The Color of Home: A Novel (4 page)

“Yes.”

“Still painful?”

“The pain never stopped.”

“Is there anything I can do to help?” he asked.

“You just did.” She stepped away from him, picked up her top off the floor, slipped it back on, tried to smile, scooted over to the kitchen. “Do you want more espresso?”

“Sure.”

What just happened? Show and run? Of course, show and run; they had that in common, though, even by his standards, that was abrupt. Shaking all over, with slinky legs, he scanned her studio apartment. Four hundred square feet had been worked to the point where the room appeared spacious. Everything had a purpose, often more than one, and a place. He’d already helped her fold down the dining room table into the coffee table. And she’d collapsed the two chairs they used to dine into end tables. Transformer furniture. The far wall, mostly covered in books and CDs, had a space carved out that folded down into a desk. In the back of the space, a computer monitor doubled as a television. He didn’t notice a bed anywhere.

On return, she said, “Black with a lemon peel.”

“Perfect.” He accepted the cup from Sassa. “Where’s the bed?”

She grinned. “Subtle.”

“Sorry.”

She walked over to the sound system on the far wall and fidgeted with her iPod for a long time, almost as if Sassa needed just the right music in the room for support. Fiona Apple’s
Tidal
started to play. “There’s something else I want to tell you,” she said softly, with her back to him. She turned around, slowly glided back across the room, gently drove him back toward the sofa until he fell into a seated position. Settling on the floor in front of him, she folded her arms over his knees so her head rested on them.

“I see you like me,” she said.

He placed the coffee cup on his lap.

She grinned. “Where’s the truth in a cover up?”

“Sorry.”

“I need you to concentrate for a bit.”

“Easier said.”

Her arms and face prickled red. Looking at the floor, first on her left, then on her right, she paused for a long time, almost as if the scar was a prelude, a test, something he had to successfully navigate to get to the sonata. Finally, she returned, and looking directly at him, said, “Until I turned twenty-three, I had a problem. A pretty serious one, even though I didn’t think so for a long time. I began taking Vicodin in college and, well, things got out of hand.”

“How long? How did you stop?”

“Three years. A friend helped me get through it. Getting off that stuff was the hardest thing I’ve ever done.”

“How do you feel now? Do you think you beat it?”

“On most days, I feel okay. Sometimes, I feel the pull. I’ve been mostly clean for five years.”

“Relapses?”

“A few. Minor. Stress does me in. Immediate relief is seductive, even though it’s temporary.”

“Sorry for the barrage of questions.”

“That’s okay. I wanted you to know before we go any further. I guess telling you is my attempt at being honest on a big one.”

“Thank you for telling me.”

“Even though my stuff happened a long time ago, the future isn’t a sure thing. Did I scare you away?”

At first, yes. But by the time she’d finished her last sentence, his fear had transformed into something deeper, calmer. By sharing her scar, her addiction, she’d come fully into view. Her physical beauty, more than ample, deepened every time he saw her. The way her smile reflected light. The birthmark on her neck right below her left ear. Her hair pulled back away from her face. Her slightly crooked right index finger. Her taste lingering after a kiss. But now he’d discovered that she wasn’t perfect, that she lived with chronic pain, that she’d gone through addiction. He was toast.

“You came fully into view tonight,” he said.

“I’m not perfect, Nick.”

“None of us is.”

“That’s not what you want?”

“Only truth.”

“Even the ugly and disfigured parts?”

He repeatedly ran his finger down a strand of her hair. So soft. “Yes. Where do you think beauty comes from?”

Moving back from him, she pulled her knees up to her chest, wrapped her arms around her legs, and rested her chin between her kneecaps.

Nick continued. “Here’s the thing. Our culture emphasizes external beauty and attaining happiness through material possessions. It’s a bunch of bull. Winning and losing, beauty and ugliness, good and bad. I’m not so sure I believe in anything dualistic anymore. I’m much more interested in truth, in vulnerability, in what you showed tonight.”

“Beyondoman!”

“What?”

“We need a safe word.”

“For what?”

“When you go back in your head,” she said.

Nick burst out laughing.

Smiling, she got up off the floor and poured him another glass of wine from their second bottle, a merlot. Then she picked up a throw pillow from the sofa, threw it on the floor, sat back down on it, and pulled each leg under her as if she were going to meditate. Rubbing the palms of her hands on her knees, she leaned toward him.

“Okay, here it is,” she said.

“What?”

“Truth.”

“Wait.” Balancing his wine glass in one hand, he lowered himself down on the floor opposite her and crossed his legs under him so his knees touched hers. Was that how lovers meditated together? Knee-to-knee? It was good.

She moved her hands from her knees to his, and scanned around the room at the bookcases, the kitchen, the furniture, the family pictures, as if she were taking mental snapshots. Shifting her weight from one side to the other, she took a deep breath, and said, “You’re different than anyone I’ve ever met. The thought crossed my mind that there might not be anyone like you in the entire world.”

“Can I record this?”

“It will still be true tomorrow. Unlike a lot of guys I’ve dated, you don’t seem to fear strength or intelligence or beauty. And you listen most times.”

“Most?”

“Don’t push it. You did handle the scar and V without freaking out which made me feel safe.”

“We’re safe together.”

With both hands, he reached over and brushed the red lace that covered each hip. Gently, with the tips of his fingers, he stroked the outside of her thighs. Leaning in, he kissed her softly, eyes wide open, for a long time. It was unlike any other kiss he’d ever experienced, like he could see her fully—the beauty, the strength, the intelligence, the loss, the pain, the scar, the addiction—all at the same time, and not only could he see it, he could embrace it.

Sassa pulled back a bit and her gaze went weightless as she rose from the floor. Reaching out, she gathered Nick's hands and lifted him up. Placing his hands around her waist, she pulled him close and leaned on his shoulder. She began to cry.

“Why are you crying?” he whispered.

“I don’t know. It’s only the second time I’ve cried since my parents died.”

“When was the first?”

“Let’s go to bed now.”

“And where is that bed?” he asked.

She walked over to the far wall and slid a portion of the wall out of the way, exposing a full-sized pull-down bed. “What can I say? I like the idea of dual use in small spaces.”

The first time she’d cried was much different.

Sassa, just sixteen, gulped down a half bottle of Southern Comfort, snuck off in her uncle’s 1968 Chevy Malibu, and rushed toward the Indiana Toll Road. She stuffed a whole pack of spearmint gum in her mouth, and turned up the hard rock radio station as loud as it would go. “Welcome to the Jungle.” Racing onto the highway, she hit 100 miles per hour in a matter of seconds. She loved the speed, the freedom, the closeness to death. Maybe she would become a race car driver? After a few minutes at speed, she touched her brakes just enough to slow down to sixty, stuffed her bottle under the front seat, and flew into the Valparaiso exit ramp. At the last possible second, she slammed on the pedal and came to a smoother-than-expected halt in front of the tollbooth. Mascara streaming down her face like a blonde in a slasher movie, she tried to gather herself.

“Why don’t you pull over to the side of the road next to that state trooper?” asked the attendant.

“I’ll be okay, sir. I just broke up with my boyfriend, and want to get home to my family.” She gave him her best smile through the tears.

“Pull over so he can watch you walk.”

She pulled her car over to the side, got out of the car, and leaned against the hood. Slipping out of one sandal, she pulled her leg up, pressed her foot against the fender, and waited. License and registration later, at the officer’s request, she chalk-lined for ten yards, then turned around and did it again, at the end pushing up close enough to him to be sure he smelled the spearmint.

“All right. No speeding and go straight home. You haven’t been drinking, have you?”

“No, sir. I would never drink and drive.”

What had just happened? Why did she drink so much? And go so fast? Sick to her stomach, she pulled over about a mile down the road in an empty parking lot, opened the door and vomited for a long time. Later, back on the road, she reversed direction and drove the remaining fifteen or so miles home, sobbing for the first time since the accident.

“How do you feel?” Nick asked.

“Happy. And you?”

“Happy.”

Though he’d answered truthfully that he felt happy, “home” better described the feeling. Not home the way he remembered growing up, before his father died—colored with happiness and innocence. No, in bed, naked, with Sassa draped over him, this was a different kind of home—colored with happiness, yes, but without innocence. As he drifted toward sleep, an old conversation he’d had with his mother surfaced. Strange timing, but he surfed it anyway.

One night he came home late after spending time with a girl. After his father died, he’d hooked up with a number of different girls within a short time; some he cared about, but most helped him numb, mask his pain. When he crept in the front door, his mother, perched on her favorite living room chair, was waiting for him. He brushed her off with a comment about being dead tired as he headed off to his bedroom. Stopping him after only a few steps, she asked him to visit with her in the living room.

“I’ve been thinking,” she said.

An opening like that historically meant trouble for Nick. He braced himself.

His mother continued in a calm voice and asked if he had any place to get advice on relationships, given his father’s absence. She didn’t want to embarrass him. She would keep their conversation short. She only had one piece of advice for him regarding women. “After you’re done and she is as well, make sure you pay attention to how you both feel.”

He made an effort to jump up and leave. His mother, with a raised-eyebrow look he knew too well, froze him in his seat.

“Love is a tricky thing,” she went on, “and is often confused by sex instead of informed by it, but there’s this short time right after you’re both done when you can ask yourself how you feel. If you’re restless, discontent, or feel alone, then you haven’t found the right girl yet, but if you feel happy and feel like you're home, then she’s the right girl for you.

“Now here’s the tricky part. There will be times in your life when you feel at home but your girlfriend may not. During these times, it will be hardest for you to see clearly, exactly because you feel most at home. So use all of your strength and set aside the feeling of home, if only for a moment. Then make sure you look hard and take her in from that vantage point. Above all, trust your instincts. If she’s the right one, you’ll know. If she’s not, let her go and be thankful that she was an almost.”

The rules of almost. It remained the single best piece of advice Nick’s mother ever gave him.

“One hundred dollars for your thoughts,” Sassa said. She rolled over on top of him and pinned his hands against the bed.

“Inflation, I see.”

“You know, we live in strange economic times, so the amount isn’t that far off.”

“I’ve never felt this way before,” he said.

“And is that a good thing?”

“Hell, yeah.”

He watched her for signs that she felt the same way, but not that closely. Scared and afraid of what the truth might be, he ignored his mother’s advice.

On a hot, humid night in August, Nick stayed late at his music studio. He made up an excuse about working on deadline for a new reggae client, but in reality he needed space to think. Why did he lie? Why didn’t he tell Sassa the truth? He sank into his chair, placed his feet on the mixing console, popped a Diet Pepsi, and rehashed the past several months. Sweat carpet-bombed the top of the Diet Pepsi can. A breeze, gathering cargo from a bakery across the street, infused the humidity with the smell of vanilla. Sitting back, he eyed the ceiling fan.

“I love being around Sassa no matter what we’re doing.” Long silent walks with her through the Village, where they did little more than hold hands. Relaxing opposite her on the sofa, barefoot with their legs interlaced, reading a good book. Encouraging her to model outfits for him as they rambled through boutique shops. Saturday morning laundromat dates. Sometimes after they made love, he watched her brush her hair as she sat on the edge of the bed. “I’ve never been even close to this in the past.”

“Nick, who are you talking to?” one of his employees shouted from the studio office.

“No one, Chris. Just myself. I’m done.”

He swigged his soda. “I’m in love with her.” There. The first time out loud. What were the guarantees? He would love her openly. He would stay wired to her. Would she do the same? “I’d do almost anything for her, but I need to know.”

“I thought you said you were done,” Chris said, still in the office.

“I am now.' He picked up his acoustic guitar and started strumming a few simple chords. “I’m just happy being around you,' he sang repeatedly. He waited for repetition to bubble something up. Zilch. Different chords. “Your beauty is like a drug.' Zilch. Different chords. “You’re too sexy for your shirt.' He smiled. Finally, over the riff for “Layla,' he simply sang, “I love you.”

“Hey Nick, Eric Clapton would be proud,' Chris said.

“Right.' Almost as an afterthought, he stumbled across an Americana riff that walked down a series of notes, first on the G string, then the A string. Nodding in time, he whistled a seed melody. He pulled his feet off the console and sat upright in his chair, slightly hunched over his guitar. An idea darted, which he struggled to land. Songwriting had always come as a hit-or-miss thing for him and, before Sassa, he’d lost many of his best ideas in the ether.

Not this time. He hit three chords in a row with a single strum each and returned to his original riff to hear how those chords sounded appended to the riff. Damn good. He played both parts together, humming a trial melody over top. After a few passes, he liked the part enough to propel himself on his chair toward his desk. Placing his guitar on the floor, he reached into the bottom drawer, and pulled out a deep honey-brown, leatherbound journal, a gift from his mother that contained most of the original drafts of his lyrics and poems. He opened the journal to a fresh page and scribbled down “Hold You.' Jotting down a few fragments, he sang them in his head to different melodies. Listen to the undercurrent. We’re riding it. Words are messengers. With his guitar in hand, he joined words with music, working nonstop until he had three full verses.

A quick break to snatch a Diet Pepsi out of the refrigerator. His sixth of the night.

The chorus. The main musical hook had to coincide with the title of the song, and had to resolve back to the verse riff. He played around with a few different melodies until he found one that resolved with enough drama.

Happy with the basic building blocks, he stitched together the song: first verse, chorus, second verse, chorus, final verse. Not quite. Not enough lyrical and musical tension in the middle. A bridge would do. He bounced around bridge chords and melodies until he found a combination that clicked, then penned the lyrics for the bridge in one pass.

Wheeling back over to the recording gear, he set up a couple of microphones. Balancing his guitar on his knee, he placed his headphones over his ears. “Check. Check. Check.” Good to go. The metronome sounded. Tick. Tick. Tick.

I know you so well

There are times when I just can tell

What you’re thinking

How you feel

What you need

Oh come to me now

Bring all your problems

And we’ll knock them down

Oh come to me now

Show me everything

I will hold you

Hold you

Listen now

To the undercurrent

We’re riding it each day

The words we say are its messengers

Our bodies are its vessels

Oh come to me now

Give me your hands

Teach me to dance again

Oh come to me now

There is such sweetness

When I hold you

Hold you

Slow down

Let’s go quietly

Toward home

Don’t you see

I believe

You are

Part of me

I know you so well

There are times when I just can tell

What you’re thinking

How you feel

What you need

The next day Nick met Sassa for coffee at Joe’s. He reeled off details about his fabricated reggae session but didn’t mention a word about “Hold You.” Overnight, doubt had won. Unlike the song, he didn’t know her so well. Unlike the song, he couldn’t always tell what she needed. Unlike the song, he didn’t know how to ask her to go quietly toward home. He pulled on the neck ribbing of his T-shirt and scratched his chest for a bit before asking, “Do you want to move in with me?”

“You should do more reggae sessions.”

“My apartment is bigger and you can save some money.”

“Aren’t we practical this morning? That’s all?”

“I’m in love with you.”

“Let’s see. Move in. Bigger apartment. Save money. Love you. What’s wrong with this picture?”

“Sorry. When I was a baby, I crawled backwards first.”

She laughed. “We can start moving my stuff today.”

One early afternoon in October, Nick persuaded Sassa’s boss to let him watch her work. Out of the way, he squatted on the cement floor in the corner of the stainless steel kitchen and took in each movement, each gesture, each direction, as Sassa julienned vegetables. Surroundings blurred until only she remained, with her hair pulled back, wearing her white chef’s jacket and orange Crocs.

“Aren’t you bored?” she asked.

“I love watching you work.”

“You’re a strange man.”

“I was.”

Her cutting and dicing skills were artful. Carrots transformed to orange flying saucers. Beets cubed into perfect quarter-inch squares. Celery smiles spewed out of long stalks. As he watched her, barely perceptible threads connected the two of them.

“Do you know the Chinese saying about the red thread?”

“Nope.”

“An invisible red thread connects those destined to meet, regardless of time, place, or circumstances. The thread may stretch or tangle, but never break.”

“Sounds like a good saying for a refrigerator magnet.” She glanced over at him and blew him a kiss.

He grinned. Time passed as she sculpted another batch of vegetables.

“I wish you had a free hour,” he said.

“To shop for a new bathroom curtain, right?”

“Something like that.”

He hoisted himself up from the floor, floated over to her, and placed his hand in the middle of her back. “Thanks for letting me watch you.”

“There’s a thought.” She grinned, pecked him on the cheek, and sent him on his way.

Hesitating at the door, he whirled around. “If you could do anything on your next day off, no matter what, what would you do?”

“Let’s take a ride to New Jersey.”

“That’s the best you’ve got?”

“Yes.”

Nick and Sassa took off for New Jersey on a sunny fall afternoon and headed out Route 80 toward the Delaware Water Gap. They cruised into the bucolic, northern part of the state. He had no idea where they were going, and that was perfectly okay.

“Why does everyone make fun of New Jersey? It’s beautiful here,” she said.

“We live in America.”

“What does that mean?”

“People like to judge without knowing.”

They exited the highway to drive the fall country roads. The trees, still holding most of their red, yellow, and orange leaves, formed a canopy overhead. Sunlight laced the leaves together, mottling the hood of their car.

“I want to see where you grew up. I want you to show me your old house, your high school, that pizza place you told me about the other day, the railroad tracks, the race track, everything.”

A short time later, he entered Denville’s town center and parked in front of the F1 Race Shop. As he exited the car, childhood memories flashed. Driveway basketball. Swing jumping. Building his first
Star Wars
LEGO kit. The K’NEX Roller Coaster. Racing model cars with his dad.

He opened the F1 Race Shop door for Sassa. They had happened in at the right time, just as an arrive-and-drive race was about to start. The indoor kart-racing track, a full half-mile of hairpin turns, housed eight miniature race cars capable of speeds up to forty miles per hour. They slipped on their black one-piece, fire-retardant race suits and secured their fire-engine-red helmets. They strapped into their Formula One karts and revved their engines. The attendant waved the checkered flag. Nick floored the gas pedal, but Sassa beat him to the first turn and never let up. She trounced him by almost a full lap in a ten-lap race. Five more races. Same result.

“That was a lot of fun,” she said.

“For you.”

“I’ve always liked speed.”

“It suits you. Where do you want to go now?”

“Your old house.”

He slipped his hands into his pockets. He hadn’t been back to the house since his mom had sold it years ago. And the last time had carried so much emotion that he had only stayed for a short time. When he had left that day, he had promised himself he would never return. A bead of sweat formed on his forehead. “Hot in here.”

A short drive later, they inched into a parking space across the street from Nick’s old house. They rose out of the car and leaned against the hood. His dad had built the house in the mid-nineties, right after he was promoted to vice president and two years before he died. He spared no expense—a gourmet kitchen, a full cinema, a small basketball court in the basement, parquet floors with mahogany inlays. His dad’s dream home.

“My father said, ‘This will be the house your mom and I retire in.’”

“It’s lovely.”

He pointed out windows that fronted different rooms. Living room. Library. His bedroom. Music room. “Behind the music room is the family room.”

“Is that where—”

“Yeah.”

She pushed off the car, turned around, and leaned on him so that she stood between him and the house. Pressing up on the balls of her feet, she kissed his forehead. “You know, I’m not going anywhere.”

“I know.”

A moment later, a woman came out onto the front porch. “Can I help you?”

He took a few steps out into the middle of the street. “No. No. I used to live in your house. I just wanted to show my girlfriend my old home. I’m sorry we bothered you.”

“Are you the Satterborn boy?”

“Nick.”

“I know your mom. Come in. Come in.”

Nick and Sassa made their way up the driveway and entered his old house.

Nick had been relaxing beside his father while they watched the Knicks-Lakers game; the score seesawed to 88–87 in the fourth quarter. They were laughing, talking, and munching on potato chips, excited about the possibilities for the Knicks in the upcoming 1998 playoffs.

“Can we go to a game if they make the playoffs, Dad?” Nick crunched a chip, then took a swig from his soda can.

“Absolutely. Pass the chips.”

Nick did so and turned back to the television. Patrick Ewing made a jump shot. “Yes!” He high-fived his father.

Suddenly, his dad jumped out of his chair holding his chest. He tried to take a step, but collapsed to the floor instead. Mutating blue, he made a gurgling sound that permanently burrowed into Nick’s mind. A horrible smell, like burnt toast, rotten meat, and nail polish mixed together, rose up from the floor. Nick screamed “Mom! Mom!” He knelt down by his father and shook him over and over. “Dad . . . Dad . . . Dad!”

His mom ran into the family room. She took one look at his dad and calmed. “What happened, Nick?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know. He just passed out.”

“I’ll call 9-1-1.” She raced out of the room.

He paced back and forth next to his father, his hands pushing against each other as hard as he could. The fear was so sharp that he was sure he was about to be cut into pieces. He knelt down next to his father and held his hand.

His mother rushed back into the room. She put one arm over Nick’s shoulder and the other on top of his and his dad’s hands. “He’ll be okay.” They waited.

Why was she so calm?

The paramedics stormed the house. They huddled around his father, lifeless on the floor. Disjointed images. An oxygen mask. Someone pressing rhythmically on his dad’s chest. An aspirin bottle. His mother praying. He couldn’t concentrate. He couldn’t make sense of it all. From the middle of the chaos, a paramedic shouted, “We can’t get his heart started.” Another pulled out shock paddles. “Clear . . . Again . . . Clear . . . Again.” His dad didn’t move. They pulled him onto a stretcher, strapped him down, wheeled him off to the ambulance.

“Follow us to the hospital,” one of the paramedics said to Nick’s mom on his way out the door.

His mom found her coat and purse. “Coming?”

Nick froze. He didn’t know what to do. “I’ll stay.”

“Okay. We’ll be back soon. Everything is going to be okay.” She rushed outside.

He took in the leaving from his living room window. His neighbor, apparently watching from his front porch, stepped out and met his mother at the ambulance. The paramedics secured his dad inside. His mother and neighbor slid into his neighbor’s car. Red lights spun and blinked as the ambulance rushed off to the hospital. The car, dwarfed by the ambulance, trailed.

A moment later in his parents’ bedroom, he stationed himself in front of a giant statue of Saint Jude on top of his father’s dresser. His mother had placed rosary beads around Saint Jude’s neck, which were too high for him to reach without help. He got a stool and placed it in front of the statue. On the stool, he lifted the rosary beads off the saint. Time to pray. To negotiate.