The Color of Cold and Ice Page 6
After the Bhagavad Gita, he began reading the Bible, that is the New Testament. He found that even more confusing. So then, he just narrowed it down to the words of Jesus, the one’s in red. Wasn’t that supposedly what it was all about? Other than what people termed as the golden rule, the verse that stuck with him the most was Ye are gods. Wasn’t that what the Iceman was kind of teaching? Maybe he was a modern day messiah, or prophet of some kind. God forbid that he should refer to Jesus as the Messiah. Although his parents were liberal, they would probably draw the line there. Or maybe not. They hadn’t said anything at all when they saw the Bhagavad Gita or Bible in his room along with the usual Penthouses and Playboys. He hadn’t bothered to cover them up.
His parents’ lack of direction was the stimulant for Allison’s make a plan, forge ahead manner. She saw in their parents a lack of stability and meant to make up for it. On the other hand, Mark fell into their trap, directionless, one moment wanting to take courses in self-improvement, the next burying his head in the sand, taking the easiest, least complicated route, drifting from month to month, year to year.
Rain was going to change all that. She was a breath of fresh air. Like her parents, she had causes, a little unconventional, like saving the pandas and tents for the homeless, but nevertheless, causes. There were no pandas in New York that he knew of. And tents for the homeless? Rain had suggested that a part of Central Park be cordoned off for them, with a soup kitchen complete with showers and toilets. Instead, Christo put up sheets, perhaps a more noble gesture.
Rain was a marvel. Her enthusiasm was both contagious and flabbergasting at the same time. She soon grew tired of one cause and moved on to the next. He was one of her causes, her longest, for three whole years. Nine months had been the longest she had lasted on anything he had observed. Maybe it was their incompatible schedules that kept her from growing tired of him longer than the due date. He was like the baby in her belly that refused to come out and greet the world.
He had liked her parents. They found glory in reliving the olden days. They weren’t shy at all about their adventures.
Their favorite topic of conversation was Woodstock. According to them, they were big buds with Janis Joplin, or at least they met her, actually conversed with her. At each telling, the dialogue had become longer and more varied. Poor Janis wasn’t around any longer to verify anything they said, even if she would have remembered it. It had started with pass the weed. That is the only part that never changed. Mark suspected that was the gist of it.
They had rolled naked in the mud with the rest of them. That part of the saga never altered either. Free love, those were the days, Rain’s dad would say. That was when Rain was conceived. Mark wasn’t even sure if Rain’s dad was her biological father. He found no resemblance at all. He wondered if anyone else had ever questioned this? Rain could have half-brothers and sisters she didn’t even know about. But who was he to be concerned? No one else in the family was.
Rain’s younger brother was a chip off the old block in appearance. He worked as an accountant and had aspirations of getting his CPA degree. Rain’s mom had a shop in the village, much of where Rain’s clothes came from. After the Woodstock glory days, Rain’s dad had settled for a conventional lifestyle. He became a dentist, like his father before him.
One early morning after a gig, Mark came home to find all of Rain’s tie-dyed t-shirts, muslin skirts, faded jeans, and beads missing. He went to the bathroom to find his lone toothbrush cup. Rain’s Waterpik, Sonicare, loads of dental floss and whitening agents, all supplied by her father, had disappeared, leaving the discolored tile counter rather stark. She had left the posters for her various causes tacked up on the wall. He dared not remove them fearing there removal might bring down the whole wall as they were all that was holding the plaster intact. He would have something to remember her by that is until Shelly came along and promptly removed them. The holes they left were an eyesore. When his lease was up, he moved in with Shelly, foregoing the deposit. He had never heard of anyone who got a deposit back in New York.
What was his problem with relationships? He was like an orange out of season; no something more exotic, a cantaloupe, a fruit that had to be just right when eaten. Timing was crucial. His timing with women had always been off as was his timing with life.
* * *
Allison opened the door wider, looking out from the stoop at him and to the three yards of lawn in front of their brownstone, if you could call it a lawn. It consisted of ivy and shrubs on both sides of the steps which landed squarely onto the sidewalk as did those of all the houses lined up neatly down the blocks as far as the eye could see. “No Shelly?” she questioned with surprise, looking in all directions.
“No,” he said as he reached for Molly, lifted her up, and said, “How’s my girl?” Then he gave Little John a pat on his head, messing up his curls, the black locks so like his that his mom refused to cut off, and said, “How’s my little man?” Then, he looked back towards Allison and said matter-of-factly, “We broke up.”
Allison aborted an involuntary smile. Mark gave her a kiss on the cheek. “Do you mind if I crash here for a few days?”
Allison, still trying to hold back her approval, said, “Well, sure, under the circumstances. You’ll have to give me a chance to clean the spare room. It has become the children’s playroom. Well, come on in. You can help me with dinner and tell me all about it.”
Chapter 7
Yellow
* * *
I AM LIFE itself, worshiped in ancient times, bowed to, saluted. Yogis in the upper reaches of snow covered mountains humble themselves to me and chant Sanskrit verses in my honor. I am the spiritual heart, the creator, the one who causes plants to grow. I am a disposition, sunny. I am luminous.
I am every taste sensation, creamy and oily on bread, running over pancakes, tart in ice tea, sweetened with sugar in lemonade, scrambled and poached and runny in the mornings, a rich, velvety hollandaise sauce. I grow on trees, every monkey’s delight. I am spiraled, sliced and diced, astringent and bitter, bell peppers and squash, sizzling in a wok.
I am optimism, spontaneity and gentleness. I am a bright balloon floating up towards my glorious rays of warmth. I am happiness. I am the alchemist’s prize, Rapunzel’s long locks, Marilyn Monroe’s head of hair, flaxen and soft. I am fun. I am happiness. I am a happy face at the end of a text.
I am a field, my individual stalks swaying in unison like synchronized swimmers, hypnotizing and calming my viewer. Sunflowers rising to meet the sky, or piled hay in a field, brushed on a canvas by the master, Van Gogh, both equally beautiful when done with such skilled hands.
I can be cowardly, envious and jealous. I am a character flaw, the trait of Judas Iscariot, the lion in The Wizard of Oz, Homer on the verge of pushing a button that melts a good portion of the world.
Dorothy skipped upon me, her path to the answers, she, the Scarecrow, the Cowardly Lion, and the Tin Man sought.
I am deep and rich, the collection of many, sculpted into jewelry, embracing a multitude of necks, fingers and wrists of both the common and the elite. I look out at a cheering crowd, as I’m placed around young sportsmen and women in their glorious achievement in ceremonious pomp. I am the shame of the bearer on a threadbare coat boarding the train on the way to Auschwitz. I am stacked in bricks in a fort in Kentucky, heavily guarded, and in various forms in the cave of Smaug.
My names are many — ochre, daffodil, lemon, canary, corn, straw and brass.
I am the third chakra and can be found in the solar plexus. I deal with many issues: self-esteem, confidence, energy, and inner power. When balanced, I am sunny and bright, exuding confidence, a bright ray of joy, the light in the room. When I’m lacking, I’m passive and meek, seeing myself as a victim and easily manipulated. Negative energy brings my physical world to a gloomy halt. I exhibit ulcers, unruly digestion, hypertension and chronic fatigue.
I must be well grounded at all times and warm.
Chap
ter 8
Allison
* * *
A HAND WRITTEN menu, in faultless script lay on the granite kitchen peninsula, beside it an open white laptop with the conspicuous Apple logo gleaming onto the pristine surface of the earth-colored swirled counter. Three tabs open at once, displayed recipes neatly aligned in slender columns. All had pictures of the finished dishes complete with woks and brightly colored serving plates. Pictures were a requirement in her cookbooks or on her computer as Allison needed to envision the end results clearly in her mind.
An array of vegetables — carrots, onions, bok choy, snow peas, and cabbage covered the counter; segmented into their various groups, regimented in the order they would be added to the wok. Small glass containers, something she had picked up at Williams and Sonoma, held different spices — ginger, cardamom, cinnamon, sea salt, and pepper. Everything aligned in sequence, ready for the prompt to get the show on the road, ready for the invisible director to say, ‘and action’ so that Allison could put on a smile for the pretend camera for her nightly make-believe cooking show that was about to air.
Once when John had seen the small glass bowls, he gave her a look somewhere between calculated mischief and puzzlement and shook his head. “Salespeople must be elated to see you walk into a store.”
She had learned to shrug off his half-hearted quips concerning what he termed as her just on the fringe of OCD. But, Allison prided herself on preparation and organization. She ran her finger down her menu once again and studied the computer screen, making sure she hadn’t forgotten anything. She could have put the menu on her computer as well, but she chose to write it. Writing was a lost art she wished to preserve, something she practiced every day, mainly through lists. They weren’t even teaching cursive writing in schools anymore. A cringe came to her face when she thought about that sad turn of events.
Off to the side of the recipes on her desktop screen was the folder containing her speech to the school board and parent teacher organization on why cursive writing was still important. It needed tweaking. She still had a week before the next meeting. She had practiced it on Molly and Little John. Molly, her oldest, clearly didn’t have a clue but applauded, anyway. Allison was certain deep down that Little John, although still in pre-school, sensed the importance, at least innately. He looked at her with his wise brown eyes and began forming a crude J with his black crayon on his completed drawing.
She was no longer a teacher but was thinking of someday going back to it, after Molly and Little John no longer needed her at home, maybe during those empty nest years. She had to stay connected for both her children’s sakes and her own. Staying in touch and lobbying for what she believed in at the parent-teacher meetings was primal to her.
She often got compliments on her handwriting. She was slow and deliberate in guiding her pen on paper. Writing was mediation with a purpose. She hated those new electronic signature devices in stores. Getting a stylus to function as a fine tipped Pilot, her favorite, was nearly impossible. Still, she gave it her best shot.
John would often admonish her in holding up the line while she took her time trying to master her signature with the corded stylus at the checkout. Her persistence paid off as a clerk at Target said that it was the best signature she had ever seen on one of those contraptions. She was an older, graying woman, one who could appreciate something old school. One would think that John would be proud of her accomplishment, yet on the rare occasions they shopped together, he would often rush ahead, slide his card, and scribble his signature in under a second. “No one cares,” he said, looking back at her and winking, as if he was one up on her. Life could be such a competition with John. He did it in a playful way, though. That was one of the things that had attracted her to him.
Who would ever know she was the wife of a doctor, except in the rare instances she wrote a check? Emblazoned across the top were Dr. and Mrs. John Gray. In the beginning, she felt a tinge of pride whenever she signed her name and handed it to a clerk. It said they could afford things. But they were in debt up to their necks. There were the student loans. The brownstone had been a bargain, or so they thought. It was a fixer upper. Who knew fixing up cost more than buying something easy, a floor plan already laid out with perfect woodwork, level floors, one where Little John’s cars and trucks would stay in place and not roll off into some corner under a chair snagged into dusty cobwebs she had missed. That annoyed him to no end, as it did her, both the cobwebs and the uneven floors. John was oblivious to it. They were such opposites in so many things.
The idea of fixing up the house had seemed so romantic at the time, mostly to her. But how could they be romantic in a wood and stone artificial intelligent structure that fought them ever step of the way? It had not been what they bargained for. Neither she, nor John, had experience with contractors who continuously found some other problem, some new expense, some new delay. John, in a fit of desperation, washed his hands of the matter. He handed the complete reins of remodeling over to her. He only cautioned her not to go over budget. He had doled out certain amounts in increments that they kept in a special house account.
The brownstone purchase came on the heels of John beginning his new practice. Buying a house would not have even been on the radar had her parents not helped him out, them out, with the startup money for his office. Her parents saw the drain the ER was taking on their marriage.
It was shortly after John opened up shop in Manhattan that she became pregnant with Little John. The novelty of the new house, the crimson wallpaper in the master bedroom, out of some Victorian novel, and the fact that Molly was no longer waking up at all hours of the night, had sparked a passion between them. And, then, it was also Valentine’s Day. John had asked her to wear her red heels, only her red heels. She often wondered where that came from. It wasn’t him. Was there another John buried beneath the one she thought she knew? Should she be worried? No, she was the only woman in the bedroom, naked, except for her heels. She let it pass and lost herself that night. It was one of the few times she had lost control. John telephoned her three times the next day. When she asked why, although she knew, he said, “Just because.”
Things slowed down after that night. They didn’t discuss it, but she knew that even trying to reproduce it would somehow come up lacking. She settled back into a comfortable routine while in the deep recesses of her mind a shorted-out neon sign dimly registered the word defeat. An even weaker, corroded sign buried beneath it weakly blinked try again.
Sex had become boring, routine, twice a week, once a week, then monthly. She made the bed and flinched at the hideous red wallpaper. In a fit of despair and anger, she tore it from the walls, went to the paint store, and picked out a bright yellow. She handed the color square which said Optimistic Canary, to the clerk who squealed in delight, “Oh, I just love it when customers pick something bold. For your kitchen, dear?”
“Yes,” Allison lied and smiled. She took the can, along with a wooden stirring stick and a metal opener, some brushes, a roller, an edger, a floor cloth, and gloves, all things the clerk was only to happy to load her up with and stepped with a purpose out the door. There was no thought of hiring painters. This was something she needed to do on her own.
The whole process took a day. There was no stopping for lunch or even a drink. She was energized by something that had been welling up inside of her. She looked over at the clock to find it was time to pick up Molly. No time to shower or change. With strands of yellow through her hair and on her jeans and sweatshirt, she drove up in the circular pick up area, ignoring the stares from the other moms, as she got out of her Prius and entered the school. Molly looked her up and down in disbelief, hesitant to take her hand.
“Are you okay, Mama?” she asked.
“Yes. Mama is fine. Hey, Molly, would you like to go through the McDonald’s drive-thru?”
“Like other kids?” Molly asked with a baffled smile as if this was not her real mom at all.
“Just this one time.”
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* * *
John, upon seeing the room, put his arm around her, saying nothing. They moved into the spare bedroom until the paint fumes died down.
Within a week, she discovered that she was pregnant with Little John. Maybe painting a bedroom during the initial stage of pregnancy wasn’t the best thing, but nothing seemed amiss. So she didn’t worry.
The new bedroom gave off a vibe of cheeriness and after her pronouncement of pregnancy, tenderness, as that was how John made love to her after hearing the news. Inspiration followed tenderness, prompting her to put blonde faux wood binds up to offset the morning glare of the paint, another project she took on herself. She threw in different hues of blues, pillows and a new comforter, smooth, nothing to get hung up in. She plopped herself onto the bed, admiring her new decorating expertise, feeling cooled by the new ceiling fan that didn’t need to be running in March, but she needed it for effect. The room was something she could call her own, except for the new ceiling fan.
The guy who installed it was older, a one-man act. She liked his company. She offered him a beer while he worked, which he gladly took. She drank with him, only hers was a concoction of apple juice and wheat grass, something for the baby. She told him about her pregnancy.