All We Know of Love Read online

  “I have such an appetite for you, Natalie,” he would whisper to me. Then in the forever moment after he was gone, I would reflect on every word he had said to me. I relived them in my imagination. I would contemplate the difference between a hunger that can be satisfied by any body and an appetite, a craving, for only one specific object. Me.

  Was he thinking of me as he made his way home?

  And I wanted him to acknowledge, to verbalize, that I had just shared myself with him, a very intimate part of myself.

  Was he listening to the radio as he drove? A CD? Was he talking on his cell phone to a friend?

  I began to wonder if I even existed for him when I wasn’t directly in front of him. It was a thought that frightened me, terrified me, so that even though I knew I was making a total nag of myself, I kept calling, kept appearing before him in any way I could.

  As if to say, without really saying: Here I am.

  We were just together. As close as two people can be.

  But what I would say instead, were things like: “Don’t forget not to bother me when I’m watching Grey’s Anatomy tonight.” I would try to keep it light, as if I just happened to call about something else altogether, like: “Hey, did you hear what happened at the football game Saturday?”

  Don’t forget me. Isn’t this as important to you as it is to me?

  Then I would promise myself to take better care, better care of myself. Until I would see him again, and the whole cycle would repeat. I would return always to swimming drunk on champagne. And that way I didn’t have to see that what I was really doing was writhing on the floor.

  For a long time, I didn’t have to notice that at all.

  There is an old saying, a stupid, old-fashioned, ridiculous, sexist saying: You’ll never sell the cow if you keep giving away the milk for free. I’ve heard several variations:

  Why buy the cow if you can get the milk for free?

  No one will pay for the milk when the cow is free.

  And on and on.

  Well, I wasn’t trying to sell any cow. I was not, and am not, a cow, nor will I ever be one.

  But for some reason that expression kept showing up in my brain like a flash card or a speed-limit sign you see as you’re driving along the highway. I think there should be a better, new and improved update on that cow saying.

  I’m working on it.

  So while I am on a bus somewhere along Interstate 95 heading south, Sarah’s family is heading north to go skiing in Vermont, and that’s where my dad thinks I am. Last year, her family went to some Caribbean island for winter break, and I did get to go with them. There are actually some very good things about not having your mother around. One is that you basically get to do whatever you want.

  Dads don’t usually call other moms and ask them if there are enough seat belts for the drive or what the sleeping arrangements in the ski lodge are going to be. They don’t even ask why I am walking out the door without a parka or some kind of huge bag to transport the skis I don’t even own.

  My dad gave me a hundred bucks for my week in Vermont.

  “Don’t spend it all in one place,” he said, winking at me. He thought he was giving me a fortune, and I didn’t want to burst his bubble. It’s part of our walking dead routine. We never challenge each other. We never hurt each other’s feelings. I tell him his cooking is great, and he tells me how special I am.

  I don’t think either one of us is much into telling the truth.

  I tell Charlene I need to get out of my seat to get to the bathroom, but we both realize there is no way I am going to be able to squeeze by her. She’s going to have to gather up all her stuff and stand up. It takes her a while to get this all organized and to get to her feet, and while she is doing this, I stand, sort of bent over, and stare at the fabric pattern of the bus seats. It is a mixture of greens and browns and aqua blue in random swirls that reminds me of vomit.

  She’d better hurry.

  “There you go, baby doll,” Charlene says, and as I slip past, she puts her hand on the small of my back to steady me.

  “I’ll be right back,” I say, like I should let her know this. I’m not quite sure why.

  When I get inside the tiny bathroom and slide the door locked behind me, I feel a little better; the nausea passes. But now I am about to perform the same ritual I have been doing nearly every month since Adam. I take a deep breath and I pray to the God I am not sure exists and if he does I’m pretty sure he does not appreciate being used like this.

  There are a million better causes in the world he is already not attending to.

  But I do it anyway.

  Please, I pray to God. Let me get my period.

  Then I remember all the times before when I promised that if only I got my period, I would be more careful next time. I would be smart. I would take more than a minor interest in my own well-being. Yet here I am again. I sit down on the toilet seat and stare into the crotch of my underpants for any sign.

  We all took the same health classes, starting in middle school, didn’t we? Of course, in high school they get even more interesting, more graphic, more hands-on — no pun intended. We know how to identify five different STDs, which ones are treatable and which are forever, and how to roll a condom over a rubbery penis facsimile attached to a block of wood.

  Let me get my period.

  After I use the toilet paper, the last part of my ritual is to inspect it for any tint, the slightest redness, the tiniest sign from God.

  But there is none.

  How can it be that the human brain can supposedly inhibit the growth of cancer cells or induce them? It can certainly spawn a splendid array of pimples from simple stress. Just the thought of speaking in front of a large crowd of people can send me to the bathroom with the runs.

  But no matter how hard I try, I cannot will my uterus into shedding its lining.

  Before I fell in love for real, I made-believe a lot.

  I don’t count the two boys in my kindergarten class who agreed to meet after school and fight over me, then wound up tossing a ball around the playground instead. Because my first make-believe love was Danny Bigelow, whom I kissed.

  I remember Danny was pretty small, about my size, my age, eleven years old. He had sandy-colored hair to my dark brown. We were next-door neighbors, and when neither one of us had anything better to do, we hung out together. Danny and I were lying in the grass at the top of the hill by the Little League fields. The grass was cold and a little wet. I could feel it through my sweater. My knees were bent, the sun was the most gentle blanket, and the clouds were shifting so fast against the still-bare trees that we said we could see the earth spinning.

  I remember thinking, We are either going to roll down this hill, rolling and rolling, hands tight at our sides, spinning like dizzy tops, or we are going to kiss. There was no anticipation, no fluttering, desperate, longing feeling about it. Danny turned his head to me. Maybe he was going to challenge me to a race down the hill. Maybe he was going tell me a joke or ask me what I thought that big white cloud looked like.

  So maybe it was my idea or maybe it was his. I turned my head toward Danny at the same time and our lips were a mere five inches apart. Danny leaned in the rest of the way and pressed his mouth against mine. And I pressed back. Lying on our sides, our faces touching, it was a position we held for a second or two.

  His lips were soft, and his breath was sweet, like Jolly Ranchers.

  After Danny and after my mother left, there was Rubin, who took me to the movies, my first real date. It was a horror movie. My dad dropped me off outside the theater. Rubin showed up a few minutes later, dropped off by his mom, who had just recently divorced Rubin’s dad. I didn’t realize it then, but I suppose we shared a sadness that neither one of us ever talked about.

  We made out, tight-lipped, in the back row for nearly the entire duration of the film. We held hands as we left the theater, like two little kids.

  Rubin moved away shortly after that, but not be
fore we had seen two more movies and Rubin presented me with his mother’s wedding ring.

  I looked down at the silver circle of hearts, knowing I shouldn’t accept it. I mean, he was nice and the ring was pretty; it was real. But I knew something Rubin couldn’t understand. Not yet. That someday he was going to want this. Someday he was going to want to spin it around in his fingers and wonder what happened. He was going to need answers to questions he didn’t yet know he was going to have, all the things that would affect his belief and trust in the world. He was going to want to read the inscription inside.

  To Debbie, with all my love forever.

  “No, I want you to have it,” Rubin told me.

  I thought I would hurt his feelings if I didn’t take it. So I did.

  But I certainly didn’t love Rubin. And I didn’t love Danny, not really. I didn’t even love Taylor, who came after Rubin and before Colin. But I kissed each one of them. Rubin, I let slip his hand up my shirt, although there wasn’t any part of me that understood why he would want to do that. I was determined not to laugh, although I vaguely remember hoping this wasn’t what it was all about, because it tickled like crazy.

  With Taylor, I learned to open my lips just slightly and let his wandering tongue invade my mouth. I learned to say hello back with mine. Colin was a freshman in high school when I was still in eighth grade. He smelled of beer, and even though I wrote his name over and over in my notebook and diary, I didn’t love him either. When they were gone, they were gone. I had music to listen to, and Sarah to talk to. I had books to read and magazine pictures to look at. I had homework and tests and essays to write, posters to draw, and movies to watch. I wrote poetry and short stories that nobody read but me, and that was enough. I swam and ran and danced when no one was looking because I wanted to.

  And that had once been enough.

  In Spanish you can say, Te amo, which means “I love you.”

  But you can also say Te quiero.

  Amo comes from the verb “to love,” amar, whereas quiero comes from the verb querer, meaning “to want.”

  Te quiero. “I want you.”

  I want you. I love you. I need you to want me.

  I know there is a significant difference here; I am just not sure what it is.

  So along with that arguably unflattering expression about cows and milk, I am subsequently working on this.

  We’ve been rolling along about two hours since we left New York City, and I think we’re still in New Jersey. The bus is filling with the odors of food. It seems everyone has brought something in Tupperware or tinfoil. First it’s the noise: the crinkling of metallic paper and unsnapping of hard plastic tops. And then the smells: potato chips, barbecue sauce, fried chicken, cheese puffs, pickles. I swear I smell the cheese puffs.

  Charlene is unwrapping what looks like a bologna sandwich spread with mayonnaise, which seems to me a culinary violation, at least in my Jewish family.

  “Please take half,” she says.

  “Oh, no, thanks.” I wave her away, but this doesn’t even slow her down.

  “I won’t eat unless you eat with me.”

  She seems to have a great deal of food with her in her tapestry bag on the floor between her feet. She hands me the half sandwich, still in its wrapper.

  “OK, thanks.” I smile and I chew slowly. Actually the food helps my stomach a bit.

  “So what position do you play?” Charlene asks me.

  “Play?”

  “Softball. What position do you play?”

  “Um. I play first base,” I say, and then, because a good lie requires just enough detail, I add, “And I pitched a little until I hurt my shoulder.”

  Charlene is opening a plastic container of celery and carrot sticks. She holds the container right over my lap so I have no choice. “I always have extra of these with me. I’m on a diet,” she tells me.

  “That’s good,” I say. I take a carrot, but then I wonder if that didn’t sound right.

  Charlene doesn’t seem to mind. She says, “I played softball in college.”

  “Really?” I turn away and look out the window. Oh, shit.

  The bus has slowed slightly with the traffic. It is very flat here, and for the most part, the highway is segregated by a tall privacy wall, made of what looks like giant Lincoln Logs. But every so often there is a break, and I can see a house or two, set as if they are peeking through, watching, not wanting to miss anyone driving by. One is still sadly dressed in bleached-out Christmas decorations. A soot-covered reindeer and Santa sit on top of its roof.

  “Do you know where we are?” I ask Charlene. All I can do is try and change the subject. I’ve already used up everything I know about sports.

  Charlene leans forward a bit and looks past me through the window as if she is assessing the geography. “We are right about here,” she says with a laugh. “Yup. We are right here.”

  The sun is at high noon, filtered through the dirty window glass and spreading across my lap and face. I don’t see any people out the window, just little glimpses through the empty spaces: a rusty swing set, a bicycle frame beside a tree, trash cans, a driveway with an orphaned snowplow sitting on its side. All the manifestations of the human beings I imagine live around here.

  “No, seriously, I don’t know, sweetheart,” Charlene goes on. “I’ve moved around a lot. I have since I was about your age.”

  It’s really hard for me to imagine that this tremendous woman was once my age, but I have to assume she was.

  “I’ve learned to enjoy the trip,” she says. “You know what I mean?”

  Something about what Charlene says makes me look down at my cell phone again. There is no message icon blinking. I flip it open and check missed calls, just to make sure. I check my reception bars and then my missed calls again. I think about calling for my messages to make double sure, but Charlene is watching me. I feel her thoughts, as if they are pressed upon my body.

  He was dark. Darker than she was. So dark she could see the shot of red in the white of his eyes. The color of his eyes, so dark she couldn’t see their centers. The palms of his hands seemed to glow in the night, moving across her body. His lips were like warmth itself. Charlene had never felt so beautiful. She had, in fact, never felt beautiful before.

  “We barely know each other,” she whispered. Her parents were sleeping. They were sleeping in the upstairs bedroom. This house was incredible, so open. The warm air, the constant breezes, the smell of flowers and rain drifting in through the wide-open shades, the lifted screens. There were porches off every door, where the ocean rose and fell, calling out, even when it couldn’t be directly seen.

  The sand was pure white. The sky was a new color entirely, cobalt blue. The house was peach with turquoise storm shutters. Jamaica was like a storybook. It was as if you took the East Bronx, put it in a dictionary, and tried to find its exact opposite, its polar self. The farthest place from everything Charlene had ever known or seen, or smelled or tasted or heard.

  “I know you,” he whispered back. “I’ve been watching you for days. I have such an appetite for you, Charlie.”

  Even though those words rang in her mind like lyrics to a song that someone else wrote, she let them be sung to her. His accent like music, his name was Eldon.

  There must be a reason, Charlene thought, that her dad won this trip. His promotion at work, a week in Jamaica, a private house on the beach. A cook. And Eldon, who had been introduced to them by the real estate lady, as the “house boy” as he carried their luggage into the house.

  Nothing like this happens by accident. Some people were meant to find each other, even across an ocean.

  And to think, at first she hadn’t wanted to go.

  I don’t care if Daddy won some stupid vacation at his boss’s house. I won’t know anybody. I can stay home alone. You and Daddy and Trevor can go. I don’t want to go. There won’t be anyone my age. You can’t make me go.

  Charlene had tested into the Bronx High School of Sc
ience, and her parents made her attend. Every day she was surrounded by bone-china – skinned Asian kids and super-smart white kids from Manhattan, who came in throngs off the subway each morning, and only three kids from her own neighborhood, all boys. And not only that but she had also moved up a grade years ago, making her only fifteen years old and a senior in high school. She was too smart, too young, and too dark, and none of those things equaled beauty.

  Until now. Until Eldon.

  “I love you,” he told her. He slipped his hand under her shirt, and the remarkable feel of his skin on her skin — on her back, on her belly, on her ribs — took her breath away.

  “You are so beautiful” over and over with his singsongy accent.

  He also told her he had never seen a black family staying in this house where he worked. Families came and went, some tipped more than others, but the one constant was that they were all white as ghosts. Until Charlene.

  Until you.

  Her blackness was beauty here. It seemed destined to stand out against the turquoise sky and the white, white sand. In Jamaica, where everyone was dark, darker and even darker than that, she was a vision. Her hair was beauty here. Her lips, her nose. She didn’t have to stare in the mirror as she did back home, searching to match the words she would say to the face she saw. Black is beautiful. Black is beautiful.

  Here, it was unspoken. Here it simply was, and always had been.

  Here was Eldon, and she melted into the beauty that was power. Into the power that was belief. Into the belief that this was love.

  When Charlene tells me she’s getting off here, just before we cross over the bridge, my stomach twists into a familiar, unpleasant sort of discomfort.

  “I thought you were going to Delaware,” I say for some reason. “This is still New Jersey.”

  Mount Laurel, the driver just announced.

  “I know, baby, but it’s closest. My nephew Ralphie is picking me up here.”

  She is already gathering her belongings, her knitting, her paperback book, her packages of food.