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Reunion by Elaine Jordan
I walk across the grassy yard—shaded by two orange trees and bordered by thriving rose-bushes—on a row of circular stepping stones. My open sandals slap a noisy approach. I hear Judy call, “It's open!” and let myself into the house, just as I used to when we were children and she lived on Deerfield Avenue.
Judy meets me in the front room wearing a violet-colored dress, her short hair in familiar curls around her face. She still has straight bangs, creating a harsh line above the parenthesis of curls. I approve of that look. She’s frozen in time, looking like the ten-year-old I remember.
It’s a comfort to be back in San Gabriel – away from children and husband – in this respectable suburban home with its blessed California orange trees out front. I’m in touch with my roots, and my roots go down into this earth nurturing the orange groves. Judy’s neighborhood reminds me of our childhood territory, a blissful place where children ran barefoot, obeyed their parents, and never screamed in tortured despair. Judy lived in that former place, along with my benign parents, and a sister, and a dog. I lived there too and go back to it in my fantasies.
“So good to see you again, Elaine!” my friend says, her appraisal of me as thorough as mine of her. I’m not sure she approves. “You’ve got long hair now. You look really . . .uh . . . modern.” She makes no effort to embrace, and I feel I’m in the company of a matron instead of the best friend of my childhood. Her modest dress, a patterned rayon frock, could be something our mothers would have worn in the Fifties. That’s fine. I’m in the mood for a mature voice at the moment, even this prim lady with the straight bangs.
“Modern? Not a bit,” I laugh. “I dress like this to deny my school-teacher image, but I’m not fooling anyone,” I assure her. “Under this suntan beats the heart of a librarian, let me tell you.” I’m smiling too brightly, reassuring both of us that I’ve not changed since we were kids. I want Judy to accept me. I’ve come for renewal of childhood intimacy, sharing stories, confiding secrets.
“Judy,” I add after an awkward moment, “you have to forgive me for staying closeted in San Diego all these years. It’s been since your wedding, I think—eight years. I’ve no excuses. Oh, this is such a nice cozy room—reminds me of your folks’ house.” The curtained living room feels out of another era, as if there might be a pump at the kitchen sink. I settle into a chair and look around at Judy’s efforts at country décor, three pieces of heavy maple furniture and a rooster pillow. My extravagant San Diego house, with its swimming pool and cathedral ceilings, is a miserable place where I’m being pulled apart by a toddler. Pulling is the very word. My Maggie pulls on my legs, pulls on my mind with worry, pulls me down to despair. She hits and screams and demands. But I’ve pulled away from her today. I’ve come to escape her and find thoughtful conversation with a former playmate who doesn’t know my daughter. Judy may have found a way to live I could emulate. She seems happy.
“Thanks!” Judy purrs, singing out the word like we used to high school. “I’m pleased you’d drive all the way up here. You’re so lucky to live in San Diego. I want you to see little James. He’s asleep in his room.”
I follow her down the hallway—aware of her modest dress and hosiery—and feel embarrassed in my sandals and short sleeveless dress. I’m not dressed for this conventional family place. My shift is butter yellow. My purse is a tattered raffia bag, and my hair is long and straight, pulled back with a band. I look like I’m out for a beach stroll. “I’ve missed seeing you,” I say. “Just got overly busy, I guess. How’re you doing?”
Ignoring my question, Judy chats on: “I hear you’ve two children. Aren’t they fun?” Fun is not a word I’d choose, but I don’t interrupt the chirps coming from my friend. “I’m so glad we had this second one last year. Our first, Aaron, is growing up.” She sounds like the happy housewife of our television shows, and I’m happy to listen.
The dimly lit child’s bedroom reminds me of my Grandma-K's home in Los Angeles, a spare little house with Grandma’s paintings on the walls and a piano in the living room. “He's adorable,” I whisper, watching the rise and fall of the baby’s chest. He’s a chubby child like my Maggie. “He looks so contented.” I try to keep the envy from my voice. Maggie is never contented. She cannot digest her food properly and cries with misery much of the time. The doctor says she may be suffering from “fetal alcohol effect,” due to her birth mother’s drinking, but he offers no help.
“Jamie’s a delight,” Judy beams, looking down at her son. “All boy. Aaron’s at school. I’d love for you to meet him.”
We return to the living room, and I wish I looked like this happy mother, insulated from chaos and trouble by a respectable dress, quaint home, and silent child. My friend disappears into the kitchen while I sit on the hard sofa. This couch feels like Grandma-K too, mohair—made to last a thousand years. I miss her and wish Judy could comfort me like Grandma. “Could you carry these?” she calls from the kitchen, and I hurry to help her with a tray of tea-things and a plate of cookies.
After we’ve arranged the tea service, Judy looks across the table at me, her face motherly. “Tell me what adoption involves, Elaine. I really can’t imagine it. We had the children naturally, of course.” Naturally. Of course. She looks competent and happy. How do people do that?
“Oh. Well . . . I couldn’t get pregnant.” My voice is unnaturally soft. “So. . .we’ve adopted hard-to-place babies, mixed race. Uh . . . one is part Chinese; the other—our daughter—is Native American.” I find those words hard to summon. More details won’t come. I’ve forgotten my story. I’ve no idea why I’m here. “That’s about it.” I move in my seat, pulling at my skirt.
“Oh ...an Indian.”
What do I say to that? Sounds like we’ve adopted a barbarian. Maybe we have. Dear God. Crossing my ankles and again making sure my shift-dress is pulled modestly down, I look away from Judy’s pert face wishing I could pull back the heavy draperies that let in only a sparse filtered sunlight. I clear my throat. “Do you get lonely sometimes—being at home most days?” I ask in an unfamiliar low voice. “I find it a bit hard to feel a part of things,” I add, struggling to express what I can’t seem to put into words. “There’s so much going on—so much change in the world. I wish I could—”
“Oh no!” Judy interrupts. “I try to stay away from protests and all. I don’t read the papers. The War and Immigration—and all that. Here’s where I want to be.” The upheavals of elections and the controversies over Iraq have not touched this home. I should be able to share private secrets here, away from turbulence and chaos. Why is my voice fading?
I study my friend, longing to be her, but I’m face to face with my opposite number. For every anxious ambiguous confusion I feel, Judy has a cheerful confidence. She chatters on, “My life is my children and my husband. I’ve found church and handwork help fill the time.” She raises her teacup and takes a sip. Husband. I wish I could talk about my marriage and the loneliness I feel.
I take a gulp of tea too, mirroring my counterpart on my side of the table. “Yes...sounds nice,” I murmur. The bland cookie tastes like sawdust, or maybe my taste buds have lost potency. “You have a darling place here, and you’re looking good.” Another chomp. “I find myself missing my teaching a little...and, well, Carl is gone a lot, and—“
“I can’t imagine working any more,” Judy proclaims, chewing happily. “Aaron and Jamie keep me busy. I read a lot. George is so good. He helps me with the children and is quite the handyman!” She turns away to stare at the maple sideboard, a charming piece with drawers and cupboards. “We spend time with my parents, and we still see those guys from our church Youth Group.”
“Oh. Sounds really nice. I was—”
“George is thinking of getting a boat!” she bursts out. “And he’s interested in Cub-Scouts for Aaron.” She smiles and offers the plate of cookies. “I find plenty to do.”
Keeping busy, she’s saying. That’s her secret—keeping busy. She’s the picture of wifely contentment, her brown eyes touched with mascara, and her pretty knees safely tucked away under her dress and underslip. “You’re lucky...” You are a normal person. I'm out of my mind.
“You seem so quiet today, Elaine. I can barely hear you. I pictured you an actress. Don’t you do that any more?” She takes a sip of tea, and I notice her polished nails. How does she manage those nails? Is it genetic? I want to hide my rough hands with chewed nails. I’d been biting my nails for years, since Judy and I played with her baby sisters.
“No. I haven’t done a play for a long time,” I say as if confessing a crime. “I’m at home with Tommy and Maggie, of course.” I try to smile with no success. “I do miss teaching, and...” I look down at my lap trying to think of material for appropriate conversation. “The children do consume a lot of energy. I’ve taught them to swim. I barely get any reading done.” My remaining vitality seeps away, absorbed into the earth beneath the floor.
Judy laughs, for reasons I can’t understand, and stands. I watch my cheerful, violet-adorned hostess with the cunning curls take a handsome bottle from the sideboard and pour a dollop into her cup. “Do you want a touch of brandy in your tea, Elaine? I sometimes like to indulge in the afternoons.”
“Ah...No thank you.” I answer quickly. Brandy? I’m in a movie! “This tea is splendid. I do have that long drive back to San Diego ahead of me.” I set down my cup, hoping Judy can’t tell she’s surprised me. Why am I perpetually taken aback by moments like this? I must look like Betty Boop. My hostess drinks her tea and smiles.
I cough and clear my throat. “Remember back when we played with your baby sisters?” I ask cheerily. “I’ve been thinking about those times lately.” A brandy?
My friend grins at me over her cup.
I can’t be Judy, it seems. Keeping busy, indeed. My solutions aren’t here in orange-grove fantasies or Judy’s retro life smoothed by brandy. I’ll have to find my way alone. I have decisions to make, a child to comfort. I don’t know how to take a step without a cheering section. Judy will not play that role.
Soon I retrace my steps on the lawn-stones and drive back to San Diego. Outside my car window the palm trees lining the thoroughfare speed by, their silly topknots waving at me. Another hot, bright day. Maybe I’m not quite the sunny Californian I thought I was. Right now, I think, I’d prefer the wind and rain of some off-shore island in the turbulent cold northwestern seas. This is a landscape for children.
Elaine Jordan is living in Arizona and retired from teaching high school English and an eleven year career as a minister in a small rural church. She raised two adopted children which was the crucible experience of her life, turning her from an innocent into a vulnerable, frantic, and wise woman. She has published essays in Inkslilngers, Storyhouse, New Works Review, The Georgetown Review, and an anthology, From Writers to Readers. She has an unpublished memoir on her desk which she'd love to publish before she dies.
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