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Moments

Bernadette Miller


��Moments. Meeting Ian. A chubby blond cherub, silken curls skimming a wide, second-generation Ukrainian forehead, large hazel eyes behind horn-rimmed glasses. In his tenement railroad apartment, his oil painting barely concealing cracked plaster, I want to entwine a curl around my chubby Jewish fingers. New Year’s Eve. Chattering guests filling the small living room and overflowing into the large kitchen with corner tub. Sure, I’d attended Manhattan parties since arriving from Maryland four years before. But this one’s different.
��I smile shyly as Ivan touches my long shiny black hair, and says, “Jenny, you look like a pretty Russian with those big black eyes and wide cheekbones. Let’s kiss under the mistletoe.” He points to a cluster hanging from the bedroom doorway.
��A virgin, I step back from such boldness, but I study the painter with his gentle eyes and three college degrees, the baggy trousers and roguish orange ascot. A brilliant cherub? Look, his accomplishments cover his apartment walls! The critics in Philadelphia, his home town, labels him a surreal impressionist. Surreal impressionist... who wouldn’t be awed? I, a secretary com great actress, try to impress him as I sip my drink beside him on the saggy couch. “I like that abstract of sperm and egg.” Well, it’s a start.
��The artist nods. “Tell me about your acting career.”
��Flattered, I babble about the Stanislavsky Method, basing my character on a real person. He smiles. I admit that I also write poetry and short stories.
��“Forget acting, concentrate on writing,” Ivan says, sipping wine. “Acting is interpreting someone else’s art. Writing is creating.”
��“Oh, no, I’ve always wanted to act.”
��He nods; we chat.Coincidentally, he’s working temporarily at a drafting company around the corner from my job, just long enough to catch up on bills.
��“Let’s meet for lunch,” he suggests.
��I beam at this good fortune. What does he see in me? “Okay!”
��Moments. Snugly warm despite the winter wind howling against windows, grimy shades drawn. Our limbs entangled in Ivan’s bed squeezed between bureau and chair, the tiny room awash in shackled canvasses. Late night whispering about painting, literature, haute cuisine, archaeology, philosophy. I am melting. He has so much to tach me and yet he wants me, think I’m pretty. I can only gave with gratitude at the tender, wistful eyes, grin at the sly mischievous smile when he wants sex.
��I squeeze my cherub one March evening. “I love you.”
��“Me too, you too,” he gushes, and we kiss.
��Moments. Springtime, splurging on a taxi to move into his Lower East Side apartment. The two of us lugging up four flights my heavy suitcases and cartons of books. Puccini would have adored our “artist-struggling-in-a-garret” existence, but my mother, who took care of herself in New York while my grandparents raised me in Maryland, predicts disaster at my new living arrangements.
��Moments. Her morning calls to the office with that horrible Brooklyn accent I swore I’d never adopt after painfully learning standard midwest English at a Manhattan drama school. I proudly remain accentless. A deep sigh from my mother; hadn’t I inherited any of her practicality? “Why are you throwing your life away? Thirty-five and he doesn’t even earn a decent living?”
��A sigh to match hers. “Mother, you don’t realize my privileged situation. Ivan could become a major American painter. I’m so lucky he chose me.”
��“But think about it! A cute girl in her twenties could land a rich Jewish dentist with a beautiful house in Westchester!”
��Back in his musty apartment, cleverly avoiding the sofa’s broken spring seeking my back, I stare at my orange-crated books squatting beneath two shade-drawn windows. My presence here is verified, but I’m still awed. We’re mismatched’ he’s too brilliant for me.
��That evening, setting the kitchen card table with his dime-store dishes, no two alike, I burst out, “You know I can’t marry you!”
��A cherubic smile, long curly lashes fluttering while he stirs the thick spaghetti sauce simmering on the old stove, releasing a heavenly aroma. The week before I’d enjoyed his paella and Beef Stroganoff -- a gourmet cook; was there anything he couldn’t do? I with my humble drama degree know so little. When can I catch up?
��“Let’s take a bath together before dinner,” he says, and crosses the kitchen to turn on the tub faucets.
��“It won’t work! I’m so far behind you.”
��His plump hand reaches down to swirl the water with bubble bath. He clothing drops onto the linoleum; he eases his bulk into the tub. “Perfect. Come on in.”
��“All right.” Tense after handling business correspondence all day, I carefully hang my skirt and sweater in the bedroom closet, and rush to sink into the bubbles at the opposite end of Ivan.
��Chubby arms rest on the tub sides, his paunch grazing the water’s surface like a pink submarine. “Jenny, you worry too much.”
��“You drink too much. It frightens me.”
��He sloshes bubbles over my shoulders, pudgy toes stroke my belly. “I’ll free your inhibitions.” His shy smile opens my confessional gate, like so many previous nights.
��“Ivan, I realize I must overcome my insecurity at Mother’s abandonment, but I’m afraid of becoming too dependent on someone.”
��He gulps the glass of wine on the tub-side chair. “Poor little poopsie.” A pudgy hand brushes aside the golden curls shielding his eyes. “You need me. I think we’ll be very happy together.”
��Silently, I watch him pour more wine. Then, I stare at the fade linoleum’s missing checkered squares, and the lone fern struggling to survive on a dirty window sill without sunlight; it needs Southern Exposure.
��Moments. Salvaged memories of our first year living together. Ivan decides to study theatrical set designing with someone famous. He will collect unemployment checks until he passes exams.
��“Yes, but what about your painting?”
��While pouring wine, he explains, “Good set designers make a lot of money! I could work part-time then and paint. But you’ll have to support us while I study for the exams.”
��I nod, uneasy about this sudden new ambition, and continue my hated secretarial work, hoping Ivan will paint soon. Coming home tired, I unlock the door, frustrated as always with the key sticking in the lock, but smile at Ivan soaking in the tub. The wine bottle is nearly empty, though full when I noticed it earlier in the fridge. My smile fades. Was he drinking all day? What about the exams?
��Ivan, noting my disapproving look, squashes my silent protests. “Jenny, I bought you something special in the living room.”
��Rushing there, I see atop an orange crate a laptop computer, a printer nearby, and an old hassock drawn up as a chair. I am entranced.
��Moments: Ivan cooks and drinks; I type. Ivan soaks in the bathtub and drinks; I type. Ivan reads and drinks; I type. My short story about my childhood is dull, dull, dull, but my new husband of three weeks, our relationship legalized at City Hall, will teach me how to write professionally. Meanwhile, in case I can’t learn, I continue reading Show Business and Variety.
��Ivan, pouring more wine during dinner, says, “Why are you still hunting Auditions? You’ve been writing every night since I bought you the computer.”
��“Writing is challenging, but it is just a hobby.”
��He nods and persists with his urging.
��That winter, failing the set designer exams, he decides we shall buy a house in the country, live a simpler life, return to basics.
��Moments. Ivan, pudgy hands cupped around a coffee mug, saying earnestly one spring morning,” You really want to create, like me.”
��I stare at the now healthy fern blocking a window. “I’ve wanted to act since childhood. I can’t give it up!”
��“Yes, you can!” His hand strokes mine, the hazel eyes shiny. “You have a lot to lean about writing, but your efforts are sincere. It’s what you should do.” A pause. “Jenny, let’s move to Long Island. You’ll write there and I’ll paint.” He returns me surprised smile. “I know I shouldn’t have stopped. I’ll feel inspired again with grass under my feet and the smell of oxygen.” A shy smile. “I’ve always wanted to be a country boy.”
��I gaze at him while contemplating the impossible, bent day after day at my computer, my mind crowded with senses I can’t translate onto paper. And yet, the thrill of coaxing life from nothingness... I’ve become a masochist!
��“Give up the theater to become a writer?” I look dubiously at Ivan who nods vigorously; his enthusiasm is contagious. Grinning, I reach over to poke his plump belly, and he giggles like a child. Why is he so lovable when sober? And suddenly I visualize doing exactly what he asks. “Yes, you’ll paint again, the thing you do best!” I picture him with brush, grabbing tubes, furiously filling a canvas with bright colors, one-man gallery shows, rave reviews. Moving to the country seems so promising. I, a small town hillbilly, will be an artist, like he is. I am awed.
��Moments. The mover hurriedly loading our cheap furniture and possessions, along with a cabinet, drawer of unfinished stories. Ivan travels with the mover’s truck. I, on the train, gaze dreamily at the long mural outside my window, stretching from Manhattan to our small Long Island town. The real me is emerging at last: a writer.
��And, oh, our charming New England saltbox with eaves, and the smell of pines, and scurrying chipmunks, and birds fluttering from tree limbs. Weekend moments: painting the house fire-engine red with white shutters, and planting rose bushes around out two-acre forest of pines that soar eighty feet, forming a leafy sky. Spongy pine needles squash under our sneakers like a sun-dappled carpet, our German Shepherd puppy at my heels. Paradise: what more could one want?
��Moments. Meaningless chats with neighbors about babies, recipes, and household shortcuts -- the opposite of our exciting Manhattan artist friends. At first, I’d plunged into work in my studio after Ivan left for his drafting job. Like Jacob wrestling with the angel, I stubbornly persisted. Finally, I admitted to my talented husband that I didn’t know what I was doing, embarrassed at his unjustified faith on me.
��“Keep trying and you’ll learn,” he’s said, pouring more wine.
��I believed him because I wanted to. But why wasn’t he painting?
��Moments. Ivan, hating the nine-to-five routine, arrives home by train at six o’clock. He pets our German Shepherd wagging her tail at the kitchen screen door, silently gobbles down the stroganoff I’ve prepared as a surprise, finishes a bottle of wine, and sprawls on our new tufted couch, passed out by nine o’clock, his misery at earning a regular living soothed. With only our dog for company I stare at the television. Despite the lovely fairy-tale surroundings, the paneled, beamed living room with its stone fireplace and latticed windows, I ask if this is the natural conclusion to marriage and art?
��Time passes. I plead with Ivan to paint; he presents excuses and continues drinking. Struggling at my computer, refusing to quit, I finally take a correspondence course on creative writing. If only I could discuss my stories with Ivan. Evenings, he snores on the couch, a flannel-shirted arm flung toward the new marble-topped coffee table, his troubles calmed by the empty bottle facing him.
��Finally, I gaze into our idyllic forest one evening, and try to remember the years here, but can’t, only blurred moments: Ivan’s increased drinking, fights and crying accusations and recriminations.
��“What more do you want?” he shouts in the living room and lurches toward the winding staircase where he’ll find peace in alcoholic slumber. “I’m supporting you, for God’s sakes! All you have to do is take care of the house and write. I’m too exhausted to paint.”
��“I want my husband back, not this terrible loneliness!”
��He shakes his graying blond head with disgust and vanished upstairs. Boots thud over my head as the master staggers to our bedroom, right out of a gothic novel. How can I explain to him that his drunken pawings in bed repel me? Yet, I feel torn -- seeing a sensitive artist, draining of inspiration while he drive himself to support us.
��Moments. Cooling off with iced tea during an intense July. At the barbecue table in the clearing near our kitchen stoop, I try to picture an Ivan-less future: struggling in a Manhattan tenement to write stories I might never be capable of. Later, lying beside my snoring husband who is sacrificing his great talent to live a “normal” life, I blot my pillow with tears. Rising, I don a robe and sit by my studio window, staring into the forest.. Ivan and I have stopped talking, sex is gone; he is too tired and drunk. I fill with grief, mourning my dead marriage.
��Moments. November: a brisk, clean morning, the hint of snow. Sipping coffee at the wooden table while our Shepherd chases a squirrel amidst the pines. Despite my smile at her antics, the emptiness inside me suddenly becomes more vivid than all my seven years with Ivan. Here, in a beautiful forest, I am the only unreal thing. Wishes: the present fades; I am back at my former Upper West Side apartment. My Shepherd nuzzles my hand, awakening me, and I hug her. Ah, this is my reality; my future is only a dream--La Vida Es Sueno. I am wishing for rainbows. I am beaten, nothing to strive for, as though all my efforts will collapse in failure.
��This depression terrifies me. Shaking, I drop the glass against the scarred table. The ice cubes and tea bounce and splash as I reach over for a cloth to wipe up the mess. I must survive to write.
��That evening, I dare to tell Ivan, “I want to leave you, return to Manhattan.”
��Trembling he pours wine at our wooden dining table. “why?”
��“I feel... empty...”
��“That’s ridiculous, Jenny! Marriage can’t be a continuous honeymoon. After awhile it reached a plateau.”
��Biting my lip, I scan the charming built-in cupboards and cherry-cafe curtains. Sitting opposite, stroking my hand, he urges me to be reasonable; marriage is an investment not to be dissolved lightly. I gaze at those hazel eyes magnified behind the glasses, bloodshot yet still boyish, and I agree, as always/ What is unhappiness, anyway? Self-pity! All couples reach a plateau; marriage is shared suffering.
��“Jenny, tell me what’s wrong,” Ivan says suddenly, leaning toward me.
��“I don’t know,” I whisper, and sniffle into a tissue. Perhaps if we could discuss it, I’ll again see him as that brilliant painter: knowledgeable, self-confident, inspiring. But now my will seems to have dissolved into our beautiful surroundings, and I dread each predictable, deadly day.
��Moments. Skipped meals, nausea, failing health., I cannot eat, I cannot write, I remain silent. What is the point? Nothing to anticipate but struggle. And we’ll al die anyway.
��Ivan, finally alarmed, buys fattening goodies that would overjoy a dieter: rocky road ice cream, devils food cake, and peanut butter cookies. I ignore food to brood; he eats. I diminish; he balloons. I’m becoming a robot, mechanically cleaning, cooking, caring for our dog, until one afternoon my soul screams, “Enough! Go! Don’t analyze it, just do it!”
��Sunday, I don’t ask permission, but state flatly, “Ivan, I’m returning to Manhattan.”
��This time, a shrug while pouring wine. “Jenny, if that’s what you want, okay.”
��My stare of disbelief. No fights, no guilt, no misgivings? “Thank you,” I manage to offer for releasing me, as perhaps I have released him.
��My last moments with Ivan: a tearful hugging at the kitchen door, while a kind neighbor, who’s offered to drive me to Manhattan, waits in his van with my luggage, books, stories, and computer. I leave everything else. It isn’t part of my real like. That’s before me.
��“Well, take care of yourself, Jenny.”
��“You, too, Ivan.”
��“Do you really have to go?”
��“Yes, I’m so sorry.”
��“My God...”
��Moments. Affectionate hug of the German Shepherd, her tail wagging excitedly; she doesn’t know she’ll never see me again and that I’ll miss her for the rest of my life.





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