Lucinda
A banquet is set before us; but there is nothing in the
house to eat. I suppose we shall order Chinese again, else trudge down to the
Burger Barn. Upon our dinner table a roasted turkey sits crowned with holly,
trimmed with mint and cranberry; surrounded by an admiring crowd of covered
dishes. They promise a feast. They lie. Lift their silver covers, you find dust
or colored beads. Tap the turkey and you hear a hollow plastic 'thunk'. Tip the bowls of dressings and
potatoes, salads and sauces; they remain fixed, painted plaster frauds. The crystal
decanter of wine pours out a rich burgundy sand.
The virgin plates are stuck to the table; white as a movie-star's
teeth. The sparkling glasses stand in fixed formation, except for one which has
pulled free. A bit of table-top remains glued to the bottom of this rebel
chalice. Whenever I drink from it, mother complains. She wipes it off and puts
it back in place.
In our spotless kitchen hang copper pans, wracks of cutlery
and spice-jars. The pantry door opens to reveal piles of vegetables; the cupboards
hold formations of cans, stacked and waiting for a master chef. A great silver
refrigerator stands next the old-fashioned stove. A bowl of ripe fruit sits on
the counter, a cookie-jar rests by the toaster.
But the refrigerator is empty, the cans are hollow, the pantry
sacks hold Styrofoam. The cookies are plastic discs painted to resemble
chocolate-chip, my favorite. A closer look at the fruit bowl reveals red wax spheres,
plastic yellow crescents, dusty clusters of hollow
rubber grapes.
Mom and Dad vote we order pizza, overriding my plea we go
out. I tap the order on my cell,
studying the antique land-line phone by the front door. Tar-black plastic with
a bizarre circle for fingers to twirl. It can reach no one this side of
reality. The line is a hollow cord trailing into the wall. A fraud, but it fascinates.
It hints at the idea of connection between the real and the false. Sometimes I
lift the receiver (that's the part
that comes up and you put to your ear and mouth) and listen. I hear clicks and
ticks, a sea-shell memory of ocean waves. The sounds are mere echo of my breath
and heart-beat.
When we first moved into this house I was eight. I remember
the people waiting for us. An old woman sat before the fireplace, knitting. I
ran up to the fire and shoved my hand in the flames. Just paper, colored
red-and-yellow streamers, with a tiny fan beneath to make them flicker and
dance.
"Fake," I told the lady. She said nothing, sat
smiling at her own hands. I poked her. Nothing. The hands were pink gloves.
"You're fake too," I informed her. She continued smiling. I backed
away, bumping into a tall man leaning against a wall. He held arms to his side,
stiff. His toes pointed up, resting on his heels, the back of his head against
the wall. I tried to match the pose, leaning straight beside him, but really it
was impossible. I tipped over, knocked him over.
"Sorry," I lied, and ran. In the nursery upstairs
a Very Good Baby lay in a cradle, fast asleep for all that I stamped my feet,
shook the frame. I stomped out. At the end of the hall waited a glorious pink bedroom. A triple-mirrored vanity-table littered with
lipsticks and nail-polishes made me blink in greed. A girl just the age I am
now looked out the window. She stood in confidence, leaning against nothing,
only rocking slightly when I poked her. "This is my room now," I told
her, staring at the vanity table. "Out."
She said nothing. She had the curves of a girl's breasts and
hips, the way I do now. She had curls and a silver necklace. My hair is short
and straight. I took the necklace from her, put it around my neck. I ran to the
vanity table and stared into the mirrors. I had no reflection. Not real mirrors,
just wood painted silver. The lipsticks scattered on the table were hollow
plastics. The perfume bottles held colored water, scentless as paper flowers.
Dad is reading an electric book, sitting on the coffee table
because the armchair and couch are solid blocks of plastic. Those comfy-seeming
cushions bite your butt if you try to settle comfortable. The sofa is fixed to
the floor, immovable. So also the chairs, the rug, the green plastic tree. We
make do sitting on our coats, the steps of the stairs, or leaning against the
walls. When I was ten and still missing our old dumpy lumpy house I suggested
we buy some pillows. Even a real
couch. My parents disapproved.
"This furniture is a perfect set," declared my
mother. "It would be a crime to alter a thing." She patted the antique
TV with its insect antennae. "And everything stays so clean. All I have to
do is dust."
"Nothing works," I pointed out. "Nothing is
real. That thing is just a box with a picture pasted on the front. Our oven is
a box with a ceramic loaf of bread under a red light-bulb. The cookbooks on the
shelf are blank paper bricks."
"I hate cooking," reminded mother. "All the
smells, the crumbs, the bugs, the shopping. We have the perfect kitchen and
it's going to stay perfect."
"And I don't want you watching TV," added Dad.
"We don't need an army of electronics to have a nice life."
That was years ago. Now I'm fifteen. I take home for
granted. I suppose it is always so. Tonight Mom and I sit on the steps of the
stairs, watching a movie on dad's laptop, eating pizza slices from the
cardboard box. We talk about the day, school, the new
family on Circle Street. Six girls and they are all crazy. Sinclair from the
Fun House has a crush on the oldest. I have mixed feelings about that; I used
to covet Sinclair. I don't tell Mom that, I'd just get sympathy I don't need; or
worse, The Talk. Ick.
After dinner I collect the pizza boxes and paper plates, the
napkins and cans of soda, dump it all in a plastic bag. In the kitchen behind a
carved oaken panel waits a beautiful silver trash can, but the top doesn't come
off. So I put the trash bag out by the corner, study the evening. Across the
street, the Bird House streams with aerial visitors. Pigeons, crows, starlings,
sparrows, mostly. Nothing exotic. Once I saw a snowy white owl.
The Bird House used to be all cages, a three-story enclosed
aviary. The parrots shrieked to drive you mad. Then the new family moved in and
said 'screw that'. They opened every
cage door. A day of wonder. The whole street came out to watch the creatures
wheeling and turning. The zoning committee disapproved. 'The houses on Circle Street are Historical and not to be altered
without consideration of The Plan'. Blah, blah, blah. Their 'Plan' is
probably fake as our fire.
But the birds flew off, flew back, made
do with a bigger world. They check in mornings and evenings. Not me. When I go
off to college I'm not coming back, even to do laundry. What for? Our washing
machine is a tin box with control knobs painted on cardboard.
I consider walking down the curve of Circle Street to
Sinclair's. Up to that clown-face door. I used to long to live there.
Everything was real; a whole house
designed to make you laugh or think or wonder. The top floor was all glass and
mirrors. You hurried along, sure you saw the path forward, until you bumped
into a glass wall, or thumped into a surprised reflection of yourself. But you
grinned because through the walls and reflections you saw every other wanderer
doing just the same thing.
I decide no to dropping by. Sinclair is a grouch nowadays. He didn't
even invite me to his last birthday. Anyway, Mason from the House of God and I
have a kind of understanding. He asked me to go steady. I told him ‘gross, no’. He looked so relieved I
almost kicked him. Boys just keep getting weirder. Probably they need The Talk.
I go back inside. I glance at the fake land-line phone by
the front door. Sometimes I imagine if I twirl the circle the right way, I
might reach the doll family meant for the doll banquet. My parents moved the
fake people out, I never asked where. They made an incongruous family; one
never saw any connection between the knitting old lady, the stiff man, the
confident girl or the sleeping baby. Just strangers stuffed together in a house.
Yet by rights, that feast at the table waits for them. And
so perhaps someday we will hear a ring,
ring. We will stare puzzled, then tiptoe to the faux phone, pick up the
receiver. The Doll Family will announce they are dropping by, to eat dinner, do
some laundry, watch TV before the crackling fire. I don't see how we can refuse them. Sure, we
live here. But the house was never meant for us.