Too Much and Not the Mood Read online

  4

  Gone!

  I WAS seven years old, missing my two front teeth, and slowly recovering from a self-inflicted haircut that, looking back, produced a fantastically witless smile in pictures—a lunatic glint some of us harvest briefly in childhood—when one afternoon, someone stole my fish.

  We were an hour southwest of Montreal, where Lac Saint-François, a tributary of the Saint Lawrence River, streams. And where if you’re quiet, you can still conjure the sound of traffic. Sort of. Close enough for city kids to get wowed by a dragonfly’s spangled wings; to feel the itch of tall grass and knock our knees on the pebbled sides of a cooler while carrying it from the car to a picnic table, as if being reminded how awkward we become when we are an hour southwest of our home.

  It was me, my brother, my father, and Mark, our close family friend. If I recall, he’d just returned from a fishing expedition in the Yukon, or maybe it was nearer, like the Quebec-Ontario border. Mark is an outdoor photographer. Or is it outdoor with an s? The outdoors. The numerous, ambiguous outside. He’s also an actor, and one summer—the one my family met him—he was a counselor at the YMCA day camp I attended, teaching drama. I must have come home and gushed, describing him as “so cool,” and “really nice,” and “soooo funny,” because soon my father and Mark became friends. Eventually, they started working together on projects, writing scripts and putting on plays with the theater company my father founded.

  When my parents separated, Mark found it hard to stay neutral, I think. He was my father’s friend and collaborator after all. And anyway, these situations are too involving for everyone uninvolved.

  But just like that, and as I witnessed somewhat amazed, when my parents split, a far bigger parting occurred. An entire social circle divided. Some friends, not Mark, were particularly awful and self-important about picking sides. How often I heard those words: picking sides, choosing sides. To settle the unease that had since become my constant attendant, I resolved that it was a dance. The “pick-sides.” Like the fox-trot, like bhangra, the jive, a waltz. The pick-sides was, plainly, a variation of ballroom tango—head-snaps, staccato steps, operatic turns. Footwork that mimicked all the talebearing and, in some extremes, slandering that these adults who frontiered my childhood were now involved in.

  During the 1998 ice storm, when a chain reaction of collapsed transmission towers shut down the entire city for a couple weeks, Mark stayed with me, my brother, my father, my grandmother, and my now stepmom, Lisa. One night, the fire alarm went off in my father’s apartment building and Mark and he carried my grandmother down five flights of stairs in her wheelchair. I remember watching their arms buckle and my father’s brow sweat, and his pants slide down his waist just enough so that instead of being helpful and hurrying in front to open the emergency door, I was telling him I could see his underwear. Baba! I shouted. Pull up your pants! Even worse, my grandmother was panicked and mumbling what sounded like prayer or distress—it was hard to discern between the two—and all I could focus on was how, without hot water, I hadn’t showered for days.

  Even the day we went fishing—five years prior to the ice storm—my attention was selfishly turned inward. How this was possible so young still startles me. On our way to the river, I remember feeling humiliated by Mark’s enthusiasm for the day. Here we were, a father and his two kids who know zilch about fishing, accompanying this pro. Anytime Mark shared with us what he was looking forward to, how special this spot was, or what kind of fish we might catch, I grew more and more ashamed of how inadequate we looked in the adult-sized, mesh-lined fishing vests he’d lent my brother and me. How utterly foolish and useless one could look in badly fitting water-repellent gear.

  Watching Mark turn around in the passenger seat and passionately go on to us as my father drove was—though of course no fault of his own—embarrassing for me. Even very young, I was aware of how inclusion, no matter how warm, alerts me to further ways I might need to catch up. Though Mark was just trying to be kind, all I could focus on was how I grew up in a house where nobody ever owned the right shoes for participating in activities like hiking or camping. Like, whatever you need for cross-country skiing. We had to borrow. We knew nothing about sleeping bags and building tents. I’ve never owned a fleece. And now of course I’m smiling because the last thing I ever want to do is climb mountains or push tent poles through grommets and worry about overnight rain. I find myself deeply hostile, even, toward the word activity.

  When we reached the river, it was colder than we’d expected. I was shivering and got bored, quick. My rain boots were too big, so I felt—again with the clothes—stupid. After lunch we agreed it might be best to head home early, fish or no fish.

  Just a little longer, my brother proposed. He’s never minded waiting. So long as it doesn’t involve waiting for people. My brother is patient for snow to melt, for meat to cook just right, for scars to heal. But people. People drive him mad.

  I asked if I could sit in the car, knowing full well the answer would be no. All I wanted was to be inside. All I wanted was a window to look out from; the swath and sound of water, faraway and hushed. All I wanted was some remove. On most days, that’s still what I want. Because I’ve always enjoyed watching people I love do what they’re doing, but from a distance. Far enough so that bodies become blemishes but that a person’s gait remains familiar.

  There’s something peaceful about the tunnel acoustics of a car when the engine’s turned off. It’s what I imagine we hear before we die. Or perhaps it’s those same acoustics capped by what I can only describe as the swift suction of a penny being vacuumed. Yes, that’s it. That’s the sound.

  Anyway, my father insisted we all—including me is what he meant—try to catch one fish. It didn’t matter how small. Few things bring him joy the way cooking fish does. He’ll say it’s because he’s Bengali, but I know it’s also because he derives great pleasure from what demands method. Where there is a system and where he can pride himself in not just using but owning the right tools: the right knife with a curved blade, the right pan, the exact spices, enough lemon. Even the act of eating fish requires care: Look out for the bones, he’ll warn between bites.

  While I complained, Mark remained cheery, because what’s there to do with a family in a mood—a family that’s not yours. He must have made a joke, because I remember letting slip the slightest grin that betrayed the frown I was so focused on wearing. Normally, I was fairly committed to my tantrums. I could stare down a brick wall. I must have thought Mark was handsome.

  Despite wanting to leave, I grabbed my fishing rod and stood on a bed of raised rocks and began to count, because what else was there to do? I counted seagulls flying. Children in the distance, older than me. I counted the teeth in my mouth with my tongue. I counted how many days until Christmas. Until my birthday. And how old I would be in the year 2000. I counted down from one hundred and wondered about my best friend, Ali. She was probably not fishing, but instead eating sugary cereal and watching a movie with her German shepherd, Pêche. Or maybe then it was Hobo. Pêche came after Hobo. Ali’s the friend whose phone number, parents’ names—Andrew and Patricia—her pets’ names, street address, color of her second-grade backpack, and Halloween costumes are all foundational. She was my first Diana Barry, even though as a little girl, oddly enough, I connected to Matthew Cuthbert more so than Anne.

  As I stood on the rocks wishing I was elsewhere, imagining what fourteen would feel like in the year 2000, I felt a yank! Isn’t that how it goes? When you’ve become a brat and cursed the day’s activity, when you’re bored and cold, and your boots are too big, that’s when you feel the most violent yank! All of a sudden my line began to shake. The rod bowed and lowered in what looked like pain. I’d never felt tension so strong before. It was as though I’d hooked a magnet the size of a baby elephant. Or woken up a monster. I must have screamed, because Mark came running and took over.

  I felt special. I stood back and watched as he wrestled with the line, lea
ning back and keeping the slack out. This went on for some time, and now my father had joined us. My brother too. I remember Mark focusing hard, talking to himself and to us, and enjoying the fish’s fight. Water splashed; I saw a tail. Some wriggle. I thought about where I’d look if Mark lost the fish—probably the sky. Maybe my boots. I still don’t know where to look.

  Abruptly, as if he’d been pretending the whole time, Mark quietly reeled the fish in with plain ease. Like it was nothing at all. Thrilled, the four of us agreed to stay out longer. But first, Mark took a picture of my brother and me holding our catch. It was gooey and slippery and, to my surprise, very, very heavy. I smiled my lunatic smile, and a few months later, that same picture ended up in the pages of a Canadian fishing magazine.

  To preserve the fish for dinner, we found a quiet area off to the side of the river and built a miniature fort with rocks surrounding a pool of water. A custom basin. In my memory, the rocks are bluish. Like if gray had a cold. My father expressed some concern because my lips had turned purple. But I was too focused on building a sturdy wall and playing too with these plastic, wormy baits that flopped and bobbed in colors like neon pink, yellow, pylon-orange. One worm was transparent and speckled with glitter. In a few years I’d wear a retainer with a similar coat of glitter that I’d eventually lose on a soccer field. My mother would make me walk the length of the field back and forth, but we’d never find it.

  Once the fort was safely built, Mark gently slid the fish inside its temporary home. “Good catch,” he said. “Are you sure you’ve never done this before?”

  We left the fish in its basin, walked away, grabbed our poles, and hooked new bait. For the rest of the day, whatever we caught was to be set free.

  A couple hours later, we returned to the tiny stronghold we had built. It took us a minute to find it, but when we did, the fish was gone. Someone had stolen it. “What?” my father said. “Impossible.”

  I was devastated. Mark wondered if we’d perhaps walked to the wrong spot. My brother didn’t seem bothered in the least. The wind picked up as it does when no one is in possession of an appropriate response. It was time to pack up and head home.

  As we hiked back to where our car was parked, I put my hand in the vest’s side pocket and accidentally pricked my finger on a lure’s hook. There was no blood, though it hurt enough for there to be blood. I turned around and arched my neck to mark the spot where we’d left the fish. Even from far I could see our fort, and just beyond that, in the distance, I noticed a couple wearing matching turquoise windbreakers. They seemed nice enough—I mean, really, there’s no telling. I was seven and missing my two front teeth, and slightly suspicious of the world, especially now. But something about those matching turquoise windbreakers. They provoked me, and if anything, they’ve stayed with me. No billowing, no sag. Those turquoise windbreakers fit perfect. They ticked me off. They tipped me off, and in that second, I decided: It was them.

  5

  The Girl

  THE girl you want does not exist. Despite agreeing to split two entrées and seeming, in your eyes, charmingly frazzled by the menu’s options, her favorite time of day is not dinner with you. Her favorite time of day is when the waiter starts coming around with his tray of votive candles.

  She picked this place for its big booths because they make her feel like she’s sinking into a giant baseball mitt. Sinking into a hug. She only accepts hugs from furniture. From the throw cushion she places on her stomach and holds tight, like a soft fender for her gut. From the way her mother doesn’t look up from the paper, doesn’t say Good morning, but instead, “I thought I’d let you sleep in.”

  She accepts hugs too from the weight of a dentist’s X-ray apron. From a rack of checked coats like a curtain she can fold herself into. From going to the movies alone in the day. From resting her face against cold marble surfaces. From listening to her dog sigh. From Stevie Wonder singing low, That I’ll be loving you always. From stepping into a patch of sun and closing her eyes.

  She is standoffish, unwilling, harsh, up to something. She is a narcissist, a snob, a spy, some suspect. She is haughty, selfish, plenty vain, and proud. Affected. She puts on airs, I’ve heard people say.

  She picked this place too for its wall-length bistro-antiqued mirrors. Even when she’s looking at you, she’s looking just beyond you—at her reflection.

  Despite your grievances, she isn’t withholding. Simply, she’ll never tell you the things she takes an interest in, because what she doesn’t want is this: that you procure them for her.

  You yearn for her vulnerability. Which you believe comes complimentary, like peanuts on a flight; two packets. Like a smile. Vulnerability she refuses to give you because she is, after all these years, gaining back custody of herself. Lost long ago, before she was born, somewhere in the ripped lining of a purse where, I assume, most things lost will eventually be found.

  Hers is an everyday process of retrieval. In general, she moves at the speed of someone gathering dirty laundry from her floor—bending down, scooping up, yanking socks from jeans, inspecting smells, discovering tears or a stain she’ll deal with later. Regretting a brown cardigan she only wore once; the buttons were all wrong, but she knew that when she bought it. Slipping on heels she’ll only wear at home. Getting distracted by a ticket stub in a pants pocket. That’s the speed she moves at.

  She isn’t one for accomplishing anything fast. She’s too sensitive to accomplish anything fast. Even her thoughts come out like goop from a tube. Like those Sunday hangovers—her brain nodding and floating like a bouquet of delivery balloons wrapped in plastic.

  What absorbs you though is merely her. Your obsession is your obsession. You’ve been encouraged to believe since boyhood that your fascination has manifested her. She is an iceberg you’ve mistaken for an island. Discoverable in your eyes.

  She is open in ways that do not attract attention in the same manner she attracts attention. There is a difference. And neither requires your sanction. One is private while the other occurs when her joke lands. Or when she extends her neck and communicates her posture. Like when a copper penny is dropped into a vase of limp tulips. Within hours, the tulips look spry. Standoffish, unwilling, harsh, up to something.

  The girl’s life forces include, in no particular order: pleasure scored from what is incomplete; a firm belief that procrastination provides charge, builds muscle, helps to—over time—discover register; tenderness for people who arrive places in a panic, sip fast, are in possession of fail-safe exit strategies.

  She wishes she had a genius for curbing small talk; for manufacturing an arbitrary tone when airing something considered; for soft-boiling an egg.

  She always feels like a tourist the morning after she spends the night; after she leaves your place and experiences the glare of sidewalk. Like she’s meant to be going to a museum, so sometimes she does. Like she’s meant to be ordering a pastry. So, often, she does. An espresso too—those small to-go ones she can cup between her thumb and index finger. Like she’s meant to be a woman who wears sunglasses. But she’s never worn sunglasses. Not once in her life. So she doesn’t. But she feels like she could, and that’s the point. She feels like a tourist whenever she has sex.

  She has trouble sleeping. It shows because people tell her it shows. Those dark, deep-set half-moons that hammock under her eyes invite appraisal. In pictures, her mouth is slightly open as though she just said Tapioca.

  It still isn’t clear to her what turns her on. Though just recently, while going for a walk, she spotted a stranger’s pale rose curtains from the street. An early-summer breeze sent them flapping out the window only to get sucked back in, clinging against the building’s outside brick like the thin skin of collapsed bubblegum. The flapping. The clinging. The sucking-in. This turned her on. Or maybe the spectacle was, simply put: intimate. Belonging to someone else. A person she would never know, whose entire room on sunny days is stained pink when the curtains are drawn. Walls blushing. Inside looking lik
e insides.

  The girl sometimes confuses what’s intimate with what turns her on. You like this about her. You love that she is confused. You lean into the table and tell her, adoringly, “I can’t believe you exist.” The construction of your praise troubles her. It’s your claim to her, after all. Is that your best offer? Your disbelief? The whole display, like most displays, is a small dog wearing a top hat and monocle. It’s a gift you expect her to open in public. Because recognition of this kind is humiliating for both parties. Taking notice—if one isn’t cautious—is smug. Chaffing. Tedious.

  “I can’t believe you exist,” you repeat.

  While inured to this variety of compliment, she would like nothing more than to climb out from behind the scrim and roll her eyes to the point of migraine. She wants to bark. Shake the ground. Grow tentacles. Swing on a chandelier. She wants to hide. Disappear. Become a speck.

  Tell a woman she is beautiful, and she might—it’s very possible—feel like a fool. Roses die quick. They will do.

  The girl you want does not exist.

  The girl you want does exist.

  But not like that. And not like that. Or like that. Or like that.

  She is sitting across from you, looking just beyond you—at herself.

  6

  Idea of Marriage

  “MY dad’s idea of fun,” my friend Tait once told me, “is having a few drinks and then telling either me or my brother how beautiful his wife is.” Tait’s mother, Sandy, is very beautiful. Elegant. She speaks with steadied attention and just enough breaks between her thoughts, like someone rummaging through her purse for a pen. Some women sound as if they are working through their ideas out loud, open to doubt but not impaired by it. Some women hand you a pen before you even ask for one. Sandy is one of those women.

  She looks nimble and ready for whatever; capable of contorting her body like a woman from Robert Longo’s Men in the Cities series. In fact, if I remember correctly, Sandy was one of the women Longo depicted in charcoal and graphite. Makes sense.