Roadmap Part 12

CHAPTER 27 - SEVENTH HEAVEN

I left a message on Eva's answering machine asking what she's doing for Carmelita's birthday. That was two weeks ago. Today she calls.

"I don't even feel like getting her a gift, I'm so pissed off at her. You know, she's sick and I have absolutely no sympathy. She does it to herself. Yesterday she cancelled a rolfing session because she says she's too sick to go.  I just can't stand the way she treats people!"

At work, in the lobby downstairs, I buy Carmelita a present.  A Native American warrior bracelet made of tooth-like bones and turquoise beads.  She's already says that she wears only 24 karat, so I don't know if she'll like it.

The Road to Hell and all that jazz...

In Topanga, I sit again on Eva's floor in her room, watching Carmelita squeeze herself into an emerald green gown with a tight bodice and plunging neckline.  She gasps and laughs in Spanish.

"She says she can't breathe," translates Eva.

For an hour, Carmelita applies makeup.  I don't think this newly minted sixteen-year old has a clue about where we're going. Eva wants to take her to Seventh Heaven, which I think is run by a kind of health food cult or something.  You can't get more remote than this restaurant, perched over a large tree filled ditch.  Carmelita's dressed for a Hot Time in Beverly Hills. If I were her aunt, that's where I'd take her; but all I can offer is my love—a  love that springs from relief that my life is finally starting to yield joy.

In Seventh Heaven, we shiver together at an outside table under a full moon.  Stuck on an Eva inspired regimen of raw crackers and salads, Carmelita eagerly orders lasagna. Eva wants the sautéed salmon with steamed veggies—and I opt for chicken.

There has been little mention of Carmelita's birthday.  To cheer up things, I give her a card, which she smiles at with a genuine thank you, "You are so nice with me!"

"You are so thoughtful," Eva murmurs. "I was never this thoughtful. Not even with my own children."

Then I give Carmelita the bracelet, which she claims she's been wanting.  I tell her about the warriors.

"The bones were like armor against arrows."

"Is it lucky?" she asks, uncertain of my English.

"No, not really," Eva replies.

"Kind of," I insist. "It might protect you."

Carmelita tells me I look beautiful.

"You do look radiant," Eva agrees.

"Is it because of the guy?" Carmelita asks.

When I smile my answer, Eva pulls her black shawl tighter, looks grave and cautions, "Don't take this wrong. It's just that I hope...in time...you will realize that this inner light can come from you. You don't need the man."

Yeah, yeah, yeah.  But I've got the man.

When I ask, Carmelita tells me she's fed up with school. She had a big fight with her ESL teacher. Eva shrugs that Carmelita can quit school anyway now that she's sixteen

"The school system in this country is fucked," Eva says. "When I was a senior in Forest Hills, I scored the highest in the state for Biology on my college entrance exams. And a few years later, when I was pregnant for the first time, I was terrified because I did not know which end my baby was going to come out!"

Carmelita sighs like she's heard this a million times.

Dinner finally arrives and is forgettable.  Eva savors every morsel of her thirty dollar salmon. Thank God I just got a six-month assignment for an attorney.  When the check comes, I pay for half of Carmelita's meal, feeling blessed and abundant.

xx

We pile into Eva's new sleek white convertible and as it slips through the silvery night, up the road to The Relationship House, Carmelita suddenly giggles, "Remember when Tony told me to tell everybody 'I am stinko'?"  She laughs louder now and I laugh with her—delighting in the memory of Tony--conjuring his presence for her birthday. Only Eva remains silent.

When we get out of the car, the cat greets us with her noisy, high pitched meows.  Eva groans. "That cat!  Nobody can handle that cat! She misses you. She's not mine anymore.  She's yours."

"Monday I waited and waited for you," Carmelita pouts. "Eva said you were coming to spend the night and then you didn't." I was going to, then changed my mind.

"I'm sorry."  But I'm not.  I'm immune to guilt.  I can even sense it coming.  They beg me to stay the night.  I beg off.

"I'm going to make reservations at the raw food clinic for Thanksgiving," Eva says. "Would you like to go with me?" So Eva has not entirely given up her quest for raw food.

"I'll have to let you know.  I'm leaving that date open right now," because I'm secretly hoping Shane will invite me.

Eva adds that her longtime best friend, Elaine, will be visiting from New York in a couple days.

"I thought maybe we could come to Shane's," Eva says. "Have lunch.  I want to see his rock garden because I'm looking for ideas to make the yard into a meditation garden."

I say great, do you eat Chinese food?  Chinese food would be fine, she says.

Then I escape.  Back to Echo Park.  Back to its peace and order born of solitude.

CHAPTER 28 - VICES

Mid-afternoon and I can't get in. The key turns, but nothing happens. While I'm struggling, the door suddenly opens and I see a tall, slender young Asian man standing in Shane's kitchen.

"Shh..." he says, "We're taking a nap. My little girl's in the bedroom." Then he goes back and closes the door. Must be The Live Wire, Shane's youngest brother.

I put groceries away as quietly as possible, then go outside to read. Are they going to stay here? Will I go back to Topanga?

About an hour later, he reappears, holding out his hand, "Hi, I'm Shannon.  We had to get away, my wife was throwing things. We had a big fight, my wife is sick in the head and she should be taking her medication, but she doesn't or else she takes seven pills all at once and it makes her worse."

"Have you told her doctor?"

"Doctors! Yeah, I've talked to them and they tell me, sorry, there's nothing they can do. They can give her the pills, that's it." He throws a Polaroid photograph onto the kitchen table. It's of a little girl in a big armchair.

"That's my little girl. She fucking took this at her fucking boyfriend's house, I can't believe it. She's supposed to have broken up with him and she goes and takes this picture. I found it and when I confronted her, she says, 'So what?' Her boyfriend's a cop."

The beeper around his belt goes off, "Shit." He runs to the phone, offers me the receiver, "Here. Can you do me a favor?" He reads the numbers off his beeper, "Dial this number and say, 'This is Janey. Did you just beep me?'"  I hesitate.  "Please say, ‘This is Janey'..." 

As if hypnotized, I dial. On the other end, a recording states, "If you need assistance, please hang up..."

"I think it's a phone booth," I say, hanging up.

He collapses on the sofa, bent over, head in hands, "So that's how they're doing it!  He's calling her from phone booths!"

I sit cross-legged on the living room floor, "The cop?"

"Yeah, the cop. Before when she was with him, I told the department and they warned him to stay away.  He's just as crazy as she is. Yesterday I found his wallet in my car.  And this picture."

"Did you take the wallet to his superiors?"

"Nah, I left it there.  But I know what's going on.  That's what we were fighting about this morning." He picks up the phone again and dials, "Please.  Say, 'Hi, it's Janey, are we getting together today?'  Can you do a Korean accent?"

I snap out of my stupor, "No.  I'm not going to do this. It's crazy. You need to break this cycle of craziness."

He hangs up, "You're right.  No, you're right. That's what it is, huh? A cycle of craziness?"

"Sure it is," I try to keep my voice calm. But he starts to cry. As I speak, I start to cry, too, "Craziness is something I know about.  My mother had a nervous breakdown two months ago and was involuntarily committed. It's hard because she's always been crazy.  Except sometimes she can be very sane, kind of flipping back and forth."

He nods, "Yes, yes.  That's how Janey is.  Sometimes she's okay.  I've told her she's got to think about her child.  Think about our marriage."

"When somebody's that biochemically fucked up, they can't think rationally.  You can't just say, 'Straighten up or I'll divorce you.'  Sometimes you have to cut them loose.  Save yourself.  Save your little girl."

He looks at me as if hearing this for the first time, "You think I have to cut her loose?"

"I know you do.  It's the only way.  Or else she'll take you down with her."

He leans back, eyes shut while he rubs them, "That's what I have to do."

"I've been there.  It's not easy."

"I'm glad I talked to you.  I'm glad you're here."

He's a good looking man, his features softer, body visibly stronger than Shane's.  Shane had given me the phone number where Shannon works -- the Fire Department.  Husband material, if ever there was any.  The little girl from the picture comes in.  She's about four years old with long straight black hair that frames a pretty, intelligent face."This is Heidi."

"Hi, Heidi.

"Heidi, this is Auntie Carrie."

Auntie Carrie. I'm starting to feel like I'm in an Actor's Nightmare, waking up in the middle of a play I never auditioned for, playing a character that everybody seems to take for granted is me because they keep telling me it is.

Heidi throws me a guileless smile, "I'm hungry."

"I didn't have time to get her anything to eat."

"I'm going to Chinatown anyway," I offer. "I've got to refill this medicine I'm taking.  I can pick up some food on my way back."

"Great.  I'll give you some money."

"When I get back."

An hour later, I'm back with the food. Shannon helps me set the table, "You know my brother's had these same plastic plates ever since I can remember?"

He takes a film vial out of the cupboard, "What's this doing in here? Oh because it’s plastic."

And he exclaims over the food:

"Did you get this at Hop Li? I love that place! That's the place I'd have gone to.  The waiters have class, they're not your typical Chinese yelling across the room at each other. Auntie Carrie's taking care of us, Heidi.  Isn't that nice?" He looks around, "I gotta say this place sure shows a woman's touch. It used to be a real pig sty."

Remembering Shane's "Japanese are very clean," I say, "Actually he was up till two cleaning before he left."

He smirks, "Aw, he was probably, you know..."

"Showing off?"

"Yeah."

I let him pay for half, trying to take Eva's warning to heart. It feels strange being with a small child.

"Shane's crazy about Heidi," Shannon says. "And she loves him." She nods angelically, looking at me over the rim of her glass as she drinks her water. "How long have you known my brother?"

"We met in July…"

"Are you like boyfriend and girlfriend?"

Why does he sound so incredulous? Is it because I'm so much older than Shane's usual girlfriends? Because I'm white? Or doesn't he usually have girlfriends that the family meets? Whatever the reason, Shannon's tone sends a chill through me.

"I don't know if we're boyfriend and girlfriend, but I guess we've been doing the boyfriend/girlfriend thing," I shrug.

Announcing that he's going out for beer and some Oreos (for Heidi), he leaves me alone with his little girl. To my surprise, she's easy to entertain and be with. We spend the time drawing. I draw a picture of her with a crown and write under it, "Princess Heidi."

"You remind me of my teacher," she says.  "I'm going to call you 'Miss Carrie.'" I catch myself studying her lovely features and asking myself if I'd like to have a child like this. Shannon returns, offers me a beer, which I refuse, and sits popping open a bottle, "Do you have any vices, Carrie?"

"Plenty.  I just hate beer."

"What do you do...for fun?"

"Everything," I smile. "I do everything.

The answer seems to please him. He doesn't ask me to elaborate. When he leaves, he gives me a big hug, "Thank you. You've shown me what I have to do. I'm going to throw her out. It'll be just my dad and Heidi and me..."

"Your father lives with you?"

"Of course, I'm not one of these guys who'd leave their parents on the streets. Can I call you later, if I need to talk?"

I tell him he can.  He never does.

Shane is due back the day after tomorrow.  I leave a message on his machine that says, "If this is you, call me with the flight number and time and I'll be there!" Communication doesn't seem all that hard, but Mercury's backward illusion is still going on above our heads. I'm not taking any chances.

CHAPTER 28 - ROCK GARDENS

"I just love it. It's absolutely perfect!"

"I'm so glad you like it," I say, coming out to greet Eva and her visitor, as they make their way down the steps. To me, Eva's reaction is the acid test. She can be harshly critical and her own home is so lovely. Can she see this place is a reflection of Shane's own pure and gentle spirit?

Her guest offers her hand, "I'm Elaine."  She is everything Eva is not:  large boned, Jewish with short salt and pepper hair that crisply coils around her round, kind face.  They've been friends for forty years. 

Eva had told me, "Elaine's married to a real asshole who treats her like shit for twenty-five years. They don't want to come inside. They want to go to Chinatown to eat.

"I know the perfect place.  I can drive."

That's okay, she says, she'll drive.

When I point out Hop Li's free parking lot, Eva insists on parking at the meters.  Twenty-five cents for fifteen minutes. While she pumps in quarters, I go on with Elaine, trying to beat what looks like a Chinese wedding headed for the same restaurant.  Looking back, I see Eva (is she purposely dawdling?) still at the meter.

When she finally joins us, I put a light arm around her, hoping to circumvent any hard feelings, explaining why we rushed ahead.  It's like putting my arm around a block of wood.

But it doesn't bother me.

Nothing can harm me, that's how I feel as I sit down to lunch in my favorite restaurant, aware that something has shifted. Eva looks at the menu. And looks.  And looks. "I'll have a salad," she announces as she shuts it.

"You can't get a salad in a Chinese restaurant!"

"You can't?"

I'm starting to wonder if Eva has ever had a life outside of Topanga, where nightly she pushes food into containers for her next day's meals.

"We can go somewhere where they have salad," I suggest.

"No.  No, that's okay." She orders stir fried Chinese broccoli and sizzling chow mein, because I say it's good.

No sooner does the waiter leave, then she falls into stone-faced silence.  They've just come from Elaine's chart reading with Eva's astrology teacher.

"So how was the reading?" I ask.

  Elaine smiles tightly, "Oh, good.  I mean he told me things I already knew."

Eva suddenly stands, "I have to go."

Elaine looks up in alarm, "Will you be back?"  Eva just goes.

Leaning her face in both hands, Elaine's voice comes out muffled, "I hate when she does this."

"She probably just went to call Carmelita."

"No. I've seen her like this before. She's upset. Probably with me. Because I'm not serious enough about astrology."

"Does she do this a lot?"

"At least once every time I visit."

We chat about what the astrologer told her (she never mentions her husband) until Eva returns and sits with hands folded into a stiff triangle before her tightly pressed mouth, eluding our attempts to include her:

"Are you okay?" we ask.

"Fine," she whispers.

Greater than Eva's sulking, I marvel, is how little power it has over me.  She's acting like an offended queen, but her queendom is sixty miles due west.  It carries no emotional punch whatsoever on my turf, I note coolly as the food comes.

"Oh, this is delicious!" Eva keeps saying between bites, gathering more Chinese broccoli and cellophane noodles. I'm glad to see her wolfing it down.  For this picky woman to enjoy food that I've chosen...

"So how's Edward?" I ask, thinking of the cabin.

"I just avoid him.  I'm going to ask him to move out.  I don't want his energy anymore."  Then she adds, "I'm going to offer the cabin to Tony."

Tony.

"But -"

"Yes, I know I'd offered it to you, but I need Tony's room for Carmelita and he wouldn't want your room.  It's too small."

"It's the same size as his.  We measured it the first night he was here." At midnight, we walked across my room, then his, measuring in heel-to-toe lengths.

"Mmmm..." she looks straight at me, done with chewing. "Well, that cabin rents for six-fifty a month.

  "Then he can have it!" I laugh lightly, although I know damn well Edward's rent was five hundred.

As if reading my mind, Eva says, "I gave Edward a hundred-fifty off in exchange for yard work and frankly, I don't think he does a hundred fifty dollars worth of yard work each month.  He's leaving at the end of this month anyway to do theater in Indiana for two months."

So that's that. Anyway, two days ago I got fired from my six-month assignment for being "too independent" so I have no income. 

I sit in the back of Eva's convertible, watching her aimlessly roam the Chinatown streets, listening to her muse about her Asian past lives.  Actually, her driving alarms me. Both hands grip the wheel as she inches along. Directing her back to Shane's, I find myself telling her exactly which lane to get into well before it's time, my compulsive self rising to the occasion:

"Get in the left lane, you'll be turning left here..." This compulsion used to annoy the hell out of Tony.

"I'm sorry, if I'm over-directing you. Tony used to say, 'Don't you think I know how to drive?'."

Eva stops at a light, "Tony came to me before he left and told me that Carmelita was bothering him and he wasn't sure what to do because she's my niece."  She glances at me in the rear view mirror, "I told him he can just tell her to leave him alone."

"Bothering" how?  It must have gotten pretty blatant for him to complain to Eva.

"Then he asked if there's anything about him that bothers me, and I said no, but as I walked away, I thought of it and I came back and said, 'As a matter of fact, there is something...You could be twenty years older.'" To Elaine, she says, "You didn't meet Tony. He's going to make some woman a wonderful husband."

In the midst of my directions, I blurt out, "I don't know. He told me that 'The Hermit' card turns up in every reading he's ever had."

"Oh, no, I don't get that at all from him."

"Well, he agreed with it."

The light has turned green. Cars are honking. Eva is still sitting there.  Elaine and I say, "The light's green."

As if awakened by the snap of a hypnotist's fingers, Eva jumps and presses on the accelerator.  Midway down the block to Shane's she leans her head against the steering wheel, "I'm feeling...sick. It must have been the food. It must have had sugar."

"You can lie down in the bedroom," I offer.

"No...no.."

We drive the rest of the way in silence, Eva hunched over the wheel.  Elaine turns and murmurs at me, "You've been so kind..."

But I'm afraid. Afraid that on the way back to Topanga, Eva will crash and burn on the Ventura freeway, taking her childhood playmate along for the ride.

As we pull up to the house, I try again, "You're welcome to lie down until _"

"I'm okay!" she snaps, her head resting on her tiny hands and her voice weakly insistent, annoyed.

It's clear to me now that my days at The Relationship House are definitely numbered.  If I only knew which number is my last.

Waiting on the machine is a silky warm message from Shane, "Hi, it is me."  After giving his flight information, he adds, "It's been incredible. I have seen and heard a lot. I'll tell you all about it when I get back. And then we'll hang out and have fun."

And after this, a message from Rosie, "Omigod, guess what?  Venus went retrograde today.  For the first time in eight years! Venus, the planet of love, Carrie.  But I'm sure it won't affect you guys..."

Great.  So now both Mercury and Venus are retro.

I call her back and she says, "I love the fact that you're practically living with this man already!  You're an inspiration to me."

"Cut it out."

"Look, last year at this time you were stuck on slow simmer with Boris and now you're running around having anal sex and everything!" I'd called and asked Rosie for some pointers, thinking she might know. And I was right. All my attempts to research anal sex had turned up little information beyond "Sodomy is illegal."

xx

In twenty-four hours, he'll be lying beside me.  Let Venus do her worst,

CHAPTER 30 - HOME COMING

I've been cleaning all day.

And I've stocked the refrigerator with his favorite goodies.  Tough decision.  If I leave the fridge empty, it could make me look like a selfish bitch and if I fill it up, I might look like I'm "giving him too much."  But in the end, my desire to ease him back into American life with a full larder and a spanking clean apartment won out over my desire to be "cool".  He cleaned the place for me, I can make it nice for his return.

I finally talked to him last night.  He said:  "Yeah well, I went by the National Theater and they didn't beg me to stay so I guess I'll come back."  When I told him about Cleopatra, he says, "Sorry you had to go through all that.  Thanks for taking care of it for me."

Five minutes before it's time to pick him up, I call Kaiulani.

"What are you wearing?" she asks.

"My new mini-dress.  It shows off my legs."

"I'll bet you change your clothes three times...and I'll bet you wind up in something long and flowing."

"His family's going to be there.  I don't want to look like a femme fatale."

After I hang up, I put on my other new dress—the long, flowing one that hugs and lets go in all the right places.  The phone rings as I'm about to go out the door.

"Is Shane there?"  It's a woman.

"Uh, no.  He's out of the country."

"Will you tell him Lou Ann called?"

"I certainly will."

Her voice sounds different than all the other "I need to speak to Shane" messages I've been fielding. Oh, well, I tell myself, even if she's "more" than a friend, there's no reason for me to mind. It has nothing to do with my feelings. Still, I wrap something over my heart like gauze, so I can only feel just so much pain and worry as I run out the door.

With twenty minutes left to get to the airport, I hurry to the upstairs neighbors and knock on their open screen door, "What's the fastest way to LAX from here? I'm picking up Shane."

"Shane's coming in today?" asks the small brown haired woman.  Her eyes sweep over my dress_-or am I imagining it?

Her husband, a strapping bearded fellow waves his hands helpfully, "You know how to get to the 110?  Okay, take the Hollywood Freeway, no wait, that's the 101.  Take 110 Harbor South and you'll see they've built this new freeway that intersects after Imperial Highway...

"But don't turn before Imperial Highway," she interjects.

"Right.  You might think you're in the wrong place..." he agrees.

"But keep going..." she says.

"Because if you did turn..."

In my mind's eye, I see Mercury zooming at warp speed farther away from Whatever It Is That Lets Us Communicate Swiftly.

"But 105 comes up after Imperial Highway, and don't exit off 105 onto Airport Boulevard like I did once," says she.

"Because you'll get lost," he frowns.

"Like I did, I got so lost, so remember not Airport Boulevard, you want to follow the sign that says 'Airport', I think that's Sepulveda Exit, is it Sepulveda, honey?"

"I think it is, Sepulveda or maybe it's Centinela, at any rate you will see a sign..."

"That says airport," I add, trying to hurry it along.

"And get into the right lane to get onto the 105 after Imperial Highway."

"Anyway that's the fastest way," he says with a smile.  I thank them, backing away towards my car as he calls out, "Wait, don't you want to know how to get back?"

"Honey," his wife is pulling at his sleeve, "Shane can show her how to get back!"

xx

Thanks to the slowness of United Airlines, I arrive at LAX forty-five minutes early and go to Gate Seventy-Five to wait.  Once there, I'm acutely aware that I've nothing to do but wait.  Across the way, sits an Asian American mother with her two children. Shane's sister is supposed to be here and this woman does resemble the photo in his house, but I'm still plagued by the paranoia that maybe I can't pick Asians out of a crowd, despite my Asianphile status. I stroll in her direction; she throws a big smile at me. I smile tentatively back.

"Joe!" she calls with a wave. Turning, I see a tall Asian American man behind me. He waves back.

Pacing, I suddenly try to recall what Shane looks like. What's wrong with me?

His plane has landed and passengers are whisking themselves through the mini-tunnel into the arms of their loved ones. One of them looks like his niece, Alison. She passes me to hug the woman I thought was his sister, who hands her a bouquet of flowers.

One look at him and I know it's going to be all right. Sort of. At least in the recognition department. He comes toward me with a tired, "Her-ro." We hug, he kisses my cheek and we turn in time to catch the flash of his sister's camera.

Alison and I now greet each other even as Shane says with uncharacteristic awkwardness, "This is Alison, you met earlier."  And my sister and her kids and her husband and my father...Everyone grins at me. His father (who looks just like him), remarkably handsome at eighty, looks into my eyes with candid appreciation and I feel us connect.

"My brother, Steve, is in awful shape," Shane looks back at the tunnel with a worried stare. "He picked up some kind of intestinal thing. I think they're getting a stretcher for him." He himself complains of jet lag, fatigue. The answer to my question if he slept is, "Yes.  Three times."

His brother staggers out on his own steam looking haggard and miserable.  But still, he glances at me and nods, recalling our former introduction. Sissy, Shane's sister, announces that she has Chinese food that will be transported to the other sister's house for dinner.

Shane shrugs at me, want to go? Let's see...do I want to take him home and screw him till he passes out, or do I want to eat food I'm not hungry for under the scrutiny of his entire family? Yeah, sure, I shrug back.

"Just for a little while," he adds, as if hearing my thoughts.

"Did I get a picture of the two of you together?" Sissy asks, aiming her camera at us.

Shane's head is down as he fidgets with his luggage and mumbles, "Yeah, I think so."

"Oh, let me get another one," she says merrily, camera to her eye. I step into him, aware of the awkwardness of the moment, but pleased to be accepted so easily, my hand goes lightly behind his back, I can see his profile as he looks up, unsmiling, face blank.

We strike out for the baggage claim, Shane casting a worried glance behind to see if the rest of the family is coming. I'm feeling a bit left out. He did ask me to do this, right? His father lives down the street from him, so whoever's taking him home (Shannon has to work tonight) could have probably dropped Shane off, too. 

I thought he wanted me here, but now...

Then I recall my father's large family's concern for one another—like fingers on a piano that must move in sync. We glide down the escalator; he's a couple of steps above me: "Okay, so the cat got sick and what else?"

"You forgot to endorse the check you left at the Credit Union." Shit, he says, rubbing his eyes, oh, shit.

"So what do you think happened?"

"I forgot to sign it," he sounds annoyed.

"No, I mean...never mind, I'll put you out of your misery.  I had them send it back and I signed it."

"Did you?  Good."

Not exactly the relieved thank you I'd hoped for, but then that's what doing things for people is all about, I guess. My Tai Chi teacher was always talking about the power of the "empty hand." If only I could learn to give like that.

To let go like that.

I leave Shane and his family at the baggage carousel and go get my car.  Driving back, I signal him as he stands on the sidewalk. He looks dazed. I should be used to the zombie state international travelers arrive in (after so many years with Boris), but tonight it bothers me. Is he sorry to see me? Am I not what he expected? Am I just here to save somebody the gas to his house?

Rolling along the Santa Monica Freeway amid the mercifully sparse traffic, eager to make contact, I tell him something I thought I'd save for later: "While you were gone, I had a Shane Fukunaga Film Festival.  You were great, but the shows themselves were really upsetting."

"You mean all the stupid parts I played?"

"It's awful. I got really mad watching. All the Asian characters were in uniform—even when you wear a business suit, it's in a subservient role. You never get to wear regular clothes like the Caucasians and blacks did. It's like that's how Americans see Asians—as servants."

"That's exactly how it is."

Feeling the gap close, I keep going:

"And there were cultural blunders that the writers were too stupid to know and the people who approved the scripts were too stupid to know and the director is too stupid to know."

He gives a sharp laugh, "Right!"

"Like the episode where you're introduced as 'Kim', the Zen Master. Zen's Japanese and Kim's not a Japanese name, is it?"

"I argued with them in rehearsals and tried to get them to change it. At first, my name was "Cam", which is not an Asian name. I explained that, so the next day the script came back with the name changed to Kim, which is a Korean surname.  Then they've got him chanting this American Buddhist chant which is still off because most Japanese are Protestants."

As I pull up in front of his sister's Redondo Beach tract home, I feel he can see me again. He leads me into the house which is bustling with smiling, all-talking-at-once people. In the living room, he introduces me to a very old, lively man.  "Uncle Pete's eighty-four and he out-walked us all."

There is such warmth in Uncle Pete's smile, "That's right! Three years ago I had a triple bypass. I just walked hundreds of miles all over Europe and I feel great!"

His wife, who looks ten years younger, adds, "When nobody else could go another step, he was still walking!"

"Go ahead, sit down, make yourself at home," Shane says over his shoulder as he goes into the dining area.

I ask Uncle Pete's wife Bertie how the trip was.

"Emotional, you know, with the vets. I'd been to Europe before. They only gave us fifteen minutes to see the Sistine Chapel so I waited in the bus. I'd seen it before."

Despite everyone's easy acceptance, I feel conspicuous with my fair hair and skin. The house is a combination of Middle Class American Dream suburban furniture and Japanese traditional touches (noren curtain hangs at the kitchen entrance).

Finding Sissy in the kitchen unloading boxes of Chinese takeout, I offer to help and busy myself with setting the table (with the paper plates). Sissy has a relaxed, laughing way about her that immediately puts me at ease. Shane's other sister, Sarah, is on the phone in the next room (and she stays there the entire evening).

On the table, at the end of the Chinese food lineup sits an enormous platter of paper wrapped Tommyburgers.

"You can sit here," Shane indicates the chair next to him, while he sits at the head of the table, leaning back to rest his arms on the chair with the calm grace of a prince, regarding the room as people seat themselves.  Alison is sitting a short distance away with her dorky looking Caucasian boyfriend who, despite his obvious youth, has thinning hair. He appears as self-conscious as I feel, confining his talk to Alison who perkily plays with his bald spot, resting against him as he puts both arms around her, until everybody is finally seated.

Sissy's husband, Joe, sits to my right and proves to be as subtly attentive as Shane was. He pours my tea and refills it whenever he notices it's empty, speaking as kindly and respectfully to me as all the others have.

"Pass the Tommyburgers!" cries Shane. "The worst thing about the trip was the food.  It's so different. Everything is different, the language, the people."

"I've never eaten a Tommyburger," I say, my first utterance at the crowded table, which immediately falls silent.

Joe turns to me, "Never eaten a Tommyburger? Where were you raised?"  He's already reaching for the platter and holding it out to me.

"In a cave," I reply. "No, really, before I moved to L.A. everybody told me, 'Be sure to go to Tommy's for a chiliburger!' but isn’t that where the gangs hang out?"

"It's not so bad," Shane dryly explains. "They have armed guards in the parking lot." I cut my burger into quarters and try a wedge. "Mmm...This is worth risking your life for!" Polite chuckling. Then the talk flows again:

"Steve wore that same damn T-shirt the whole trip"…”That's not so bad but it had a WORD on it"…"Seeing that same word every day!"…"Bertie whined about everything. Remember when she said, 'Honey, it's cold in here!' and he said...(They say in unison) ‘Put a sweater on!'"  (All laugh)…"Alison read something at the memorial service that made people cry. Afterwards, they were coming up to her and telling her how much it meant to them."

Under cover of chattering voices, I turn to Shane to try to make him laugh.  I tell him about the "speedy" directions I got from his neighbors. All talk stops.  Everyone leans toward me, hanging on my every word until the punchline ("Wait, don't you want to know how to get back?"), then they all laugh, especially Sissy.

After pushing his plate aside, Shane puts his travel bag on his lap, "I brought you a present." He pulls out a miniature watercolor of the Eiffel Tower. Perfume would have been nice, but this is lovely.

"Too bad it's just a print," Alison teases.

Playing off Alison, I hold it out to him, "Go back and bring me an original."  He looks stunned, as if I'm serious. No, really thanks, I reassure him, or try to.

Uncle Pete has been quietly peeling a round persimmon, cutting it until it resembles a Chinese Puzzle.

"I've never had a persimmon.  Can you eat them raw?"

"The pointed ones are the best," Uncle Pete nods. "But you have to make sure they're soft."

He passes it to Shane, who passes it to me. I take a slice. It tastes like a cross between an apple and a pear. Is this whole thing for me?

"Pass it on," Shane cues me quietly.

Dinner over, I help clean, remembering Shane telling me that the women in his family would clean the whole house after a party before going to bed. As we head out, Uncle Pete and his wife are saying they hope they see me again. Sissy is saying it's great to have met me. So is Joe. And Shane's father.

One impression lingers from watching his family interact with the enigmatically composed Shane. He is their Bachelor Prince. While standing at the baggage carousel, Sissy had asked me, "So you stayed at his place and took care of the cats?"

"Yes, they're completely spoiled now," I answered, afraid once it was out of my mouth, that this statement reeked of Housekeeping Expectations. Shane was within earshot.  He never reacted.

As soon as we're out of the house, Shane lights up. 

I thought he quit.  "You're going to smoke?"

"I never smoke in people's cars," he stands a couple feet from the car door, blowing smoke.

"What happened?  Did you succumb at the first whiff of a Galoise on the Champs Elysses?"

"Everybody smokes in France."

When we get in the car, I reach out and smooth his hair, surprised that it's somewhat damp, "Welcome back."

He doesn't move or speak. Whenever I petted Boris, he'd make a little animal noise. Trying to push down my growing discomfort, I start up the car and begin the long drive home.

The need to make contact kicks up again:

"I watched the video of your performance, where you read your uncle's letters."

"Really?  I've never seen it."

"Why not?"

"I don't know.  I just never have."

"It was wonderful.  Very moving.  Was it scripted?"

"I didn't even have notes.  I just went out and talked.  I don't even remember what I said."

"How old were you when your mother first told you about how her brother died?"

"I don't know. It's like I've always known it."

"That's what I thought. I had this flash that you were born listening to your mother talk about it. That this is the most tragic thing that's ever happened in your family."

"Yes, yes it is."

"In the show, when you says you always wondered how long it took your uncle to die, it sounded like the kind of thing a little kid would lie in bed fantasizing about night after night. Like a scary fairy tale."

"That's right."

"It's as if you put yourself in your uncle's place, as if it were your body the shrapnel entered."

He heaves a sigh, "I've always asked myself would I have the guts to do what he did? To fight in a war? I guess that's why men are so fascinated by war and sports. You're always asking yourself, 'Could I do that?'"

We drive in a moment of silence. Still eager to keep the line open, I ask what was the best thing about his trip. Leaning back, he sighs, "Oh, that's impossible...I guess the ART. The Sistine Chapel, the Pieta, the Louvre. I sat and looked at a Van Gogh painting for an hour!"

"I love Van Gogh," I murmur stupidly. He really is my favorite artist.  I would sit and look at Van Gogh for an hour. So much in common.

Then why do I feel that he's still in Europe?

xx

Arriving back at his place, I'm somewhat rewarded by his amazed, "Everything looks great!  You took really good care of the garden...I can't get over how clean the floor is!"

"I bought a mop."

"You didn't have to do that."

"You asked me to."

"Did I?"

He goes into the living room and, as he always does when he returns home, empties his shirt pockets into a small bowl in the desk. Taking out the Bull's Eye, he says, "I kept it in my left pocket."  It's days before it dawns on me what this means.  Over his heart.

He looks at the mail I kept for him in a little basket asks, "Did you buy this basket?"

"It was like a dollar or something." Was that the wrong thing to do? My anxiety is mounting. He’s looking at the message pad. I say, "Lou Ann called..." as if he can’t read.

"Lou Ann's an ex-girlfriend from way back, years ago.  She's going to school in Switzerland now and I saw her when I was over there."

Oh.

On the stove in a sheet pan sit the marijuana brownies I made for his homecoming. Courtesy of Kaiulani. (Rosie had cautioned me against this…”Be careful, Carrie…I knew a guy who broke with a woman ‘cause ‘SHE’S BAKIN’ COOKIES!’”

I offer the pan.  "Homecoming present.”

"Not tonight.  I'm wiped out."  Turning away.

While he gets ready to shower, I sit on the couch, wondering if I should pack my car and go. It's unclear whether I'm welcome or in the way.

He comes in with a manila envelope. "Would you like to read my uncle's letters?"

Sitting on the floor, against the couch with Cleopatra wedged purringly between my feet, I read letter after letter:

Don't worry, Mother, I do all the things you've taught me.  I don't drink or smoke or gamble. I keep myself clean and try to help others. My fellow soldiers are so young, just kids really.  Some have never been away from home...

They could be the letters of any soldier boy. The fact that he died while trying to prove his patriotism to his country which so obviously hated him makes them all the more hard to bear. This boy was tall, athletic, charming. The flower of the family. And the U.S. Government made cannon fodder out of him.

Yet as I read them, the other part of my brain, the Part That Makes Things Out of Things ticks away.  I can see Shane making a one-man show out of this material. Also the Prince of his family, he'd be perfectly cast as both his uncle and himself commenting on his uncle. It would be very strong. I haven't done any theater in ten years, but I have to work on this project.

"Aren't they incredible?" Shane peeks into the room, naked and freshly dried from his shower. Seeing the cat at my feet, he calls, "Cleo! Cleo the Cat, look at you!" He looks at her with pure affection.  "So you got sick..."

"Her medicine's in the refrigerator."

He looks over his messages again: "The landlady called and said the folks upstairs are moving out?"

"She said now she'll carpet the place so it'll be quieter."

He looks up at the ceiling as if he can see into their living room, musing, "I wonder how much that place is?  I've been thinking of moving up there."

Their place is a two-bedroom townhouse.  Would he want that whole place to himself? Or want someone to share the rent?

Maybe it's going to be all right after all.

xx

He leans over me to pick up some things he left on the couch, "Wanna go to the bedroom and have some fun?" I wince. Boris could never call it “making love.” He used to say, “You look pretty good today, maybe I will fly you over.” Which is what they say in his neck in the Russian woods when men get horny.

Wearing only khaki shorts, Shane lies on the bed and pulls me over him before I can get my dress off. His kiss is so urgent, needy as his knee presses into my groin like a second hard-on. I return his passion, then stop to remove my necklace, "It's so good to feel your tongue in my mouth again." I want him. With every pore in my skin.

He yanks my dress over my head and I slide my panties off with my foot while still kissing him. Wearing only my new glossy bra, I bend over his hips, but his belt buckle is a mystery, "Oh, no, no, no..." I moan in frustration. He unbuckles it for me and I take his shorts off, freeing him where it matters most. Each of his gasps and sighs turn me on more, advising me to speed up here, tighten there...I glance back to see him writhing against the pillow, eyes closed, helpless and submitting to pure feeling.

When I lie next to him, wiping the tears out of my eyes, trying to catch my breath, he slides over me, kissing me so deeply, his tongue taking the place of his penis, seeking the back of my throat, filling me so I can't think of anything else. I'm soaking from where he's been playing with me while I've been playing with him.  He spreads my legs as wide as they were that first night, so now I'm the helpless one, and dives into me, sharp and clean__almost violent. Seconds later I'm coming and to my surprise, he is, too. Something I'd long ago given up caring about, but it touches me deeply to have it now.

I try to get back on dry land as he rises from me, getting off the bed.  "I think..." I murmur, then stop.

"You think what?"

"I think I came," I joke.

"I think I did, too," he smiles back.

He returns from the bathroom with a wad of toilet paper so I can dry myself.  Then he gets in next to me and lets me snuggle into his arms.  I trace on his bare torso spirals of Yin and Yang:

"There's this thing in Tai Chi that all Taoist philosophy is built around.  EMPTY CIRCLE...FULL CIRCLE. It means that everything goes from fullness to emptiness and back to fullness and back to emptiness in an infinite cycle."

He remains silent, listening. I pause, trying to put the words together. "This room was an empty circle. And now that you're back, it's full again."

"It must have been weird for you staying here," he says softly. "I mean, this place is so 'ME'."

Then he turns his back to me, muttering, "I'm so exhausted, I have to sleep.  Feel free to masturbate if you want."

Another moment, and then: "I'm so tired I'll probably snore.  Just wake me up and tell me."

xx

I toss and turn for a couple hours. Finally I go to the kitchen and cut myself a wedge of brownie, hoping to induce sleep. Soon I’m transported on a cloud of MaryJane. Looking forward to the new day.