Happy Family Part 7

"Don't think that's going to work," Cheri says. "We have a shaman coming into town."

"A shaman?"

"Michael's got him staying with us for his film. Don't ask me. But you can't do anything that would embarra.s.s him, he's very into this."

"Like I don't know how to behave? I've hosted a fund-raiser for the Dalai Lama, and he's a h.e.l.l of a lot more important than a shaman. But it's your birthday, so you get to decide the venue. Tell Michael to bring his camera. A shaman on a mechanical bull is too brilliant! He can call it Slammin' with Shaman."

The venue, Cheri learns in the morning, will be their house. The only day the shaman can come to Chicago is on her actual birthday and Cheri slides into acceptance. For the next few days, Michael is buzzing with shaman prep. The yage arrives in an envelope-add that to the list of misdemeanors. Michael is calling homeopaths for a root to ferment into a beer the Shuar men drink; cooking a vegetarian meal although n.o.body's a vegetarian and Cheri is a carnivore who likes her steak blue. All she's been hearing from HMS Bay is atonal whistling and rattling. The news headlines are more of the same: war looming; economy crashing; environment collapsing; priests molesting; and the president's at his ranch in Texas taking a "nonworking" vacation. Deforestation in the Amazon-that's a good subject to bring up with the shaman.

Cici's packages continue to pour in daily. Her mother is extracting her pound of guilt by sending pounds of gifts. Cheri can't resist opening the boxes from Dean and DeLuca. Cici always gets the best of the best, but she excels in all things pig. Half the boxes are filled with cured meats, including a whole leg of imported prosciutto di Parma, Cici's homemade mozzarella, and torta di noce. Cheri stands in the kitchen eating slices of b.u.t.tery-soft prosciutto. "The Shuar don't eat pork! Get rid of all that," Michael bleats as he walks through the kitchen carrying blankets and sheets to his office.

"I will not. It's not like they keep kosher."

"It doesn't matter if it's a religious thing or not, we can't have pork in the house."

"In whose rule book? They eat guinea pigs-they're not going to pa.s.s out at the sight of prosciutto."

"It's a simple request-just pack it all up."

"I'll stash it in the extra fridge in the garage. Problem solved. We've had Muslims over for dinner and I didn't clean out the refrigerator."

"That's because your mother hadn't just sent us a pa.s.sel of pig!"

"No, I'm certain we had bacon and those sausage patties you like in the freezer." Michael's starting to get his aneurysm look. "It's delicious, want some?"

On the morning of Cheri's birthday, she wakes up to find that Michael's side of the bed is untouched. He'd cordoned off most of the downstairs with his party prep and must have fallen asleep in his office. She walks downstairs and finds a huge bouquet of tea roses that could only be from Cici and a plate of her favorite sprinkle doughnuts and fresh coffee awaiting her on the kitchen table. But this pales in comparison to what Michael has accomplished outside. He's straightened and cleaned and had his way with the backyard. He rescued the kiva from the ignominy of the garage and he's sectioned off an eating area with bamboo poles strewn with colorful paper lanterns. She walks into what is now a Zen garden; Michael's collection of large crystals and minerals jut up from the gra.s.s, seemingly rising out of the earth; flowers bloom, citronella candles ward off stinging insects, Chinese lanterns sit on tree trunks. Michael has covered their old plastic table with batik fabric and he's brought his speakers outside.

It all looks beautiful. She realizes how long it's been since either of them made this kind of effort. She lingers for a moment, feeling wistful, then turns around to go back upstairs.

Cheri sits on the bed with her plate of doughnuts and Cici's final box. Cheri knows this small box is part of a ritual. The handing down of a family idol that she doesn't worship, at least not as her mother might want her to. This year's offering is in gold paper with a white ribbon; Cheri tears it open unceremoniously to reveal a heart-shaped velvet box containing a heavy ruby ring. A virtuous woman is worth more than rubies. The proverb pops into Cheri's head, but she's never seen her mother wear this ring. The note, written in Cici's elegant cursive, says: From my forty to your forty. Cheri tries to remember her mother at forty. She seemed a lot older then than Cheri is now, but in some ways much younger. Her mother lived such a protected, simple life. Cheri tries the ruby ring on her middle finger; it's far too big and fancy for her, but it is beautiful. It's a shame, she thinks as she returns it to its case and puts it in her drawer, to keep something so precious in the dark.

Not to be forgotten, Sol has also left her a birthday gift. His will provided that Cheri would get all the keys to his patent castle when she turned forty. The fruit of Sol's labor resides in Citibank Land, guarded by dark-suited denizens, quietly growing. She's never touched her trust fund-she's doesn't even know exactly how much she's got-and has no plans to do so now. Did Sol think that Cheri would become more like Cici, blithely using his money to wallpaper over the holes he'd made in her life? And to think it all comes from sugarcoating. She knows of a far better way to swallow the pill of forty.

She blasts the Ramones as she forages for a decent bra. Most of her undergarments are stretched out and c.r.a.ppy except for the Wonderbra she bought when she was all s.e.xed up to make a baby. She puts earrings in her piercings and a stud in her nose. Eddie Norris said she looked like a bull in the ring. Eddie's probably on a lake right now with his cop wife and four cop kids, on their summer vacation. Not like the time she and Eddie went camping and she convinced him to eat magic mushrooms and they laughed and had s.e.x and marveled for hours over dead leaves that morphed into starfish. The image of Eddie Norris pinning her arms over her head while he slowly traced the indentation of her collarbone with his tongue flickers on and off in her mind like a lamp with a loose wire.

"Cheri! Cheri!" Michael's standing in the doorway. "Can you turn that down? They're here." She lowers the volume on the CD player. "s.e.xy." He nods approvingly at the Wonderbra and suddenly she realizes she's got doughnut crumbs in her cleavage. "You might want to put something more on, though. Happy birthday," he adds, already heading back down the stairs.

"Welcome," Cheri says a few minutes later, extending her hand to the shaman. She's red-lipped, studded, wearing a black dress. "Michael and I are honored to have you in our home." The shaman is a short, slight man with skin the color and texture of beef jerky. His face is like a fine engraving, and his eyes are clear and bright; he could be a hundred years old or fifty. His hand is surprisingly large and rough and he talks in an indigenous language she's never heard. She focuses on the sounds of his words, looks to see how they're formed in his mouth-front to back? What about the tongue, teeth, jaw, and lips? These are the clues and cla.s.sifiers she uses as a linguist, but even applying the little she knows of American Indian languages, she's at a loss. The shaman keeps talking and the second-string translator, a young man with a thick black mustache and watery eyes, sums it all up as "'h.e.l.lo, my name is Ramon.'"

They sit in the garden at a table under an umbrella Cheri didn't know existed. Michael's beverage tastes like malted dirt, but they sip it while he talks about his film and his plans for interviewing Ramon again. The translator is lagging behind Michael significantly. Ramon's attention seems to be focused on Cheri, to the point where it makes her uncomfortable. She smiles and renews her focus on Michael. When the translator finally stops, Ramon speaks and holds his abdomen. The translator looks at Cheri, then turns back to Michael.

"He says a grain grows inside of you; you must pay attention. No. Please, excuse...no, my mistake." He addresses Cheri: "He says you are the one with emptiness inside. It is...inhospitable. This gives you hyperactivity, restlessness, and despair." Cheri feels like she's gone through a metal detector and been caught packing. She doesn't know who or what to look at. There's an awkward silence.

"Or," the translator adds with a nervous laugh, "he is saying he is hungry and looks forward to your meal. The Chicago summer is hot, is it not?"

Taya arrives fifty minutes later, hair blown out, high-heeled, juggling her overflowing purse, bottles of champagne, presents, and, as promised, an old guy in cowboy boots whom she quickly introduces to everyone as Van. "Happy birthday! You look great," she shouts at Cheri as Michael relieves Taya of her packages.

"I'm so sorry we're late. It's all my fault, of course. We had to go to the Museum of Contemporary Art for this Frank Gehry opening. Aren't we all getting sick of Frank Gehry? He's everywhere, with all his weird shapes and crazy angles." Van gives her a cynical look. "He's become a deconstructionist showman, you know I'm right. Van knew him early on; he was part of the Venice artist group in the sixties."

"Everything was better in the sixties," he mutters, "including me."

"I'm with you there," Michael says.

"Don't listen to him," Taya says to Cheri. "His work keeps getting better." She gives Van's hand a little squeeze. "You have to see his show, it's absolutely brilliant." This moment of tenderness is not lost on Cheri.

"What's your poison, Van? I've got a whole bar set up." As the men go outside, Taya lags behind with Cheri.

"Speaking of showmen, where is the shaman?"

"He's in Michael's office. He'll be down in a moment. But, please, try to speak slowly. I'm not sure how much of anything he's getting because his translator isn't that quick off the draw."

"I think you're the one who needs a drink. Or three." Taya puts her arm around Cheri's waist. "Come on! Let's get this birthday started!"

Outside the lanterns glow and world music plays. Michael and Van share a joint; Cheri watches the ember going back and forth like the point of a laser. She knows by his hand gestures that Michael is telling his story about the Museum of s.e.x, the dwarf, and Andy Warhol. He'd interviewed Warhol for Disco, Doughnuts, and Dogma. Van strokes his beard and seems amused. The champagne is dry, Ramon and the translator have emerged from HMS Bay, and Taya's not yet said anything inappropriate. This is not such a bad little party, Cheri thinks. It's actually turning out fine.

Everyone loves the food. "It goes well with lightning," Michael says as a fork of electricity flashes across the sky, followed seconds later by a thunderclap. He's served vegetables grilled, curried, and stewed with goat milk, along with a mixture of grains and dried fruit and lots of crusty bread and salad.

"I'd try ayahuasca," Van says. "I've done plenty of peyote and shrooms, got some interesting paintings out of it. Does he work with frog venom? That s.h.i.t's supposed to be a hundred times stronger than morphine. Makes you puke your guts out for days."

"You're thinking of the Mayorunas. Different tribe, another part of the Amazon," Michael says. "Medicine men like Ramon-they're called uwishin in the Shuar tribe-they've performed thousands of ceremonies with the plant, or Mama. She takes you very deep into the psyche, even to the point of simulating death."

"Like DMT," Taya says. "Not for me, but in LA there's always a market for anything mind-expanding. If the shaman wanted to leave the rain forest I'd be happy to connect him with people." The translator, whose name is either Samit or Samil, smiles at Taya and then goes back to eating.

"Aren't you going to translate what we're saying?" Taya asks Samit. "I don't want him to think we're rude."

"Ah, well. I am not really a translator, you see."

"What do you mean? You know the uwishin dialect," Michael says with some concern.

"This is true, but my knowledge of the language comes via taking care of their teeth. I am a dentist. I must travel often to their village. One must learn to communicate or there could be a big mistake."

"You're a dentist," Michael says.

"Yes. I am considered to be very gentle." Michael's getting his aneurysm look. Taya leans in and whispers to Cheri: "Let's hope he's a better dentist than a translator."

"How much of this aren't you getting? We've got a shoot tomorrow and it's important that Ramon understand my questions."

"I do my best," Samit says, his round eyes getting rounder. Michael takes him aside for a moment. Ramon looks surprisingly unfazed, drinks his malted dirt.

Can't this all wait until the morning, Cheri wants to shout. Michael's hijacking the evening and it p.i.s.ses Cheri off. She needs to either drink a lot more or stop now. "Toast!" Taya says, tapping her gla.s.s with a spoon. She prepares to take the stage but Cheri says, "No, I'm going to toast all of you for being here." She twists the cork of the nearest champagne bottle, resting in a bucket of ice by her chair, and it flies off, missing Ramon's left ear by a fraction of an inch. Van catches the errant stopper, holds it up like a baseball caught off a pop fly. As Cheri refills everyone's gla.s.s, she notices that Michael's is barely touched. She puts her hand over his. "I'd like to thank Michael. For this amazing dinner and the care he's taken to make the night...just right." Her husband tips a nonexistent hat to her and mouths, Thank you. Taya claps, is again about to leap to her feet, but the shaman rises and extends his arms to Cheri. He motions for her to come to him and takes her hands in his. His gaze is penetrating but kind. He smiles at her as if they've shared a secret.

"In honor of you, Ramon wishes me to tell the story of how the Shuar came to respect women. I do my best to make it as Ramon wishes." The translator smooths his mustache. "Long ago, it was the Shuar men who had b.r.e.a.s.t.s and nursed babies. Women gave birth and then were killed. One day a pregnant woman was tending her garden of nuts. She was crying because she knew that once the nuts were ripe, she would give birth and die. A rat approached her and said, 'Do not cry, I will help you. Female rats have many babies and we do not die afterward. Do as I say, and you will be strong and live.' The rat gathered the nuts and fed them to the woman, who ate them and became stronger. Then the rat said, 'Go home to your husband. Tell him the nuts are ready to harvest and come back to me.' The woman was afraid but did as the rat told her. The next day, the rat was waiting for her in the field. 'Do not be afraid,' she said and twisted the woman's belly until the baby came out. The rat wrapped the baby in leaves and told the woman, 'Take the baby back to your husband, and do not fear for now you are as strong as a rat.' The woman returned home, where her husband had built a big fire and was sharpening his machete. When he saw her with the baby he was furious. In a rage he cut off his b.r.e.a.s.t.s with the machete and flung them at the woman. This was the moment that everything changed forever for the Shuar people. The man instantly knew that women were to be honored and respected, and ever since that day it has been the duty of the Shuar men to revere their women. The end."

A few droplets of rain spatter the table. Michael has been moving around them with his camera and is now behind the shaman. "Well," Van drawls, "that's quite a story." The rain starts really coming down, giving everyone something to do besides dwell on the meaning of nuts and lopped-off b.r.e.a.s.t.s.

Later, when the Ecuadorans have retired and it's just the four of them in the living room, Michael sequesters Van in front of the TV, showing him the footage of the Shuar using shrunken heads in a religious ceremony. "Taya, come check this out! I'm sure Cheri has seen it already, but it's fascinating stuff," Van says.

"Cheri hasn't seen it," Michael says tightly. Cheri knows it's the footage Michael had asked her to look at. She would feel guilty if he weren't putting her on the spot.

"Not this version," she says.

"It's new," Michael says pointedly.

"Guys, let's get back to the rotting flesh later," Taya says, jumping up and doing her best Donna Summer impersonation: "Someone left a cake out in the rain." She runs outside and comes back bearing a slightly soggy birthday confection with two candles, one in the shape of a four and one shaped like a zero.

"I'm turning in. It's all on you to make a dent in that," Michael says.

"You can't leave now!" Taya says, lighting the candles, but Michael's already doing the man-hug with Van, and by the time Taya places the cake with the now-lit candles in front of Cheri, Michael is heading up the stairs.

Wishes are heavy, horrible things. Cheri is more than ready for the night to end but dreads being left alone with Michael. To seeing the tablets before my next birthday, she thinks as she blows out the candles. Van makes a big to-do about signing a copy of his catalog and presenting it to Cheri. "It was swell meeting you," he says, kissing her forehead. "C'mon, cowgirl," he says to Taya, "we've got another road stand to hit before it's all over."

"I'm so sorry, CM. Whatever's going on between you and Michael, he shouldn't treat you like that. Call me later." Cheri watches as Taya runs out into the rain and Van gallantly meets her with an umbrella and holds it over her head. "Thank you," Cheri shouts and then turns into the stillness of what's left over.

Dishes. Food to be wrapped and put away. Cheri grabs her cigarettes and opens the door to the porch. When she lights up, she sees a lump in the corner under the awning and moves to investigate. It's the shaman, curled up like a pill bug on his sleeping mat. He sleeps like a child, innocent, indifferent to his surroundings. She bends down and adjusts his blanket.

When she goes back inside, she is surprised to see that Michael has come back downstairs and is in the kitchen, doing the dishes. "Do you know our houseguest is sleeping on the ground outside, getting wet?" Cheri asks.

"He's never slept in a bed; he's from the rain forest. Rain and forest, get it?"

"Just leave that stuff. I'll do them in the morning," she says.

"You don't do them right. You stick the silverware in the basket without scrubbing the tines and it's a waste of water to run the dishwasher twice."

"You know what? I can't do this anymore," she says before she can think not to say it.

"Then don't," Michael replies, still fiddling with the forks. "I said I'd do it."

"Not the dishes. This. Us. You're so angry all the time. Calling me out like that in front of everyone. For what? Not kneeling at the altar of five minutes of new footage?"

"I asked you to do one thing, Cheri. One thing. You couldn't be bothered." Michael drops a few more knives into the dishwasher, then pauses. "I'm not going to do this with you now. I just want to go to bed."

"I know that's what you want. And that's what we've been doing for years now. But I can't breathe here, and it started way before I was panting for air on the ground in front of the movie theater. There's all this anger in what you say, what you don't say, it just hangs over everything."

"So, wait, now I'm to blame for your panic attack? Is that what the G.o.dd.a.m.ned shrink is telling you?"

"Meds doctor. n.o.body told me anything or has to tell me. You and I don't communicate anymore, or maybe we stopped trying to. I don't know who I am here or what this marriage is about anymore."

"For the first time in your life you're not busy, every minute, all the time. Who are you without your tablets to translate or a book to write or your degrees to define you? Your problem, Cheri, is that you can't stand to spend time with yourself. You're always running but you won't ever admit you're afraid. Like it will make you seem weak. So instead, you shut down and push people away."

"Why is it that every time I try to bring up issues in our relationship, you make it all about me? Look, I have my s.h.i.t, we both have our s.h.i.t, but what I'm saying now is we're stuck. We have been for a while, and I don't know how to get unstuck."

"Did it ever occur to you that you create the situations you get stuck in? You take such an extreme stance, you don't back down or compromise, and you end up hurting yourself."

"Oh, so I created the situation with Richards and Samuelson? It's my fault I've been wrongly accused of some PC bulls.h.i.t? Are you saying that I should just bow down and admit to something I didn't do? 'Please, sir, I'll do anything to keep my job.'"

"I'm saying you had a choice. You could have apologized, worded it in a way that you could live with. But no, you always have to go b.a.l.l.s to the wall. You think I'm stubborn? You put yourself in a corner and then you blame it on our relationship. Just like you did with Sol."

"This has nothing to do with Sol! You want to talk father issues? You don't want to have a baby. You never did."

"What's that supposed to mean?" His tone is icy.

"Exactly what I said. You like being the center of attention; it's a role you've played your whole life, so why share the spotlight now?"

"You know what, Cheri? Your disappointment has nothing to do with me. In fact, the whole misguided journey to having a baby has had nothing to do with me all along. It's always been your agenda."

"Agenda? Since when is being a mother an agenda?"

"How do you want me to respond, Cheri? Script it and I'll say it. I've tried to be as compa.s.sionate as I can and listen to you go on and on about this, but there's only so much I can take."

"On and on? I won't let you make me into the needy, grasping female just because that image suits your agenda. This whole f.u.c.king party was about you! But good news: It's over. I'm lopping off my b.r.e.a.s.t.s and throwing them back at you."

Michael slams the dishwasher closed. "Go f.u.c.k yourself!" They stand there, breathing hard.

"I don't want to live like this anymore," Cheri says. "We both deserve better."

"So what do you want to do? Divorce?"

"I don't know. A break. Separation."

"Well," Michael says, turning his face away from her, "do what you need to do." Cheri doesn't notice that her cigarette's burned down to the filter until her finger registers the heat. She drops it in a gla.s.s of water. Michael is sweaty, not just drunk and stoned sweaty, but sickly in this light.

"Are you okay?"

"After this f.u.c.king fantastic conversation? No, I've told you I haven't been feeling well."

"What is it?"

"Upset stomach. I need to get some air."

"Should you see a doctor?"

Michael puts on his jacket. "I'm getting a physical next week. I'm going for a walk; don't wait up."

Cheri opens the curtain and follows the form of her husband as he crosses the street and heads toward Lincoln Park. His gait is comforting in its familiarity; shoulders weighted, head bent slightly, he walks with a tall man's lope. He could have said, I want to fight for you, for us. He didn't. The street lamps illuminate the mist, the edge of his coat, the profile of his nose. She imagines he'll venture a couple of loops, if that. She stands on tiptoe to watch him as he moves deeper into the park, walking until the night swallows him up.

Part III.

Different People Die.

Family Portrait, Summer 1970.