40-A, Her

Still wonder about that lady, the one whose name I never knew, the one whose voice I heard only once before the funeral. Did she recognize me? Now I’m remembering something else. The day before the funeral, when I walked through the graveyards that separate this block, this neighborhood, from every other place I’ve seen since living on it, the wind—at least I thought it was the wind—flickered across my face and the back of my hands, which I shaved every day at that point in my life. I felt my blood fluttering under my skin and another current of wind rushing over my pores. But—no tingles, no goosebumps—I realized the air was still and the sun, behind translucent clouds and the chill of headstones against my fingertips seemed still, almost neutral.

When I walked under the bronze cross at the top of the gate, she glanced from across the street, a few yards to my left. I hadn’t remembered, at that moment, that she was our old neighbor, but I exhaled fully, wholly, when the step I thought she took in my direction cut to her left and toward a house on the corner.

Didn’t occur to me that it was her—or that she was looking at me—until long after the funeral, after I ‘d left the block for the last time. She’s probably still there, for all I know.

39. Identity

It’s still strange sometimes to be free of obligations. The person to whom I was married has no idea of where I am or what I’m doing. The phone calls to friends and workplaces stopped a long time ago. I’ve not only liberated myself from marriage—It’s easier when you don’t have children or property, as I didn’t—but that somewhere, actually at various points along the way, I’ve shed most of the bonds I had with other people. It wasn’t a conscious choice, but I don’t regret it now.

Now I understand why people stop visiting the gravestones of family members and friends. It’s not just because survivors move away, at least geographically, from the dead. After a while, it’s not possible to mourn, or even to recall or forget. The person you knew no longer exists and can’t come back. In fact, they can’t be replaced: Someone or something merely substitutes for something. I guess we’re all substitutes for something or someone.

There was the girl my mother once was; there were the people she’d been before she met the one who fathered me; there is what she might’ve been if she hadn’t known him or given birth to me or anyone else. I’d heard stories that she’d had a boy or a girl: someone who’d been taken for her or whom she gave up. I found photographs once of a curly-haired (wo)man/child, wrapped in something that looked like a butcher’s apron with a picture of a tree—I don’t know what kind—painted on it. I guess that rules out the abortion story, which I’d never believed anyway.

She walked in. What were you doing in there? You left them on your dressser, I claimed. What were you doing, looking there? Couldn’t help it: the door opened that faded wood dresser top, I explained. Normally, she didn’t leave anything there, so of course those photos caught my attention. Whose pictures are those? I wondered aloud.

Mine.

Couldn’t’ve been: the face was too round, even for such a young child. Eye sockets too flat. And I didn’t think my grandmother—or just about any other mother—would’ve dressed her kid that way, not even if her husband or boyfriend or whomever chopped meat by day and silk-screened T-shirts by night.

What followed was the one moment of true hatred I ever felt toward her. It’s one thing to finesse one’s way around something a kid might not understand or be ready to hear—or something one simply isn’t ready to explain. But she never did that before, or after, so I knew she was lying. Why?, I still ask myself. Not many things could’ve changed what I felt for her, not even finding out she’d given a child away or killed it. I would never’ve told anyone else about something like that.

I didn’t tell when she thought she had a malignant tumor. Or when she said she’d sung or performed other jobs—That’s all they were, she said—or hinted at whom my father might’ve been. I also never told what I heard of her conversations with any of the women who would attend her funeral. She knew this, and some time in my teen years she stopped gesturing me away when I chanced upon one of her encounters.

I also never mentioned the things she said about a certain man whom I can only assume was my father. They met in school, in a dance hall, or on some long-since-closed ride in a seaside amusement park: The stories varied. Or maybe they just met one evening in some nameless stretch of sidewalk, or another evening somewhere else.

I’d seen him—I’m sure of it. Everything about my face, except for my knobby chin, I got from mother. Her hair was straight and fine, his splayed with an ever-so-short arc from the top of his head down to his ears. So I know I didn’t get my coiffure from the haircutter my mother used to take me to. His dark brown hair differed from hers only when he didn’t shave for a day or two and the nearly orange fields in his stubble reflected the rusty undertone of his hair.

When I was a child, my hair glowed nearly as russet as his flecks. As I grew older, they darkened like tree trunks after sunset. And when he lost the locks from the top of his head, the fringe around the crown just above his ears glowed brighter and curled at his ears.

Mother didn’t have to chase me, even though I always wanted at least a glimpse of him, the way most people choose to view tigers in a forest or sharks on the continental shelf: close enough to know what they are, but at enough of a distance for a head start.