Page 113 of Life Out of Order

“Taking a shower is good,” I say.

“Anything involving water is good,” Beck agrees. “The house is never so clean as when I’m stuck for an idea.”

“Is that why you washed the kitchen floor yesterday?” Alba asks me.

“No, it was just filthy,” I reply. “But while I was doing it I had a good idea about a new sculpture. I think my mind associates washing with creativity. I didn’t happen to be asking but I got an idea anyway.”

“Are you just saying this to get me to do more chores?” Alba asks.

“There’s real science behind this. You should google it,” Beck says.

“Humph,” Alba replies.

We continue to cut the linen into squares. Beck retrieves a pair of scissors from the drawer in the kitchen and the three of us reduce the yards of fabric in the middle of the table into three piles of small squares. “I like doing these little jobs,” Beck says. “Computers make things too immaterial. I miss stuff.”

“Music is like that, too,” Alba says. “That’s why I wanted to write on paper. Also, I don’t have a computer in the Yellow House and I always write better there.”

“Why do you think that is?” I ask her. “Besides the lack of a computer?”

“Well, I’m by myself,” Alba says, “so no one interrupts.”

“If you set up shop on the dining room table you’re going to get interrupted,” I say. “You’ve got a room of your own.”

“And it’s scary to be by myself when I can’t call you. So it helps to work on my music, because then I forget I’m alone.”

“That’s a good strategy,” Beck says. “But you can always call us.”

“No—” Alba and I say at the same time. She continues, “I can’t call here before Mama and Daddy bought this house in 1994. And I don’t call before 2001, when I was born.”

“Could she?” Beck asks me.

“She never did, so she doesn’t,” I reply. “Though it seems to me we used to get a lot of wrong numbers.” I smile at Alba.

“Yeah, I just wanted to hear your voices,” she says, unabashed.

“Aw, sweetie,” I say. I think of those years when we were trying so hard to have a baby and Alba was there on the other end of the telephone line, breathing and then hanging up gently. Kids, Henry used to say whenever it happened.

“It’s all about play,” Beck says. “You’re going at it like it’s a job. You just need to prepare, and then—noodle. Pretend you aren’t interested, and those good ideas will come around begging you to pay attention to them.”

“That sounds like dating,” I say. Beck and I exchange smiles.

“Really?” Alba asks.

“Sure,” Beck says. “Of course, once you’ve got the idea, then you have to work at it.”

“Oh,” Alba says, deflated.

“Be off with you,” I say, “Go, find your violin, noodle.” I collect all the bits of linen into a bag. Beck goes downstairs to train Isadora, and I head to my studio to beat the linen into paper pulp. Eventually, I hear Alba’s violin: random nothings that slowly become purposeful, music assembled from thinking out loud.

Subtle Bodies

Friday, December 18, 2015 (Clare is 44, Lucinda is 9)

Clare: I’m sitting at a table in the Walnut Room, waiting for Celia. Christmas surrounds me: Macy’s has erected an immense sparkling tree in place of the fountain, or around the fountain, I am never sure if the fountain is still there under the evergreen, tinsel and shiny birds? There’s a string trio in the corner playing a jazzy version of “Jingle Bells.” All the tables are full; there’s a buzz of quiet conversation. Most of the other diners are middle-aged ladies, their shopping bags tucked at their feet.

I remember when this was Marshall Field’s, and my mother brought Alicia and me here every August for clothes (although we wore ugly green plaid Catholic school uniforms, we could still shop for play clothes and church clothes) and every December for Christmas shopping. We loved the animatronic shop windows and the candy. My brother, Mark, never wanted to come; he hated the long car ride all the way from South Haven, the crowds, the whole ritual of trying on. He would sit outside the ladies’ dressing rooms and sulk. So it was always a girls’ day out, a rare treat. My mother was always smiling and patient on these outings—she loved to come to Chicago, she loved shopping, winter, the bustle of the city. We always ate lunch here in the Walnut Room, and it was always the same lunch: chicken potpie with a green salad and ice cream for dessert. I peruse the menu and am relieved to find it the same as always; only the prices ever change here.

Celia makes her way through the throng of people waiting behind the hostess’s stand. I see her face bobbing along behind and between the much taller people, and as she emerges into the clear space of the dining room, I see that she has a girl with her. This must be Lucinda, Celia’s nine-year-old foster child, whom I have never met. Celia is beaming—she has many shopping bags in one hand and is waving at me like a parade float queen with the other. Lucinda glides in Celia’s wake: she is skinny, dark, wide-eyed, already taller than Celia and fashionable in her sky-blue parka and pink plastic boots, her hair intricately braided and studded with tiny red barrettes.