Читать книгу Just Breathe - Honey Perkel - Страница 23

We didn’t travel much. I was the one who scrimped and saved the money so we could take Brian on vacations. Bob always said we couldn’t afford it. With each trip, I hoped Brian wouldn’t have a tantrum while we were away. That we could relax and enjoy ourselves. That we could be a normal family.

When Brian was five years old, I decided we needed to take him to Disneyland. Besides that, I’d been writing to Mom’s cousin Frances in Oakland, and I really wanted to see her. But when Frances insisted we stay at her house, I began to worry. Brian had acted out all too many times. He didn’t exactly have a positive track record when it came to going somewhere. But I couldn’t disappoint Frances. She’d feel hurt if we stayed in a hotel.

I had my own memories of staying with Frances and Petrov as a kid. They had lived in Berkeley then. My parents and I were on one of our rare summer trips to California when I was about eight and we stopped to spend a few days with them. They were a couple of characters, all right. Free thinkers. The original flower children before it was “cool”.

The Couches lived in a tall, old house, I remember. Three or four stories. It looked like a gray cardboard box with lots of windows, or some sort of hotel with a wrought iron gate out front. They opened their home to college students in the fall, a sort of dormitory, renting out eight of their ten bedrooms. And they had a dog. An Airedale, named Mojito.

They were different, but they somehow fit into the California scene: Frances dressed in gypsy garb, her long, black hair halfway down her back, and often barefoot. Petrov clad in patched jeans and a black turtleneck, Love Beads hanging around his neck. They were forty-ish, for Pete’s sake. As old as my parents. But I loved them. You couldn’t help it. They were just so much fun.

“They’re vegans,” I heard my mom whisper soon after we arrived. She made it sound like some sort of religion. Not until we sat down to dinner in their black paneled dining room, did I understand what a vegan was. With the table covered with a feast of earthenware bowls, I studied the tossed greens, mashed beans, pickled sprouts, and pulverized fruit. My father groaned and my mom gave me an apologetic sigh. We were meat lovers at my house. Broiled steaks every Sunday night and hamburger on Tuesdays and Thursdays.

“We don’t eat anything that has a face or a mother,” Frances said tearing off a hank of flat bread and putting it on my plate. “No dairy. No eggs. No honey. No meat or poultry. No fish.”

“What’s left?” I inquired.

Frances gave a hearty laugh. “You’re look’n at it, Kiddo.”

She served us sliced squash pie with whipped tofu cream for dessert. It wasn’t half bad.

After that, my dad offered to take everybody out to eat for lunches and dinners and we were introduced to the best vegan restaurants Berkeley and the surrounding areas had to offer.

Frances was great at telling stories. She and Petrov had just returned from a trip to Europe.

“We were driving in the countryside one afternoon when nature knocked on my door,” she stated as we sat grazing on weeds and paste in a small cafe´ in Sausalito. “All I saw was a hut, an outhouse of sorts, so I hit the trail.” She ate a chic pea and continued.

“I stepped inside and all I saw was a pit. A hole in the ground for me to do my business. So, I squatted.” Frances took another bite of salad as Petrov began to chuckle.

“As sometimes happens, I was taking my time and Petrov began to worry. He opened the door just a crack and asked me if I was all right. ‘I’m fine,’ I told him. He closed the door and all of a sudden water began to gush from the four walls of the tiny shed.”

My parents and I were laughing hysterically by now.

“What happened?” My mom asked her cousin, wiping tears from her face.

“Apparently, when the door was opened for the second time it was assumed that I was leaving. That’s how this thing flushed. Door opens, you come in. Door opens again, you go out. So, I’m squatting there and the waters are coming. And, of course, I got drenched. I was furious with Petrov for the rest of the day!”

It was a great visit for all of us, even my father came around to the vegan diet, though I did catch him eating a candy bar now and then. Since it was summer vacation for the college, we’d had the entire third floor of the house to ourselves. Now it was time to move on.

At the end of the four days we began to prepare to leave the Couches and continue our drive south. Frances was determined to get up early and make us breakfast before we left.

“Franny, it’s just too early for you to bother.” my mom told her. “We want to get on the road by five.” Cars didn’t have air conditioning back then, and my dad wanted to get an early start before the heat advanced on the highway.

“Nonsense,” Frances insisted. “I want to see you again before you go. Why don’t you leave at six, and I’ll make you breakfast.”

My mom thought about it. “All right.”

But my father had other ideas. “I want to be on the highway by five, Annie. I told you that.” I heard him tell my mom later.

“I know, but I didn’t want to disappoint Frances.”

“What about me? If I eat one more dish of fried tofu and prunes, I’ll be sick!”

So we remained on schedule. At five a.m. the following morning, my parents and I were dressed, packed, and were making our way down the dark, narrow stairways.

“Don’t make a sound,” my mom whispered to me.

Mojito crept down alongside me. I was going to miss him. He was a great dog.

We took the steps one at a time, hugging the flowered walls to keep our bearings. We were careful not to wake Frances or Petrov. Mom had written her cousin a thank you note and left it in her room beside the bed.

Flight after flight, we crept from one landing down to another. I could see the front door just steps away. But as we reached the entry, I saw a tall shadow move. Holding my breath, I grabbed onto Mojito’s curly gray head. Then I relaxed. It was Petrov.

“Petrov, what are you doing up so early?” I asked him.

“I had a feeling you’d try to sneak out earlier than planned.” He grinned, speaking in a soft voice.

“Where’s Frances?” my mom asked.

“She’s sleeping.”

“I left her a note. Thank you, Pertrov,” Mom gave him a warm hug. “We had a wonderful time.”

“Next time, I promise you we’ll take you to the Vegan Festival. Tofu-garlic ice cream like you wouldn’t believe.”

Mom gave a gentle laugh. “Nonsense, Petrov. We wouldn’t want you to go to any trouble.”

* * *

Now I would be visiting Frances and Petrov again, this time with my family in their home in Oakland. I’d always kept in touch with them during the holidays. They’d never made it up to Portland and I hadn’t seen them since I was a kid. So I looked forward to finding out what was going on in their lives, and to meet Mojito III.

The only thing that worried me was Brian’s behavior. What if he had a tantrum in their home? What if he didn’t want to eat their food? What if he got mad and started to throw things? I never knew what to expect from him.

We made the trip to Oakland. The appearance of this house was quite different from the one I remembered in Berkeley. The tall “hotel” had given way to a small, charming bungalow on a street named Toggle Lane. It was built on the edge of a cliff open to a magnificent view. We parked along a small grove of trees out front and began to pull our luggage out of the car.

“Hey, Kiddo, is that you?” came Frances’ bright voice.

I looked up from the open trunk of our blue Chevrolet and saw the woman standing on the porch of the cottage. I would never have recognized her in a thousand years. Gone were the bright, bohemian clothes and black hair running down her back. In its place stood a mature woman in her early seventies, gray hair pulled into a bun and dressed in black slacks and a green tailored shirt. Then I saw Petrov coming up behind her with a wide grin, giving me a big wave. He still wore jeans and a black turtle-neck shirt, but now he had deep wrinkles in his face, his hair nearly white. His body looked frail.

My heart filled with love for this couple. It had been nearly thirty years since I’d seen them. I had changed, too. All grown up. I was a married woman, a mother. Nothing remained the same.

I hurried to give them hugs. A dog ran out to greet us.

“Mojito!” I cried. “Hi, girl!” I bent down and gave the Airedale an affectionate squeeze around her gray curly neck.

“Mojito the III,” Frances reminded me. The dog looked exactly the same as the one I’d known on our trip long ago.

By now, Bob and Brian had come around from the other side of the car and were making their way up the front walk. Introductions were made and warm hugs and kisses were spread around. Then Bob and I grabbed our gear and we all headed into the little house.

What struck me first was the sparseness of it. The clean straight lines of modern credenzas, the low-backed sofa, and chairs. Tones of beige and brown. An Oriental piece of art or painting here and there. A built-in bookcase covered an entire wall filled with books, a few plants, and some family photos. Simple. Attractive. The view from the rear window was breathtaking.

“Frances!” I exclaimed. “You’re so conservative now!”

“Yeah, well, ... Petrov and I thought it time we grew up.” She laughed. “Besides, it works out really well for all the weddings.”

“Weddings?”

“Petrov’s a minister for the Universal Church. He marries people. We have a wedding here most every weekend. Come on, you can put your crap in the guest room.” She led the way.

There were only two bedrooms in the house. We hung some clothes in the guest closet and left our bags on the bed to be dealt with later. I wasn’t sure where Brian was going to sleep while we were here. I prayed it wouldn’t be a problem for any of us.

“Petrov’s going to the grocery store for me. Brian, you go with him to keep an eye on him,” Frances announced, patting my son on the head.

Brian stuck his little hands into the pockets of his jeans and nodded. Then he followed Petrov out the back door.

I didn’t want to question the ability of Petrov being able to take care of my son, but the surprise of how much the man had aged disturbed me. He looked as though he needed someone to take care of him.

Bob occupied himself by studying the books and album covers in the bookcase.

“Put some music on, Bob,” Frances offered. “Play whatever you want, dear.” She took a seat on the brown sofa and took my hand. “I like your young man. He’s a gem.”

I smiled as I sat down beside her.

“Tell me all about yourself. And your mom.”

“Mom’s fine,” I told her. “But first tell me about yourself. How are you doing?”

Frances took a long breath. “I have my aches and pains,” she replied. “Well, more like angina.”

“You have chest pains?” I didn’t like hearing that.

“Yeah, well, I have my medications and doctors nearby. I don’t believe anything they tell me anyway.”

“Why is that?”

“Because they told me I was going to die five years ago. Gave me six months to live.”

“I didn’t know that. What happened?”

Frances touched the back of her hair with her hand, then answered, “they found something in my bowel. Cancer, I guess.”

I was shocked. “Oh, my gosh!”

“But, I got it. I cured myself.”

“You cured yourself! How?”

“Enemas. Boiling hot. As hot as I could take them. I don’t recommend it,” she said, a pained look on her face. “Hurt like hell, but it tore away the inside of me. Got rid of all the infection.”

“That’s unbelievable.” I couldn’t believe she’d do that to herself.

“So, that’s my story. Now, tell me about that wonderful little boy of yours, Kiddo. He’s such an angel.”

Petrov and Brian had been gone for quite awhile when I began to worry. Then I heard the back door open.

“How’d it go, Bri?” I asked as they entered the kitchen. Petrov was unpacking a quart container of soy milk, an assortment of vegetables, and a few other things onto the counter.

“Petrov got lost,” Brian announced.

“You mean he couldn’t find the store?” I asked, concerned.

“He got lost in the store. So, I went to the store policeman and reported him missing,” Brian informed me.

“Well, what did you say?” I questioned.

“I told him that I lost Petrov.” He answered simply.

“What did the policeman say?”

“He said, ‘who’s Petrov? Your dog?’ I said, ‘No, he’s a man and he’s married to my grandma’s cousin.’”

“That’s right.” I laughed.

I was concerned about what Brian would do at dinner time. How would he react when Frances brought out the tofu and sprouts?

The meal looked appetizing enough. Frances had made tofu and spinach patties, peppered squash, and lentil and carrot puree. Not exactly mac and cheese. I held my breath.

As we sat down at the dining table and Brian looked as though he might cry, Frances disappeared into the kitchen. Moments later she returned with an individual-sized pepperoni pizza with extra cheese.

“Oh, Frances,” I exclaimed. “A pizza with real meat and cheese!” I was touched and very relieved by her thoughtfulness. This was why I loved her so much.

“Yeah. I know what kids like,” she chirped, and then leaned towards Brian, considering. “You do like pizza, don’t you, Brian?”

“Sure!” he agreed. “All kids like pizza.”

Later that evening, Frances came to me. “Honey, we only have one guest room for you and Bob. Would Brian mind sleeping on the couch in the living room? I’ll make it up with a sheet and blanket.”

“Don’t worry,” I told her. “Brian will be fine on the couch.” How would my five year old react to sleeping in a strange house in a room by himself?

When Brian came out of the bathroom smelling of soap and toothpaste, I handed him his superman pajamas. I wondered how I was going to approach this latest challenge.

“Bri,” I began. “I have a problem. Cousin Frances only has one bed for Daddy and me. She wants to make up the couch in the living room for you. Would you help me out by being a big boy and sleeping in there? I’d appreciate it.”

Brian stood there and looked at me, his eyes growing big. He placed a hand on my shoulder. “Sure, Mom,” he said in a very grown up manner. “I’ll be fine on the couch.”

He could be such a great kid.