The Saving Graces (19 page)

   "Yeah, right." "I read that women who have positive body images have twice as many orgasms as women who don't." "Yeah, well, don't worry about me, I'm just fine in that-" "Shh," I repeated. If you kept quiet and listened, sometimes you could actually hear what we were saying on the tape. But usually it was only a crackling din, because we were all overlapping or talking at once. This always-surprises me when I look at our old movies, the fact that we never shut up, and what we say rarely sounds important or even particularly coherent. Yet at the time, I always think we're being quite lucid and succinct.
"Fitness camp! Remember that?" Emma pointed at herself on the screen. "I lost seven pounds in six days." "I lost three." "Four, and I gained it all back." "In the first week." "We ought to go there again," Rudy said. "That was so much fun." We laughed at the pictures of Emma and Rudy cutting up in the rustic cottage where we stayed for a week, back in 1990. "Fitness camp"-the poor woman's health spa-was just a YWCA camp in the Poconos. We'd gone there instead of someplace nicer because, at the time, Emma didn't have any money.
"You are such a jerk," Rudy said affectionately, ruffling Emma's hair. "Why can't you ever look normal?" It's true-whenever I point the camera at Emma, she either turns her back or makes a face, or else she makes some subtly obscene gesture, like resting her chin in her hand and extending her middle finger alongside her cheek. All with a siy smile that's funny, I suppose, but childish: I can't tell you how many perfectly nice still photos of the group she's spoiled by putting "horns" behind someone's head at the last second.
I'm rarely in these videos; I'm the cameraperson, a thankless job the others barely tolerate-until it's time to look at the finished product. Then you can't get them away from the TV set.
"Oh, here it comes. I hope," Emma said, rubbing her hands together. "Lee, did you put it in? Did you? I bet you took it out." I should have. But I didn't, and I hope that squelches for all time anybody's claim that I am not a good sport. And this is why I like being the photographer-because look what happens when someone else (Emma) gets her hands on my camera.
We were having a regular dinner meeting at the house on Capitol Hill Rudy and Curtis had just bought, and I'd brought the video camera to film it, intending to give Rudy the tape afterward so she could send it to her mother or sister or whoever she wanted-her family never visits, and I thought it might be the only way they'd ever see her new home. The other thing was, I had just come from ballet class; I was hot and sweaty and I didn't feel fresh. I asked Rudy if I could take a shower before dinner.
"Oh, here it comes, here it comes;' Emma said gleefully. Rudy and Isabel were giggling already. The shaky, inexpertly held camera showed a closed door, and a hand reaching out to turn the knob. Emma's innocent voice on the tape, saying, "Hm, wonder what's in here. What could be behind this door? Shall we see?" Steam poured out when she opened the door. My voice over the sound of running water: "Yes?" That always cracks them up; I sound too dignified or something.
The camera keeps coming. Through the steam, you can see the blue and white stripes of the shower curtain. "Hello?" I say from behind it. -Emma says, "Just getting a-" something inaudible, and I say, still gracious, "Oh, okay." A hand pulls the curtain back, and there I am. Full frontal nudity. But I'm washing my hair with my eyes closed, and so 1 am unaware of this indignity for fifteen seconds. (I know, because Henry once timed it.) Fifteen seconds is a long t-ime to be naked on film and not know it. It might have gone on even longer if Emma hadn't finally said, in a breathy, sexy voice, "Hi, there." I open my eyes, open my mouth, and scream.
Blackout.
Oh, hilarious. My friends fell against one another on the sofa, convulsed with mirth. Even Isabel. I laughed with them, although not quite as heartily. This incident happened over seven years ago, and I am still trying to think of a way to pay Emma back. Nothing nearly good enough has occurred to me yet, but it will.
Oh,it will.

The tape skipped ahead to Rudy's wedding.
"Oh God, look at Henry! Look at his hair!" "What a hunk." This is my favorite part of the video-our first date. Rudy had a formal wedding, and yet Henry had worn a corduroy sportcoat, brown slacks and no tie-and it didn't matter. I didn't care! When I realized that, I knew I must be in love. And his hair, oh, it was long and flowing, streaky and gorgeous, prettier than Emma's hair and about the same color.
"Wow, you guys look hot," she said, and it was absolutely true. Someone, Isabel, I think, had filmed us dancing at Rudy's reception. The band was playing "Sea of Love," and Henry and I certainly looked lost in it. If I'd had any idea we were moving that way, that that was how we looked, I'd have gone through the floor, Because it's embarrassing.- But nice, too. I like looking at it, and frequently run the brief clip back again, because for me it doesn't last long enough. I get caught up in the way Henry's arms are pulling me in around my waist, the way my hands look on the back of his neck, my fingers stiff and flexing, twining in and out of his hair. Our faces are touching; we look as if we're going to kiss, although we never do. It was public foreplay, that dance. A few hours later, we were at home in my bed, making love for the very first time.
Next came a backyard party at Isabel's. Summer 1995. Emma hissed when Gary appeared, but Isabel only looked a little wistful. I think she's really forgiven him. He looked chubby and self-important-the camera never lies, they say-in checked trousers and a sweater with the sleeves rolled up to show off his furry, bulging forearms. He saw the camera and grinned, held his arms out wide-Look at me, I'm such a teddy bear. I remember when I used to like him; I thought his flirting was cute, even a little bit flattering. Now, just the sight of him makes my lip curl.
"Lisa Ommert," Rudy exclaimed. "I wonder how she's doing. Anybody ever hear from her? How long did she last, Lee, a year?" "Nine months," I said, watching Lisa, who was a Saving Grace until she and her husband moved to Switzerland, engaged in a very animated-looking conversation with Gary, Emma, and Emma's boyfriend at the time, Peter Dickenson.
"You have to wonder," Emma said in a strangely grim undertone, "what we could possibly have been talking about." "It's the tail end of the party," Rudy pointed out. "We were probably all loaded." "Oh, no question." 1 glanced at Emma out of the corner of my eye. She and Peter broke up suddenly-in love one day, bitterly split the - next-and we're still not allowed to ask why. Rudy knows, but Isabel and I don't. Well, Isabel might, but only from intuition. My intuition says there was another woman, and that Emma found out in some awful, humiliating way. I don't know what else could have been so hurtful that, this many years later, it's still unmentionable.

   "How is it going with Clay?" I asked casually. Clay is the man Sally Draco fixed Emma up with. I couldn't believe it when she agreed, and I was even more surprised when they went out together a second time. The first was supposed to be a double date, but at the last second Sally and Mick canceled; he wasn't feeling well or something.
"Okay," Emma mumbled.
"Just okay?" She shrugged and kept her eyes on the screen. Her face took on a stubborn set, as it seems to do a lot these days whenever the subject of men comes up. It means, Keep out.
So I wonder why I said, "You haven't mentioned that married fellow in a long time. Is that over now?" "Well, since it was never on, I guess it must be over." She said that through her teeth. "Lee, could we just watch this?" "Well, excuse me. I didn't realize you were so sensitive." "Ladies?" Rudy said.
Emma sat hunched forward, forearms on her knees, tense-looking. "Sorry," she said, sitting back abruptly and smiling. - - "Sure," I said, meaning Me, too. I didn't even know what we were sorry for, but it was nice to make up.
The last few minutes of the video were from exactly a year ago, here at Neap Tide when we'd come to celebrate our ninth anniversary. Watching it, I realized that in some ways it was the perfect ending to a Graces retrospective, because the camera had captured us all being so . . . idiosyncratic, I guess is the word. Ourselves. There was Emma, sitting in a beach chair in the sand, swaddled in towels and a hooded sweatshirt, her nose in a book; Rudy tan and gorgeous beside her, swigging from a thermos of Bloody Marys; Isabel trotting back from a swim, her hair dripping, lips turning blue, laughing at nothing-just gladness. Even the shot Rudy took of me is characteristic, I suppose: I'm in the kitchen, taping to the refrigerator a chart I'd just drafted, "Suggested Chores/Division of Labor, 6/14-6/17." (Emma, 1 recall, added a new chore category later, "Sleeping," and penciled her name in every block, all the way across.) It was a gay weekend, yes, and yet, watching the images of the four of us in all our silliness and crankiness and sweetness - it made me sad tonight. We looked so innocent. So much was in store for us, but we were too busy being "ourselves," and taking it for granted that we always would be, to give a thought to the future.
The last shot was very artistic, if I say so myself. I took it from behind the dark heads of Isabel, Rudy, and Emma as they stood on the deck and gazed out at a deep red sunset. It's only their heads in silhouette, black against crimson, with the murmur of their voices low and awed-sounding in the background. At the last second, Isabel heard me and turned. There's just enough light left to see her smile.
Fade-out.
"Do you remember what we talked about that night?" Isabel said after a quiet, appreciative pause.

   "I do." Emma reached for the remote and flicked off the staticky screen.
"I do," said Rudy.
"Life goals," I said.
"Yes." Isabel smiled, "I said I wanted to finish my degree, get a job helping old people, and travel." "I said I wanted a baby." "I said I couldn't think of anything." Rudy turned to Emma. "You said you wanted to live on a dairy farm and see James Brown in concert." "And spend the night with Harrison Ford," Emma recalled. "By the way, I've changed that to David Duchovriy." I remembered the exercise better now. It had started out as a discussion of life goals but shifted to things we wanted to do before we got too old-things we would regret, on our deathbeds, not having done. I'd wanted to win a PBS auction and dance in The Nutcracker. Such a safe topic, it had seemed to us then, only a year ago. Fun. A game.
I couldn't look at Isabel.
She broke the quiet to say, "My goals haven't changed much since that night. That's strange, isn't it? I have more regrets, but exactly the same ambitions." "What regrets?" Rudy asked shyly.
"Oh She had on her scarf tonight. She fingered one of the tasseled ends that lay across her shoulder, smiling into space, so sweet-faced and melancholy. "Well, the biggest is still there-that I didn't try harder to make my marriage work. For Terry's sake," she clarified when we all started to interrupt. "Maybe it's a delusion, but if Gary and I had found a way to stay together, Terry might not have gone so far away. Maybe. I don't know." "No, you don't." Emma pressed her lips together.
"But now I have new regrets, too," she went on.
"Ones that never occurred to me before."
"Like . . . I never learned to play the piano. Never watercolored. I never met Carlos Castarieda and asked him if it was all true," she said, laughing. "I never learned the stars, never learned birdsongs-I can't tell a finch from a wren. -And wildflowers." Rudy slipped her arm through Isabel's and rested her head on her shoülder. "I never got to be the weather girl on Channel Five," Isabel mused softly. "I never acted or sang or danced, I've never even written a poem. I have rio grandchildren." "Why don't you do them?" Emma said after a forlorn pause. I could have kissed her. "You can do them all. Maybe not weather girl, but that's their loss." "I think I heard that Carlos Castaneda's dead," Rudy mentioned.
"Okay, but the rest-why can't you, Isabel? I'm serious! You could write a poem right now, nothing to it. I'll help you. Next week, you get some watercolors and an astronomy book and - what was it?" Isabel started laughing. "Birds, you get one of those CDs that plays all the songs while some deep-voiced Audubon guy tells you who's who. Wildflowers, big deal, you get another book and go for a walk in Rock Creek Park. What else?

   Grandchildren? Well, there you have me, you'll have to take that up with Terry." "I see." Isabel put her head back against the sofa. Her sadness had disappeared; she looked relaxed and amused and tolerant. Truly, I'm not an envious person, but if I could turn people's moods around the way Emma can (sometimes; when she feels like it), I would be blessed.
"You want to know what I regret?" Emma held up her index finger. "I've never driven a car at a hundred miles- an hour." She added her thumb. "I've never had a long, attitude-adjusting chat with the pope. I've never seen Graceland-" "Wait," Rudy broke in, "wait a second. I want to say something. To you, Isabel, and-for all of us. I know I'm speaking for all of us, I don't even have to ask. I just want to say out loud that we-well, first of all, we know you're going to get well, so that's the bottom line." Emma and I nodded vehemently. "And the second thing is, I think it would be good if we made a commitment right now. I know it's understood, but sometimes it's important to say things in words. So I want to say, for everybody, that no matter what happens, we're here. I mean-we're here for the long haul. You won't be alone. Ever. I'm not saying this right-" "Yes, you are," Emma said. "It's a good thing to say- that you won't have to face anything by yourself, Isabel. Anything. In fact, you won't be able to get rid of us." I couldn't chime in and agree, although I knew it was expected of me. I was so afraid of crying, I couldn't say anything. If I did cry, it would be out of anger as much as grief. How dare they speak to her like this, as if she were dying? She's not. She is recovering. But they lied, they don't believe it, and that felt like a betrayal, not only of Isabel but of me.
She was moved, of course. She hugged them both, blinking so she wouldn't weep. I wanted to protect her from their pessimism, but what could I do? When she smiled at me, moist-eyed, and held out her hand, I stood up. "Let's have some ice cream," I said, and walked out. I had my cry in the kitchen.
18.
"Do you think Lee's going nuts?" Emma spoke in a low voice, almost a whisper; Lee's room was next door, Isabel's across the hail, and we'd left our door ajar to get a draft of sea breeze from the window.
"You mean about having a child? Well, no," I said, "I think it's good she told us all that. She keeps too much inside, she's-" "No, I don't mean for letting go a little with us. I agree, that was good for her, that was healthy. I mean the whole baby thing."