dad. This man's noisy -- but not chirpy like the usual Jeopardy man." And he'd press on as though rooted in his life's work. In the following days -- which now are a blur -- he'd turn his face from me as he spoke, quite like I'd become a stranger. This whole process--I'm yet piecing it together -- would be processed by Janine. The whole family would be challenged by events way beyond us. I'd learn much more about the world I sought to avoid, pulling me far out to choppy seas. Nothing would ever be quite the same. Brian finished his milk with the implicit understanding that he could continue his drawing. In the background the TV pulsated from the floor, shaking the delicate glass in our curio cabinet. We knew this as a good release for him. Janine tested with her eyes the girls and myself, noting the tension. "So, how's Mr. Bowman's U.S. History?" Kris seemed very distant. "Same ol', mom." "Once you're by the Stamp Tax and Whiskey Rebellion, you realize --" I began. "Aw, dad -- it's all memory stuff." "-- that we should've let the Indian Nations rule." "What is that? You're so --" Janine lent forward "Guys we're working up to the Civil War and it's only 1760 or so." "You have to inhale history, feel its drive, destiny," I couldn't help myself. "Not just dates, Kristin." Kris reeled her head backward. "Melissa, what's your favorite subject?" I felt her withdraw further. She merely shook her head some. Janine gripped this. "Hey, can you two guys help me with the dishes tonight? Need to work on a report for Mr. Doyle tomorrow morning. Bamboo crash's throwing our plan up into the fan." "Mom, sometimes it's like you work at a casino." Sometimes, when we shifted our attention to life outside the family, Brian sensed his own remoteness; he wouldn't be ignored, just encouraged to act alone. It would not occur to me that he imitated my own aloneness. As I craned into the family room, he'd catch me: "What are we watching, Bri?" His reply could be perfectly understood -- but days later. The answer would have to be learned, as well as earned. I soon would learn that to keep what you value, it's essential to rediscover it. Brian received much praise from his devoted mother: this high honor involved placing his drawing in the upstairs bathroom, in view of the mirror above the vanity, so as not to be missed by anyone -- except Melissa who used the bathroom in near darkness; solace has its price. (For once, Brian, defying his fear of underground sewer-born monsters, had grittily left the toilet seat up.) Janine would be the last one to bed having finished monitoring reports from trading in the Far East on her PC. There, standing at the bathroom sink, her head framed by steam from her shower, she could yet see the numbers she'd written on the mirror the previous night. And wiping away the steam her tired eyes fell on Brian's multi-colored train: she felt good about his progress with dyslexia, having but a backward "3". Progress really was there with Mrs. Petersohn. But the yellow scrawled stuff at the bottom of his drawing grabbed her attention, for those numbers felt damned familiar; has he been in my desk drawer" Oh what? She clearly grabbed her second wind, launching her wide awake. Janine whirled, tearing the drawing from the wall in this cold, stubborn rush. A sudden dry sharpness bit at the back of her throat. She'd open the door, the tube of toothpaste in one hand, Brian's drawing in the right. Again, she burned through the curled up paper, the number 5 perfect, hat and all, the fast, clean realization that her desk key would be with her house keys, left in her trench coat, which she found in the hallway closet. She stood before her desk, frozen silent, full of will. The drawer would not silkily slide open revealing tax forms, envelopes of important papers, odd-valued stamps just waiting for the next thick letter sent. But no. She'd pull that middle drawer to find it immovable as the tomb of a pharaoh. Her breathing raced, gulping, raw desert air, Janine found the lock with the jangling keys mercilessly causing her to feel like a burglar to her own possessions. There it sat, a furled receipt peeking out of the envelope of coupons, completely the way she left it. No one could know her numbers but herself. And, of course, the cashier at Jewel. Brian would not have read the numbers. She launched herself upstairs, her mind reaching, heart racing ahead. I only guess at her passage: I'd see her mount the steps to my son's room, the telling drawing in her hand, quite possibly attempting not so much thought as discovering that place...this nest of energy she draws meaning, strength from at will. That beyond. Standing outside Brian's room began her trip, as I'd think of it, before her ticket became this bone of contention. Whether she inadvertently woke Brian or unconsciously wanted to, I'm unsure. But her image there shadowy in his night lit doorway shot him upright the way nightmares do. "It's O.K., Bri, just me." He read her there through silence. "Time to get up?" "No, honey. Just wanted to tuck you in, see you before I try to sleep." She'd sit down next to him. "O.K., mom. No funny guys," he said with a shrug. "Your drawing you made at dinner, remember? Did you make your train, then put your favorite numbers on it? That's what you did?" Brian made this dazzling tired smile that said, yeah that's sure a good idea, mom. "I wanted to write down the numbers the man said. In case dad used'd the newspaper for one of his project things. That's all, mom." She gathered her thoughts, gulping on what to say, feel. "I think we should keep these -- your picture our secret. O.K.? Between you and me only." "Sure, mom." He made a key-to-mouth locking gesture. "Sleep now." Janine kissed him on his forehead, gathered herself, moved to the exterior of her truest self, quite the way a ghost would. There, on our second floor screen porch, she'd hold onto the deepest quiet of the night's calm; Crest mint toothpaste would be swirled on her pink robe, her head filling with waking dreams. Of course I knew her well, but what grew from these moments, this bread of meaning, would be far beyond what I could imagine. I yet find wonder in her ability to touch the moment: it sure lives on. Sleeplessness ached from her head down to her toes: she'd moved through the pre-dawn hours with that truly felt understanding of routine, this balanced against her earlier revelation that would in time rock our world. In that pastel gold that bathed the tops of our neighbor's lofty poplars, she made her weighty decision, launching her beyond the grind of everyday commitments, meetings and unscheduled events that fueled her positions in a myriad of monetary trades around the world. I see her standing there: wearing her reflective, smile, not assuming the moment, lost in the gloom of my studio, Janine floated through the smell of oily blue and yellow paints, burnt acrid metals and the freshness of the morning's dew wafting up through the screen windows; her robe fell loosely around the cool air, the mint green toothpaste forming a "Z" on the overstuffed silk pocket. Janine would find wonderful things when lost. A deft energy found its way in her veins. I'd see her as we'd be in college: that tenacity of spirit, the quiet, Zen-like musculature of steel will. She would make her decision that could easily dissolve a lesser marriage, on the face of it alone. She protected us. Me. Her resolution built on who she was, not what she wanted, would stand alone. And, leaving that room where I labored in the shadows of hope, there'd be no turning back now. The kids would sense that their mother changed in terms of the tone she'd take in simple household dealings: Brian now regarded his mother as a harried financial analyst for one of the country's more conservative investment houses, who happened to be on the board of social service agencies, and remote homework mentor. The line of vision Brian found as his mother placed the oozily-buttered toast secure in her carrying case, her calculator fretfully placed in the microwave. As she'd hit "START", the window inside revealing gold-green, yellow and orange numerals in her head, yet steeped in sleeplessness and spiraling anxiety. "Mom," Brian pried, "why are you flying around like some astronaut, mom?" "Honey, I'm preparing my breakfast...and heating -- oh, my God! I'm cooking my calculator." "It's O.K. mom." Brian widened his eyes. "Dad puts his paint and other stuff in there, too." Janine scooted across the kitchen. "Now Bri, we're going to keep our little secret, remember?" "Mom," Brian put his thumb, forefinger to form a key. "My mouth is sealed." dark through much of this enlightenment. Stubbing my toes on family business proved the least of it: seeing my daughter get harassed after school began the process; I wouldn't know the level to which the Stepford citizens would sink. But I had my instincts sharpened the way a bear grows its own claws in readiness of self-protection. This would be war.