After Silence Page 2
“Sure it’s okay. What’s your name?”
“Newell Kujbishev.”
Listen to our silence after he said that.
“Excuse me?”
“Newell Kujbishev.”
I looked helplessly at Lily. She smiled and grew a look on her face that said, “Get out of this one gracefully, big boy.”
“I’m afraid you’ll have to spell that, Newell.”
He did while I slowly took his dictation. Then we shook hands and he walked away. “There goes a man who should be required to wear a name tag at all times.”
“Your work is in this show?”
“Yes. I draw the comic strip Paper Clip.’”
“I don’t know it.”
“That’s okay.”
“Have you heard of the restaurant Crowds and Power on Fairfax?”
“I’m afraid not.”
She nodded. “Then we’re even. That’s where I work.”
“Oh.”
“Mom, are we going in or what?”
“Yes, sweetie, right now. But would you show us your piece, Max? I’d like to start that way. Okay, Lincoln? You don’t mind, do you?”
The boy shrugged but then, as we moved from the spot, tore off and disappeared around a corner. This didn’t seem to faze his mother. He reemerged a couple of minutes later to announce he had found my picture and would lead us there. It was an endearing gesture, pure jealous child. He didn’t know what to make of me or his mother’s interest, so he’d steal my thunder by finding my work and, in announcing its place in the museum, make it his own. We followed him, chatting as we went.
“Lincoln loves to draw, but mostly battles. Catapults flinging boiling oil, warriors. Every picture has hundreds of arrows flying about. I only wish they weren’t always so aggressive. That’s why we came today: I’m hoping he’ll be inspired by this and start drawing Xanadus, instead of soldiers with cannonball holes in their stomachs.”
“But kids like violence. It comes with their territory, don’t you think? Isn’t it better if he works it out by drawing, rather than if he were to conk someone?”
She shook her head. “Nonsense. That’s only the easy way out. Reality is, my kid likes to draw pictures of people getting shot. All the rest is psycho-fluff.”
Stung, I averted my eyes. It took a split second to realize she had stopped. “Listen, don’t have thin skin. Life’s too short and interesting. Don’t think what I said was an insult. It wasn’t. I’ll tell you when I’m insulting you. I’m also wrong a lot and you’re allowed to tell me that. A fair trade. I guess that’s your picture?”
Before I could catch all these balls she was throwing at me, we came across her son, arms crossed and stern-faced, standing in front of my drawing. His back was to it.
“What do you think, Lincoln?”
“Pretty good. You’re sure you did it, you’re telling the truth? Swear to God?”
He wore a crisp white T-shirt. Without asking permission from either him or his mother, I took out a black marking pen, pulled him to me, and began drawing on the front of his shirt. He gave a small peep of protest, which I ignored, and I kept going. His mother remained silent.
“What’s your favorite part of my picture?”
“I don’t know. I can’t see it from here!” He twisted and fidgeted but not too much. It was plain he loved what was going on. Under my hands he felt like a puppy getting its tummy scratched.
“Doesn’t matter. Use your memory. Can’t you remember things?” I kept drawing. The pungent smell of felt-tip ink was everywhere.
“Yes, I can remember! Better than you, probably! I like the part where those big buildings are shaking hands.”
“Okay, I’m putting that in right now.” I stopped a moment and turned to Lily. “Are you angry?”
“Not a bit.”
So I let fly. Dancing clocks, birds in top hats, buildings shaking hands. It took a few minutes to complete but both of us had such fun (Lincoln squirming and giggling, me drawing fast) that it seemed no time at all. Sure I was showing off, but come on, it’s allowed when you’re making a child laugh.
When I was finished, Lincoln pulled the shirt off and held it up in front to see what I’d done. His smile was as wide as a plate. “You’re crazy!”
“Think so?”
“Ma, did you see this?”
“It’s great. Now you’ve got to take good care of it because Max is famous. You’ve probably got the only shirt like that in the world.”
He looked up at me with big eyes. “Is that true? The only one?”
“I’ve never decorated a shirt before, so yeah, it’s true.”
“Cool!”
There were features on both their faces that gave away the fact they were related: thin well-formed noses, long mouths that went straight across with no lift or curl at either corner. When they weren’t smiling, although both smiled often, you couldn’t read what they were thinking by their expressions.
Lincoln was nine but small for his age and it bothered him. “Were you small when you were my nine, Max?”
“I don’t remember, but I’ll tell you this—the toughest guy in my town was short and nobody messed with him. Nobody. Bobby Hanley.”
“What would he do if you did?”
“Pull your ear off.” I turned to Lily. “That’s true. I once saw Bobby Hanley, who really was the toughest kid in town, almost pull someone’s ear off at a basketball game.”
“He sounds like a peach.”
Lily wore a man’s white dress shirt and a long blue linen skirt that came to the top of her ankles. Intricate, beautifully woven leather sandals and toenails that were painted red.
“How come you do your toes but not your fingers?”
“Toenails are funny; painted fingernails are sexy. I don’t want anyone getting the wrong idea.”
She was full of opinions, and she was glad to tell them to you at the drop of a hat. At first I thought she was pompous and/or a tad screwy because some of her beliefs were unrepentantly black and white, others absurd. All television was bad. Travel was confusing rather than broadening. Gorbachev was a sneak. She believed one should spray house plants with water whenever it rained because they “knew” it was raining outside and longed to be there. She was reading a famous composer’s biography but, as with all biographies, preferred reading it last volume to first because it gave her a better picture of the artist.
“It’s like that in life—first you meet a person as they are now, then only after you’re interested in them do you want to know more about their past or their childhood. True?”
Seeing an exhibit with a new person is like doing your homework and listening to the radio at the same time. You want to look, but you also want to make an impression. And remember the child who likes you but is suspicious at the same time. The only work Lincoln liked was a loony 3-D city street by Red Grooms. The rest of the time the boy kept wandering away for long stretches, or asking his mother if they could leave now.
Contrary to the first impression, I liked the way Lily Aaron handled her son. She paid real attention to the boy, listened carefully to what he said, spoke to him with no condescension in her voice. If one were to hear only that voice, it would sound like she was talking with a friend, someone she cared for but in no way felt superior to.
She was great, but was she married? Committed? I hinted left, right, and center. I prompted unsubtly but none of it got me the answer I sought: Yes, I am married. No, I’m alone now.
“And what does your husband do?” We were sitting in front of a bank of video screens watching Lincoln walk back and forth from one to the other, checking the different action on each. The same film ran on all the screens, only at different speeds: construction workers putting up a skyscraper.
Lily turned and served me a look that had a lot of topspin on it. “You asked that question like you’re committing a crime. You’re allowed to ask. I’m not married anymore. Lincoln’s father hasn’t been around for a long time. R
ick. Rick Aaron. Rick the Prick.” Having said that, she smiled cheerfully. “When it comes to that man, I have no dignity. Only old words apply to him—‘rake’ or ‘scoundrel.’ ‘Shithead’ does very nicely too.”
I laughed. She did too.
“I think we have to leave soon, Max. I can tell when Lincoln is getting grouchy.”
“Would you like to have lunch together?”
“That’s a thought. Wait a minute.” She got up and went over to the boy. Squatting next to him, she spoke in a low whispery voice. He stood still, looking straight ahead at the television monitors. Sometimes life narrows to one laser-thin word: yes or no. I watched closely. What if he said no? She was so pretty—
“Okay. But only if we go to Crowds!”
She looked over her shoulder at me and raised an eyebrow. “That’s where I work. He loves to eat there because everyone is his friend. Do you mind?”
Outside I walked with them to their car, an old but beautifully kept Volkswagen Bug. I’d just noticed the black leather seats when inside rose a figure that took up the entire back seat.
“Is that a dog or a Bulgarian?”
“That’s Cobb. He’s a greyhound.”
Lily unlocked the door and the giant dog slowly leaned his thin head out. His face was graying and he had the calm faded brown eyes of an old boy. He looked at me philosophically and then stuck his long tongue out for no apparent reason.
“He likes you. That’s his way of blowing you a kiss.”
“Really? Can I pet him?”
“No. He doesn’t like to be touched. Only Lincoln gets away with it. But if he likes you he blows you kisses, like that last one.”
“Oh.” Can you be interested in a woman while thinking she’s nuts at the same time? I guess so.
The dog yawned and his tongue came out even further. It looked like a thick pink belt unraveling.
“How old is he?”
“About ten. He used to be a champion racer, but when greyhounds get too old to run it’s not uncommon for their owners to put them down because they’re too expensive to care for. That’s how we got Cobb. They were going to kill him. Kill him or use him for blood.”
“Excuse me?”
“Greyhounds have the richest, best blood of any dog. Veterinarians prefer to use it for transfusions into other dogs, so some people breed them just to take their blood out.”
“Is that true?” I looked at the old giant and felt instant pity.
Lily leaned forward and, puckering her lips a few inches from Cobb’s black nose, kissed the air between them. The dog looked solemnly at her. “That is the sad truth. You know now how to get to the restaurant?”
“Yes. I’ll meet you there.” I patted the roof of her car as she slid in. Behind me there was a loud squeal of brakes, then the brute metal crunch of a car accident. I’d barely turned to see where it was when Lily banged the door back open into my side.
“Look out! Where is it?”
“There. Nobody’s hurt. Just looks like it’s a fender bender.”
“You don’t know. Lincoln, stay here. Do not move!” She leapt out of the VW and raced across the parking lot.
“But nothing happened.” I said out loud to myself.
Lincoln spoke from inside the car. “I know. She always does this. Whenever someone’s hurt or there’s an accident, she goes and helps. You can’t stop her. She always does it.”
“Okay, then I guess I’d better go see if I can help too. You stay here, Lincoln. We’ll be right back.”
“Don’t worry. I’ve done this a million times. She’s always helping somebody out.” He put his small arm around the dog, who, at that moment, looked like a Supreme Court justice.
Across the parking lot a small group of people had gathered around a black Jaguar XKE convertible and a small pickup truck that were bashed together. The driver of the XKE, a thirtyish pregnant woman, was glaring daggers at the truck driver, a young Oriental man in a straw hat. The back of his pickup was filled with gardening tools. From her frown and his “I’m sorry” smile, it was clear the accident had been his fault. Lily stood next to the woman and looked at her worriedly.
“Are you sure you’re okay? Sure you don’t want me to call an ambulance?”
“No, thank you. Maybe a cop, though. Look at my car, will you? Damnit! That’s going to be at least five thousand dollars to fix. I don’t even know if it’ll drive now.”
The Oriental man said something in his own language, and to our surprise, Lily answered him back in it. The pregnant woman and I looked at each other while the man spoke again, in obvious relief, to Lily.
“He says he’s fully insured, or at least I’m pretty sure that’s what he’s saying. He keeps repeating you shouldn’t worry.”
“What language is he speaking?”
“Vietnamese.”
“Wow, you can speak that?”
“The rudiments. The basics, but I can make out his gist.”
Lily took over the whole scene. She got both causer and effected to calm down and go through the necessary steps so that when the police did arrive, there would be nothing for them to do. Both the woman and the Vietnamese fellow were so grateful for her help that they couldn’t stop thanking her. She had nicely and efficiently taken the venom out of their situation and helped when she had no stake in the matter. How often does someone like that happen along?
“Well, Max, now I’m really hungry. How about you?”
“That was very nice to do for them.”
“You know, it was. But I’m angry at myself for knowing it. I’d love to reach a point in life where I do things like that for others but don’t even know I’m doing them, much less know it’s a nice gesture. That’s progress. Wouldn’t it be great?
“Do you read mystery novels?”
“Mysteries? I don’t know, sometimes.” I was beginning to learn her abrupt topic shifts weren’t so abrupt—they invariably arced back on themselves but you had to get used to the strange angles at which they turned.
She went on. “I don’t. Too misleading. People buy them for the twists and turns and whodunits, but not me. Life is complicated enough—figure it out. You don’t need mystery novels or crossword puzzles to keep you busy. Also, those stories imply people are confused because there’s no Good or Bad. Nonsense—we can recognize the difference. Most of the time we know damn well what’s good and bad, right and wrong. We just choose not to act on it. What I did back there was right—but only what anyone should do in that sort of situation. That’s why I deserve no credit.”
“Okay, but it was kind.”
She shook her head. “I don’t like living in a world where ‘correct’ is so rare that it becomes ‘kind.’ ”
There is a terrific story in my family that needs telling here. My grandmother was a dangerously bad driver. Particularly because she drove so slowly, no one wanted to ride in an automobile with her when she was at the wheel. Once my grandfather was in the hospital for a minor operation. On the day of his release, his wife went to get him in their car. Still wearing pajamas and bathrobe, he was helped into the back seat. Grandma set off for home at her customary crawl. Usually so vocal about her driving, Grandpa lay in back absolutely silent. She thought it was because he was still suffering from the operation. But his silence was disconcerting. Once in a while, without looking in the rearview, she would ask him if he was all right. “Yes, but speed it up a little, willya?” “All right, dear.” Then she continued at her fifteen miles an hour. Halfway home she stopped at a red light. It changed and a few minutes later she again asked if he was okay. No answer. She asked again. No answer. Concerned, she looked in the mirror. No Grandpa. Horrified he’d fallen out, she stopped the car in the middle of the street to look for him. No Grandpa. Since she was close to home, she drove there to call the cops to find her poor ill husband. Guess who was sitting on the porch at home waiting for her. Guess who’d gotten out at that red light, hailed a cab in his pajamas…
Lily had a great
sense of humor but I don’t think she ever really got the funny in that story because she drove like my grandmother.
Following her to the restaurant that first day, I got the feeling something was seriously wrong with her car. Like the hand brake was full on, or the engine had fallen out and she was pushing with her feet. Little things like that. She called it cautious driving, I called it coronary driving. It had to be against the law to drive as slowly as this woman did. I couldn’t believe she wasn’t pulling my leg. But she wasn’t—this was her, and from that day on there was no way I could convince her to speed it up. When I drove the car, she was perfectly content at whatever speed I chose. But when Lady Lily herself was at the wheel, you went back to the days of the bullock cart. Only she held a gearshift knob instead of reins.
On the ride over, Cobb stared out their rear window at me. He resembled one of those giant stone heads on Easter Island. Once in a while Lincoln turned and gave a small wave, but until we reached the place it was mostly the old dog and me eyeballing each other through crosstown L.A. traffic.
I didn’t know them, but I liked both very much already. Lily was smart and talked too much. I imagined waking with her, the greyhound taking up half the bed. Lincoln would come in sleepily and sit on a corner warmed by sun falling across blue blankets. What did she look like in the morning? What did they think of me? Would I see them again after today, or would something happen to spoil it and make it go away? I was a romantic and believed in instant recognition, instant affinity. Why couldn’t this happen? I’d had luck before and therefore faith that it wasn’t a one-time thing.
From the outside, Crowds and Power was so low-key and cool that I first mistook it for a warehouse. Then a parking attendant hurried over to Lily’s car and I knew this must be the place. A warehouse manned by parking attendants. It was blue-gray cinder block, and only when you looked closely did you see the small salmon-colored neon sign saying the name of the restaurant. I have nothing against subtle or cool, but in L.A. they try so hard to cool you right into oblivion that it is often both noisome and silly at the same time.
“Here we are, Max. What do you think?”