DAY IV
She called me, this time, as I was walking to the old town. She was concerned and she freaked out a little bit, and there is nothing wrong with that. She didn’t know me. I wasn’t a real writer, I said. I didn’t have a publication. I would never do anything…it was settled quickly. She liked me. I was glad. At a stoplight, I told her how much I appreciated her as an artist. It would have changed a lot if I had known who she was before. For what it’s worth. And I myself, as a Neapolitan, have no issues with someone getting upset. I get to the juice bar, and yes, of course, I’d be there to take her to the dentist. For the moment, I had to investigate a person wearing a Jean-Michel Basquiat t-shirt at a juice bar.
I arrived fifteen minutes early in the dress she told me to buy, so an hour and fifteen minutes before her noon appointment. She was out the door, and it seemed like she was better, and she sparkled over my dress. We had to do a photo shoot immediately. Down the steps, past a yoga mat, she placed me in front of a cactus and hung a piece of rug on its arm. She was displeased with my posing. Stop doing that. We had to go to the cultural center. We crossed the oceanic parking lot…she grabbed some guy on his way to lunch. He was not expecting it to be so long. Get her over here. I laughed and I was under her gaze. “Should we get that guy…” some small man crossing the parking lot “and get you on the scooter?” No, it was fine. We were about to talk about her experience as an acting teacher. (I have an interview with someone to fill in here.) She grabbed my arm, not really, and said, “it’s hard to get you to focus.” Exactly. You’ll see. She saw right through me. She put me in the parking lot. She gave me an acting lesson. Just fierce. I was just continuing to talk to her about that and a garbage truck pulled up behind her—perfect timing. Beep beep—the moment that she began to freak out about getting to the dentist on time. The mad dash to the dentist begins. Totally wonderful. The two of us across this parking lot…and the two garbage men…watching this scene. PETE. P? We were fifteen minutes away. I know that we are in no danger of being late. Into her house, classical music is playing, and the scene continues in a cinematic sweep. It really felt like going from genre to genre. She appears with an iced coffee with berries in it. You made me something? Yeah. You’ll starve! We continue. At the door, I was enjoying myself, and I believe she mentioned The Apple Tree. I asked her—how did you do that? With your voice? She shrugged. She just put on a funny voice—you try. I did. The light through her black gate on her door, the little pot of flowers, it was a moment full of feeling. We dash down the steps. I have a real glass of iced coffee in my hand. In the car, we discuss other things. Her hilarious conversation with Marlon Brando. Inventing tea kettles that do not drip. Also, other things of course, about me, too. She drove over the parking lot into an adjacent field and I had to get her back to the parking lot. In circles. There. Go there. She parked in front.
I was suspicious of this dentist—soda and donuts? What was this? I’m listening to the conversation between her and the receptionist. We fill out her paperwork. I don’t think she was forthright, actually, and I feel like that’s okay to say. She goes in. I approach the receptionist. Another fame comment. I get Greek salad across the largeness. I am sitting in the waiting room and Harris bursts back in—and it was the way that she did it, funny. There’s a mass in her jaw. So I get up, what? And I go to the receptionist. What is this? Okay, who does she need to see? A specialist. Do you have a number? They write it on the business card. She’s a senior. I don’t know what to do…and it is her privacy, too, quite frankly. I go to reach the door handle one more time, the third, and she reveals how sick she is. We get into the car, and we don’t really say anything. I am going to make you an appointment. The number that they gave me didn’t work. He wasn’t in practice anymore, so I call Mayo Clinic. On hold, at her house, she uses tactics to distract me. Heartbreaking and yeah, funny. She comes with a book with photos from 1930…she reappears three times. “What about your Haikus?” Cute beyond. I am not interested in writing Haikus currently. I am making this appointment. There was no appointment for a month. And she obviously had been dealing with all this, and I had no idea. I had spoken to more or less no one. I was told by someone that I should probably go now. I knew she had health problems, but I didn’t know. I didn’t know her. I make the appointment. Do you have an agenda or a place to keep these things? She doesn’t. She didn’t seem to want that. We went to Houston’s Steakhouse…full circle. And this time, there is only one parking space, and there is no room for oblique angles between a Maserati and a diplomat’s car. I want to hit the Maserati. Hit the diplomat’s car. The diplomat’s family appears with their doggy bags. We’re less than an inch away from their car. I ended up parking the car. It was a little perfect scenario all the same that came into existence.
Now, there was a server, finally, who treated a senior citizen with respect. I don’t remember this conversation very well. I think that we enjoyed our time together and didn’t quite know how to do this part or what to do with the information that had just been revealed. We got the salmon. I tried to call the next day a couple of times as I was leaving, but she didn’t pick up. We’re both feeling people, too, and I think that comes with its gifts and challenges.
It’s somewhat the end—the airport. She does it because she cares, someone said. That’s why she doesn’t respond. I just didn’t want to disturb her. I put this piece aside for some years and I thought about belonging a lot because it was an unfamiliar word to me and seemed pretty central to her personhood too.
When she passed away, I did interviews then. I found out that she told no one that she was sick. Maybe she didn’t want to. I can’t speak to why that was. She was seeing doctors, so I can’t speak to what her decisions were. I just happened to be there. She did trust me, on some level, and we really did have a connection, and on the subject of belonging, the time we spent was a reflection of that. It was real; she was at that time in her life.
She was, these four days included, an extraordinary artist.
I did think, looking at the stars on her porch, that it was a snapshot of 100 years in the past. Is there no such thing as the past? Well, not according to the stars in the sky. It’s the past twinkling at us, maybe reaching for us, too. History. Connection. We’re all made of stars.