1930, Berkeley, California

By Karin Steffen

First question: “I was wondering if I might get the prettiest girl here to dance with me this evening?”

He had a way with words.

He was smart and diligent. His future lay ahead of him, an organized map. There was a palpable certainty to it that his parents did not have when they crossed the Atlantic.

When his father died, and his mother was left with nothing but the barren land, he sent home money. Every month, he divided up his earnings, taking only half to hide under the mattress. Despite the rigorous engineering program, he continued to work two jobs, beginning his schoolwork long into the dark hours of the night.

Still, he always made time for beautiful women. Nothing serious. He had an old flame, a redhead, but she drank too much, and they fought too much. He was beginning to think that he’d like to find a wife.

He wrote to his sister, “I’m looking into the future. When you consider how long you are going to live with your wife, you don’t want to pick a lemon. And divorces are darn expensive, especially if you have to pay alimony. Well, ain’t love grand!”

He didn’t have any idea how he’d recognize the real thing if it ever crossed his path. Until he saw her.

She said yes to dancing, and they swerved together like two ribbons unfurling, winding their collective long legs in natural accord. Her hair smelled of open meadows, fresh green grass roasted by sunshine.

His second question: “I’m smitten already, I’ll have you know. I feel … I feel as if I’ve known you forever. Would you tell me your name, o’ thief of my heart?”

Wit and mischievousness danced in her eyes. “Well Sir, why the familiarity?”

He could tell that she was sharp as well as pretty, a damn fine combo. “Well, I’d like to know the name of the lady I intend to ask to be my wife.”

“Alarming. You take great liberties, don’t you?” She grins, and he feels the round movement of her hips arc away from him.

“Alarmed perhaps, but you’re still dancing with me, aren’t you?”

At this she laughs with a Cheshire grin. “It’s true, I’m a hound for a good twirl, and you happened to catch me on my favorite tune. But I promise you, sir, I will unhand you as soon as the song is on the out.”

He twirls her into a fleeting embrace, spins her out again, her sleek calves agile as a colt. “I’ll have to remember and play it every day. Cole Porter, is it? Come now, tell me your name.”

“Anita. My name is Anita.”

“Anita.”

He rolls it on his tongue. It is a slow, liquid name, dense with bite like good whiskey. He halts midtune and looks her straight in the eyes.
“Beautiful Anita, would you do me the honor of being my wife?”

A pause. Not awkward. She is calculating. Deciding where to place her bet. He can tell already she’s a gambling woman.

“Yes, I think that’d make a rather exciting adventure. Just remember, don’t forget Cole Porter.”

Then a smile so big it breaks his heart.

The dice fell in his favor.

They danced in early summer. They got married Valentine’s Day the next year. He didn’t forget Cole Porter. He bought a recording, and a phonograph.

She was patient through the rest of the years at the rooming house, halving his pay. She never said a word, just helped him count out the money and take what was needed to the post. Finally, he built roads for the government, taking them into the vast morass of mountains that stretched over both sides of California and Nevada.

They lost themselves in pine forests, glacier lakes. They fell in love with John Muir’s wilderness and bought a small parcel of land to build their cabin. She found a discount camera and began taking pictures, suddenly an avid bird photographer.

Some days, he would come home to find no supper and a note: “Gone fishing.” Her rucksack, hiking boots and camera were missing from their station on the porch.

It was, as she predicted a rather exciting adventure.

Twenty years later, in 1950, Anita is 42. They have two children, both girls. She stands at the kitchen sink. An apron string dangles off a sunburned shoulder. Her face is a wide full moon, still and unearthly. She stares out the window, hunting for grosbeaks, chickadees. Her deep-set eyes are hard for him to read but easy for him to get lost in, like a glassy carp unnoticed.

She is washing dishes, the suds foaming all the way up to her elbows, giving off a lemon and baking-soda scent. There are empty cans of condensed milk lined up in a row along the side of the sink, their perfect triangle holes punched in, waiting to be washed. This is a woman not concerned with domesticity, and suddenly, she is organizing tin cans for washing and spending hours scrubbing cracks in their floors. She has not touched her camera in months.

He has put on Cole Porter. It is their song playing on the phonograph. It is a scratchy recording. It is worn, and it skips, but the song still plays. A lot like their marriage.

He is welling up with rage again. He goes to her and takes her in his arms. He holds her tight, like a small bird pressed too tightly against his chest. He wants to feel her struggle. He wants her to squirm against him, like a bird, like a worm in the mouth of a bird. But she is still.

Her shoulders are two cold rocks in his hands. Her strength is collapsing. She is rotting down to a steel stubborn core. He notices gray strands in her hair, like silver threads of a promise undoing itself. He thinks of the jays that steal horse hairs from the barbwire fence and wind them into their nests. He feels his wife harden against him, her daily act of survival spinning her away from him like a top unleashed and drunk.

In the end, it will get much harder. He will watch her from the bedroom doorway as she lies in their bed barely breathing, stiff hands curled up, blue eyes murky as mud. He will watch her wilt. She will sink so deep into herself, she will not move, smile, eat. She will always feel cold, she will not talk to him, not even right before she dies.

Of that predictable map, nothing will be left. Only nostalgia and two little girls, both with deep-set eyes so easy to get lost in. Their eyes questioning, their live-yeast smell like bread dough rising. They should fill him will hope. He should cleave them to his body and run his fingers through their curly hair, still growing. They should be his salvation, but he can’t move past their faces, so like hers.

The now is 1950. His wife is dying. Skin cancer. This is the day they come home from the doctor. With a new word: incurable.

He is holding her, trying to goad a smile. He is rotting along with her, but at least this day, he still has her in his arms. She clings to him with sunburned shoulders, and they dance to Cole Porter’s “Smoke Gets In Her Eyes.”

Karin Steffen lives in Seattle, Washington, with her husband and daughter. She got married on February 14 like her grandparents Henry and Anita.

Posted by Elizabeth Armstrong Moore on Tuesday, June 5th, 2007 | Email This Post

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