Stolen car

He did it several times a month. Everyone was asleep, or at least he hoped they were, when he tiptoed into our father’s bedroom. I don’t know what excuse he would have used if my parents woke and found him reaching inside my father’s pocket. He might have had one ready or maybe not. With breath held he made his way over the brown linoleum, past their double bed and must have groped toward the closet like a blind man with arms extended, feeling his way in the dark. The keys must have clanged because they lived on a fat silver ring with many others, but Sparky didn’t care, or had perfected his deception, I don’t know which. That was my brother’s name, Sparky. 

I stayed up most nights cutting paper dolls, so I knew he was doing it. I begged him to take me along, and one night he did. There were three gentle taps on my bedroom door and a whisper. If you’re coming, come, cause I’m not going to wait.

My hair was a scramble, my eyes heavy with sleep, but I jumped from my bed eager for adventure.

I’m coming now. Don’t go without me.

He was 14, I was 11. My brother wanted nothing to do with me on my best day, so I was thrilled to be included.

We moved down the stairs, Spark looking over his shoulder to schuss me with his finger. My pajama bottoms dragged on each step, threatening to trip me and foil our escape. I pulled them up and followed, silently like an obedient dog.

Once outside he opened the door of the Chrysler Imperial and motioned to me. I slid past the steering wheel and waited, breathless and full of risk.

The engine purred, Spark lowered the gearshift on the steering column from P to D and we crept away.

Once we hit route 14, the main highway that ran in front of the restaurant, my brother slammed the door shut and let it rip.

Watch this, he shouted, as he drove into Mr. Palmer’s yard, up over his lawn and out the other side. I can do anything I want and no one can stop me.

He swerved to the right and we were back on the highway. Next it was Gail Allen’s house.  He headed straight for her mailbox and took it out with a quick, thump. Up and down we went over neighbor’s yards, through shrubbery, past loaded wheelbarrows and into flower gardens.

My eyes were round with shock and excitement. Just don’t tell anybody, he said, if nobody knows we’ll be okay. I sunk low in my seat, eyes in the sky, swallowing moonlight.

Eventually he tired and turned the car toward home, but home was not the way we left it. Every light in the house shone through the windows like a lighthouse, which welcomed and warned at the same time.

When we pulled into the drive my father was waiting, rage seething from every pore. He grabbed my brother and began beating him, as my mother marched me to my room. I listened, my ear pressed against the door, my heart frozen in my chest, hot tears running down my face for my brother’s pain. I waited for my turn, as Spark’s screams rose and fell again and again.

When my father reached my door, my mother blocked his path. That’s enough now, she said. That’s enough for one night.

The Dream

 

I hurried through morning chores so I could be at the pool as soon as it opened. As a teenager, I lived to swim, swimming and diving were my life. I performed every kind of high board acrobatic: flips, back dives, swan dives, jack knives and anything else suggested. Completely without fear, I was the daughter of Neptune and the water was my home. My skills were openly applauded by spectators and lifeguards who passed time dreaming up new and different variations for me to try. I was willing and able to match anything they offered.

One hot summer evening I tossed and turned in my bed, unable to sleep. My mind was spinning and I couldn’t quiet. When I finally dosed off, I wished I hadn’t because I slipped into an alarming dream.  I was measuring my steps on the high board and pacing them off as usual; one, two, three. But in the dream, as I lifted my arms to take flight on the final spring, my foot twisted to the right, my head caught on the board and I fell unconscious and bloody into the water. The dream woke me, breathless and frightened. My white sheet fell to the floor as I bolted from bed and walked through the house attempting to rid myself of its memory. In the morning I dismissed the whole thing as indigestion.

But the next time I went to the pool, I became irritated, restless and uncomfortable. Dread hung over me like a cloud I couldn’t shake or identify – a nasty mood. I swam a few laps to free myself then dripped from the pool and made my way to the board. I wrapped my fingers around the ladder and climbed to the top. I held the side bars and began measuring my steps, creating a shadow version of the dive I would do. When I got to number three, a voice spoke to me. Remember your dream, it said.  I froze, as I relived the images of raised arms, the slip of the right foot and the unconscious fall into the water. There was no way I was going to risk anything with those dark images in my head.

I looked behind me and saw a long line of swimmers waiting to use the board. Too late to back down, I thought, so I jumped off the end, carefully, the way a beginner would jump – and slid safely into the water.

What was that? the life guard smirked.  I climbed from the pool and wrapped myself in a towel. The end of my career on the high board, I answered and meant it.

New York City

 

Every few years my parents treated us to a cultural week-end in NYC.  We drove four hours through vineyards and rolling acres of farmland to the heart of a cosmopolitan environment that was as different from our barefoot childhood as I could imagine. 

We stayed at the Hotel Astor, which in 1955 was the finest hotel in the city. The Astor embodied old world elegance, sat in the heart of the theater district and towered over Time Square. The Brooklyn Dodgers had just won their first world series and the city was alive with excitement. Cab Calloway and Fats Waller were hot stuff and the Cotton Club was birthing a new musical sound. But it was the Broadway shows that interested my folks.

Evenings found us in our finest clothes with fresh gardenias from a street vendor pinned to our coats. The smell of that delicate white flower can still bring back vivid memories of Julie Andrews and Rex Harrison in My Fair Lady, sinking into red velvet theater seats, watching chandeliers dim against a ceiling of gold and holding our breath as plush curtains whooshed back to reveal a magical world of song and dance. We sat spellbound by every theatrical gesture and perfected vocal score. Those performances began my admiration and love for the theater, and also spoiled me for anything less professional. 

I was ten years old when I watched long rows of women called the Rockettes, high kick in unison at Radio City Music Hall. They were wholesome family entertainment, while a trip to the Latin Quarter opened our eyes to the exotic. Women on flower-covered trapezes, descended from the ceiling wearing high heeled shoes, seamed stockings and little else. The undeniable points of attention were their breasts, where long tassels adhered to each nipple, leaving their fullness bare and exposed. The tassels were smaller versions of the fabric ends that held back the drapes in our living room. I was stunned! I could not take my young eyes off them – grown women who amused themselves by swinging naked from the ceiling of a darkened theater. Was that really okay? Was that what women did when they got older? Apparently it was not only approved of but applause worthy.  I began to wonder about stringing ropes in the hayloft and doing some undercover surgery on my mother’s drapes.

When the performance finished, my sister Kristen and I had to use the bathroom, but the lines were too long, so mother encouraged us to wait. We’ll be home soon, she promised. We hopped in a taxi, which vigorously whisked us through busy streets and hairpin corners. When we screeched to a halt, my father’s angry face matched the burgundy coat worn by the doorman. He was complaining about the driver as my sister and I pushed through revolving glass doors, past walls of glossy walnut, expensive paintings and potted palms. We jumped up and down in the elevator in our urgent need, reaching our fourth floor room before the white gloves of the elevator man disappeared behind us. Doors were never bolted at home, so we were stunned to find we’d been locked out.

I’m peeing my pants, Kristen told me. What should we do?

I had pushed my winter coat aside and was dancing up and down in a desperate attempt to wait.

We can’t pee right here, I said, it will make wet puddles right outside our door. We’ll surely get caught and get in big trouble. I have an idea. You run that way, and pee as you go. Run all the way to the window drapes. I’ll run to the marble statue. We’ll spread it out in long lines, that way nobody will be able to figure out what we did.

And so, on that eventful Saturday night, in one of the cities grand hotels, two little girls were pushing aside their fancy lace dresses to leave a bit of themselves in the lavish carpet at the Hotel Astor.

Sanctuary

 

I have always loved the Catholic Church, not the religion, the philosophy, or the services, but the shelter of the sanctuary.

My level of sensitivity is extra-ordinary. A loud voice or shrill laugh can be physically painful, groups of people are over-stimulating. I can’t lay my head on a hotel pillow without knowing the character of the person who was there before me.

While other kids clamored from their desks for recess, I couldn’t wait to slip across the street into the quiet shelter of the Catholic Church, the only building that kept its doors unlocked, and welcomed all people at all hours.

Once inside I was transported into gentle stillness, a world I longed to live in and never leave. Light filtered through colored glass, frankincense and holy water filled my lungs, and banks of candles flickered in neat little rows near statues of Mary. The only sound was the occasional creak of golden oak yielding under the weight of a bent knee.

There were never loud voices in the church or groups pushing, shoving or competing. The people who came and went were few, and always internal and reverent. The Catholic Church was my oasis and sanity. It was a place I could breathe and rest until the school bell rang and I was summoned back inside to endure.

Last weekend I went to a baby shower. When it was time to return home, something in me recoiled. I pointed the car in the opposite direction and kept on driving until I reached Mt Angel Abbey, which sits high on a mountain with a panoramic view of pastures and forest.

Being away from civilization, computers and conversation was just the medicine I needed. I had not realized my exhaustion until I sat near the bell tower and looked out into the serene fields of the Williamette valley. The quiet was tangible; I could reach out and touch it. A few Benedictine monks walked by in silence like black shadows, humble and privately engaged, while the sun rested on my shoulder like a friend’s hand reminding me to unwind and let go.

That was all I needed. I picked up my cell phone and called my husband. I won’t be home tonight, I told him. I’m at the Abbey and it’s too lovely to leave.

Father Vincent was in the garden among a symphony of goldfinch. He was filling the birdbath as they darted over stalks of yellow and white iris, and on to the budding branches of mimosa trees. Father Vincent has been at the abbey for forty-seven years. He tells me he’ll arrange a room, so I go back to my car for my checkbook and hair brush, the only luggage I have. When I return he is gone. The woman at the gift shop hands me my room key. I ask how much I owe and she says she doesn’t know. It’s Saturday. Someone should be around on Monday. Call when you get home and find out. You can mail us a check then. I’ve gone to the Abbey for the past twenty years. It’s the way they do business.

The room is simple, a bed with white sheets and spread, cream colored walls and windows that look into a sky dotted with tiny cotton clouds. There is a desk and gold lamp. I look out and watch a red-necked hummingbird feed on small blue flowers nested in rambling ground cover.

 I unpack by placing my hair brush on the bathroom shelf and walk to the church for vespers. The monks chant five times a day. When I sit down, the sound of it travels through the pores of my skin and settles at my core.

I stand looking up at the domed ceilings, the pink front wall of the sanctuary and the aqua and purple colors that grace the side walls above arched chanting stalls. The room is full of white linen and candles above a foundation of marble and oak. The organ is one of the finest in the world.

Being there is filling me up, it’s filling an empty space I didn’t know I had. How strange to be so at home in a place I have no business being in at all.

Boarding School

The air was crisp and the trees wore the bold colors of autumn’s tapestry as mother and I drove to St Johnsbury,Vermont. I felt adventuresome, and excited to go to boarding school. It wasn’t until we went to bed that night that the reality of it hit me. I had been delighting in her company without fully realizing that the next day she would get in her car and drive away. I had felt deprived of her before, but now I felt abandoned and panicked.

She lay sleeping, her face turned from view. I studied the way her hair fell against the pillow and the gentle rhythm of her breath. Her nightgown of silken pink with satin borders invited touch, but I resisted. I was afraid to wake her, afraid to betray my intense desire for her comfort. I was her problem child, the difficult one. Everything about me took extra time and energy. She gave what little time she had, but I always hungered for more.

As I stared into nothingness, I fantasized that she would rise in all of her feminine splendor, lean over me, place her warm lips against my hair and whisper, Sweetheart, I’ve made a mistake. I could never leave you here. I love you far too much to be away from you. Let’s work this out differently because I simply can not bear having you gone. I pulled my thoughts back. That was not going to happen. I needed to be strong.

I met my housemother in the morning, Hazel Simpson. She was entombed in a closet-sized room near the front door. Welcome to Brantview, she said, attaching herself to my mother. We’re all looking forward to having your daughter with us, and what a lovely girl she is. My mother looked down at me and smiled, while Mrs Simpson squeezed my face between her thumb and chunky middle finger. We’re getting such good quality girls these days. Look at this one. She has the face of an angel. For years we had such troubled children, now that’s all turning around. She released my face and went back to exchange pleasantries, assurances and goodbyes with my mother. I said my own farewell amidst promises to write .

My room was on the third floor of the Brantview mansion. Mr. Fairview had been a prominent figure in the community, when he died his home became the academy’s dormitory for girls. The boys were not so lucky. Their building was cheap and small, sat on the edge of a traffic lane and was badly in need of repair. The Brantview mansion, by contrast had long rambling walkways, a tree lined drive, and an archery course. The building had turrets, balconies, winding cherry stairwells, stone fireplaces, two pianos, coves for retreat and perches with views of the town. The front doors were arched, grand and windowed with stained glass.

I met my room-mate tucked in a corner of the balcony, sitting in the sun hugging her knees. She was shorter than I, had long chestnut hair and a German heritage that showed in the structure of her face. I’ve already taken half the closet and chosen this bed, she said. You can have the other one. Her bed faced the window, while mine faced the wall. I picked up my suitcase and headed for the closet. To my surprise, it was large enough to be another bedroom, and overflowed with the most fashionable and expensive clothes I’d ever seen. A second wall was lined with shoes in rich shades of polished leather, while half-opened drawers revealed boxes of feminine finery. I drew back from the sight of it. Such opulent beauty. I’d never seen such finely crafted garments. I didn’t know they existed.

Nice things, I said.

Thanks.

Just thanks. That was it, like it was all nothing. I decided to unpack later.

I stretched across the bed and began reading the house rules:

No riding in cars. No boys in the girl’s dormitory beyond the front steps. Week-days the bell will sound at 6:15 AM. You must have your bed made, room clean and leave for the dining hall by 7 . You must always sign in and out indicating your exact location. Women must wear dresses at all times. Men require a jacket and tie. After school there is an hour of free time before going to the academy for supervised study. Lights out at 9:30. Rounds will be made by the housemother. Non-compliance will result in demerits. Accumulated demerits will result in loss of free time, or denied week-end activities. Week-ends can be spent away from school on special occasions only with written parental consent. The list went on.

To my surprise, the routine and structure of the academy were just what the doctor ordered, and the fresh air was good for my health. I marched through my days like a fine little solider, counting myself lucky. There was no way to do badly in school. Each evening we went back to study hall to complete our homework, if we didn’t understand something a teacher was there to explain it. My isolation and illness seemed far behind and I found myself embracing life for the first time.

Madame Schinnerea

At boarding school I traded gym class for music and went into town to study with the worldly Madame Schinnerea. She was accomplished, rigid, expensive and formally trained.  The woman managed, all by herself, to remove any joy I had ever felt for music. Under her training, music became cold and technical. If, at any time, she felt my work was less than perfect, she would cancel whatever engagements had been scheduled.

The minister from the Congregational church was especially put out by this. During my lesson he stopped by and demanded to know why my performance had been canceled.  Madame Schinnerea replied, she does not sing the piece as Handel intended. I won’t have a student of mine doing sloppy work.

The minister pleaded; couldn’t she just sing a simple hymn? It’s the beauty of her voice we love, not the sound of her jumping through classical hoops. She glared at him with all the impatience of a superior mind, dealing with the hopelessly ignorant. No, not even a simple hymn. It was over. I was to be perfect or not open my mouth. I tried; I pushed and pulled myself to become a gifted musical acrobat. I sang arias I didn’t understand in Italian, French and German - still not good. She gave me Hamlet to recite, in the hope of elevating my mind and thus my voice, but I could not please her. Finally I rebelled and joined the cheerleading squad where I screamed for hours in damp weather.  She was furious and informed my mother that I could have had a career on the concert stage, but lacked ambition.

I never had such lofty ideas. I was full of Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers, never Maria Callas.  Defying her further, I went to church every Sunday and sang hymn after hymn in the choir. I was their soloist, the only dormitory student, and was regarded with curiosity by the white haired ladies. We’ve never had a boarding student take an interest in the choir before. What an unusual young woman you are.

My best friend during those years was a beautiful Lebanese woman named, Susan. She was a townie, as distinguished from a boarding student. The academy was attended by local students, which saved it from being elitist or intolerably over run by the behavior problems of the wealthy. When I spent the night with Susan, I’d put on classical music and delight in the beauty of Chopin’s Piano sonatas, but she’d have none of it. I keep telling you, I don’t like that stuff. Put on something good, like Joni Mitchell or Bob Dylan. I didn’t know who they were, so she educated me. When Susan put Dylan on the record player I was very glad Madame Schinnerea was no where around, because I knew she’d die of a heart attack on the spot. I could imagine her gasping for air and clutching her heart at the sounds he produced. Why wasn’t somebody canceling his performances?

France and food

I must have been such a pain in the butt, but Elise was an exciting cook and I simply did not want to leave the table.

I was in Vincennes visiting relatives, Claude, Elise and their four year old son, Gilles.

Growing up in a restaurant, I was accustomed to good food, but was completely unprepared for the culinary delights of France.

Each morning I would follow Elise through open air markets, as she slipped fresh fruits, vegetables, fish and bread in the small string bag over her arm. I had never seen pastries like the ones displayed in the windows. They were works of colorfully displayed art, ready to be tasted and moaned over.

The baker was covered in flour as he stood in the door of the boulanger, smiling and looking satisfied with his work. Two years of high school French had not prepared me for conversation, but I felt the gist of community as he handed a baguette to Elise fresh from the oven. I was surprised to see them sold without the clear wrapping of breads at home. Customers carried them off on the back of bicycles, and tucked them inside packs with no regard for protection. Great chunks of artisan cheese made with whole unpasteurized milk were handed over the same way.

I had just left boarding school and had a summer before I began studying music in Cambridge. Elise and Claude wanted to show me the sights, which began with the famous Vincennes Medieval Castle which loomed above city streets. That summer we took the metro to Paris and saw the Louvre, the Eiffel Tower, the Seine, Jardin de Luxembourg, Notre Dame, and the Arc de Triomphe, but I had little interest, because I had been hopelessly seduced by the cooking of Elise. It was all I could think of.

When Claude asked what I wanted to visit each day, I told him I didn’t care. I just wanted to eat anything Elise would make. She stood over her simple wooden table, chopped, whisked, and tossed, stopping only to wipe her hands and push a lock of black hair from her forehead. I was in a pool of sensual pleasure and hoped to drown.

Smells of fish sautéed in butter and white wine wafted out her window as fresh herbs splashed in and out of the pan making sauces I had never imagined. I was introduced to the exotic unknown flavors of saffron, shallots, fennel and leeks. She braised white onions and caramelized mushrooms, boiled a rich sauce with blood red burgundy, and served steaming bowls of boeuf bourguignon. Crusty loaves of bread ripped by hand soaked the juices.

Dessert came in white ridged dishes of golden-brown crème carmel, or chocolate mousse with gobs of rich cream on top. The house filled with smells I had never known each time she donned an apron. Elise did not seem a gourmet cook, I am not even sure she took pleasure in it. She was simply preparing the daily meals for her husband and child. In the end, her kitchen was the only part of France I wanted to know. She had ensnared my young taste buds and opened a whole new world of pleasure. I’m sure they were relieved when it was time for me to leave for Salzburg. I had been a ravenous freeloader.

I never forgot the sensual delights of my summer in Vincennes. After several weeks of over-indulgence and added weight, I flew to my school in Salzburg, where I traded the poetry and passion of France for a German class, where every word sounded like an execution.

Are you coming?

We weren’t supposed to be there. The house was condemned but I could not resist. My best friend, Roberta lived in that house. We snuggled together in her bed, played on the floor near french doors and stood at the double sink resenting each dish her mother told us to wash. The place was a palatial estate in a depressed Appalachian way. It sat up high on acres of land next to an equally large barn supported by thin layers of slate. The land was bordered by rutted fields and deep woods. I told my husband I wanted to visit but it was more a dare than expectation. I was surprised when he pulled our rental car up the dirt driveway and opened my door.

I stepped out into tall wet grass feeling brave and criminal. There was no evidence of a path as we moved through weeds growing in tangles around our knees. We climbed rotting stairs near plywood covered windows, listening to sounds of the wind fluttering autumn leaves near the large yellow poster that hung on the door. Stay Out, No Trespassing, Violators will be prosecuted ~ the usual threats. The house was weather-beaten grey and pulled me so powerfully into the past that I expected to see myself there. The door hung crooked on rusted hinges and would not close. My husband was immediately uncomfortable and wanted to leave, but I was entranced. If anyone comes, I told him, wedging myself through the door, I will simply explain that I was Roberta’s friend, and they will give me news of her. Of course, I had not seen or heard from her in 50 years, but in such a small town someone would know.

Inside we found hundreds of boxes covering the floors in various stages of decay, looking as if someone had prepared to move, thought better of it, and simply walked away. The frame of the double sink pulled my attention to the kitchen. I remembered cleaning eggs from blue metal dishes speckled with white, and eating bowls piled high with sweet frozen cream from the ice box. The double sinks stood alone and erect in an otherwise gutted room. I continued to walk into what used to be the parlor, where I found the piano we once gathered around to sing. I walked over more rotting boxes and pressed against keys that resisted touch. The tone that whispered back was distant and sleeping, as if it were trying to remember its voice after a half century of silence. A sadness filled me at its loss. It stood in its splendid German casing holding firm to its place in the corner.

The french doors opened between the living room and the parlor, each rectangular glass still whole and intact, except for one near the floor which was completely missing. I remembered that cracked pane because I played next to it as a child, watching sunlight dance in its disfigured face. Those days stretched and grew into endless hours. Now all that remained was covered in dirt, with musty smells clouding water stained walls.

How amazing, I thought, to visit a house from my childhood. How astounding to find it standing with many of its contents unmoved, while real estate in my world was unaffordable and scarce.  This would have been torn down decades ago in the west, with dozens of houses erected on the land. My life in Oregon seemed a dream away. Here I expected to see Roberta’s father dressed in dark trousers and boots, and hear the sound of his ax striking logs for the fire, as he piled his arms high, the smell of fresh cut birch in his path.

On the other side of the archway stood the family’s china cabinet, the wooden doors askew, the drawers toppled and crooked, the wood still rich with studied craftsmanship and quality, like a war-torn ship that washed ashore from another century.

My husband followed in my footsteps eager to bolt. Let’s go Karen, he pleaded. There’s nothing here but decay and junk. Let’s leave. But I could not pull myself away. I was following a thread from my youth like a determined detective.

Yes, dear, go, I answered. I’ll be right behind you. But I lied because I could not stop. As he turned to leave, I pulled a fallen door from my path and climbed up uncertain stairs until I had a view of the second floor. My eyes drifted across the room, and up to a glimpse of pale sky. The structure was all brick and lath, exposed beams and foundation lumbers. No boxes up here, just decades of neglect and a past taken down to the bones. I recognized the hallway and could see into the empty spaces that use to house beds, handsewn quilts, wash basins, and chamber pots. For a moment I saw the girl I used to be in her flannel pajamas, bare feet and dirty face, her blonde hair springing free from the tight french braids her mother labored over each morning.

Are you coming?  my husband asked again. Where are you Karen? This is so unsafe. Don’t go up there.  And so I listened, turned and left, thinking as I walked away, that the house was forever changed and at the same time unchanged, just like myself.

written September 30, 2008