Occasional Notes, vol. 1: 3/31/20

Tuesday, March 24^th, I rented a car from definitely not six feet away, picked up my friend John, and drove north to an empty family summer home. Midtown Manhattan had become overwhelmingly terrifying and that was before they built a tent hospital in Central Park. I felt like a terrible, selfish, entitled coward leaving but I could and so...I did. Maybe I would make one less person to triage at the Javits Center? This is a complicated thing and the horrible privilege of having a lovely home on a lake from which to ride out this nightmarish storm is—well, it is exactly what it is. Complicated and horrible and privileged and lovely and a living nightmare for all of us, no matter where we are.

So here we are, here’s where John and I are, and here’s where I am, yesterday, today—who knows about tomorrow.

***

John is my darling beloved friend and lives not far from me in the city so we (used to) take long walks in the park, over-indulge in doughnuts so fabulous he wrote an essay about them, and formed a little writing group of two. How do you choose the person you can isolate with? I don’t know—pick somebody funny, somebody who wakes up on the right side of his bed every morning, somebody who cries out Buongiorno, principessa! when you slouch out of your own bed, cranky and looking for coffee. Then, as you’re fleeing the city, your home, the epicenter of a pandemic, have a long earnest conversation in the car about communication and boundaries and kindness and care. Try not to be distracted from that conversation when you find the tollbooth empty, a hand-written sign instructing you to please tell the toll worker on the other end that you entered at exit 15, like tolls suddenly being on the honor system is perfectly normal. You can maybe start to panic when a rest stop is open but there are just two cars in the entire gigantic parking lot. Once you’re back in the car that might be a good time to acknowledge that if the end of the world is truly upon us, as it might seem in that moment and many more to come, that spending time arguing about really anything doesn’t seem like a good idea so maybe just decide you’ll be nice to each other, the end, and then you can lapse in to silence for a minute and think about all the things you’re giving up, all the things you’re leaving behind.

***

Thursday night. I have a Behind the Book call from 6:30 to 7:30 so John cooks—pasta for me and some shrimp/lobster ravioli for him. He is so careful to use different utensils for each pot and makes sure to strain my pasta before his so as not to pollute the strainer. He is contemplating the many pots on the stove and finally turns to me, then pauses.

“What,” I ask.

“How do you usually heat up your sauce?”

I make a puzzled face: “Heat up?”

“Oh,” he says, already turning away, “okay, I see what we’re dealing with here: I was worried about not heating it on the stove but you’re pouring it straight from the jar so I guess you won’t mind the microwave.”

I am suitably abashed and slink away: It’s true. I pour it straight from the jar. Later, the pasta is ready, and I head for the drawer with the oven mitts.

“Step aside,” he cries, and grabs the handle. “I’ve got olive oil in my veins!”

I am laughing and I can’t believe how lucky we are to be stuck together, two people who are taking such care to make each other happy.

I hug him from behind: “I love you,” I tell him.

“It’s a-PASTA!” he shouts, in an exaggerated Italian accent, and then we eat.

After dinner I coax him into a game of Uno. He blanks me, scoring 380 points to my zero, and taunts me exactly the way my dad does. My dad’s in Florida, and he’s picture-perfect high risk: over 70, a history of asthma. He was reluctant at first, like we all were, but eventually gave in to quarantine. When will I see him again? Will I see him again? These are the thoughts I can’t help but probe, worrying at like a loose tooth.

I pour myself more wine. Later, we sit in front of the fireplace and John reads me picture books.

***

Friday’s a big day, we’ve been talking about Friday all week. John’s got meetings all morning, starting at 7 am. When I finally come into the kitchen I find him in a sleeveless Patagonia vest, unzipped, wearing a pair of basketball shorts and socks pulled all the way up. I stare.

He mutes his phone. “Casual Friday,” he tells me, then goes back to his call.

Midday I get a FaceTime call from Goggin.

“Don’t laugh at me,” she begins, and I arrange my face as best I can, trying to prepare for whatever this could possibly be.

She’s frowning at the screen, staring at something not my image, then, finally: “How do I post a comment on Facebook?”

I know immediately what she is trying to do—one of our sorority sisters has started a group on Facebook and Goggin wants to reply to a particular post asking all of us where we live, what year we graduated.

“Okay,” I begin, “are you looking at Treva’s post right now?”

Matt’s face appears over Goggin’s shoulder. “Damn, Case,” he whistles, “you knew exactly what was going on here.” I did, I do, but I don’t. We get her comment added.

I have a conference call from 4:30-5:30, then we’re done. We make cocktails and put them in the spider cups, which is what we call the set of cups I borrowed one from to trap and release a spider. We take a turn along the lake but the sun is low in the sky and it’s cold so we don’t go too far. We come back and open a bottle of wine—we don’t have to go to bed at 10, it’s Friday! We make a curry and while it’s touch-and-go for a little while, especially after I accidentally spill the rice, the meal turns out to be excellent and we are flush with triumph.

I go outside and make a fire in the fire pit. I am immensely pleased to do a good job of it and I call John out to come admire it. We sit outside under the stars and talk for hours and I am already excited that tomorrow my sweater will smell like campfire.

***

Saturday.

I laze around then come out for coffee, which John has made as he has every morning so far. I am definitely interested in being spoiled by not being the coffee maker. I make avocado toast for us, diligent about calling the avocados guacamoles! because ever since John said it on Tuesday I have vowed never to call a guacamole anything but a guacamole! ever again.

I go to a two-hour Zoom workshop run by one of the Girls Write Now mentees. Mine isn’t there, and since she’s been spotty about responding to my messages I’m not surprised but I am disappointed. But the workshop is great—more than a hundred women involved—and my breakout group of 8 has so much fun building a world inside of a cup of coffee and I am filled with love for all of us who try.

John brings me a refill of my own coffee halfway through and I am filled with love for him, it’s the little things that make me realize how glad I am not to be here alone.

Rain is forecast for the evening and then for the foreseeable so I spend the afternoon dealing with the giant evergreen boughs that have fallen over the winter. I make a pile of them, then I have to call my father to find out where the keys to the shed are, as I am certain he has all manner of clippers and saws in there. He does. I go to town on those branches and eventually I have a giant pile of kindling sticks and a smaller pile of baby logs.

John comes out on the porch just as I am contemplating how I will saw up the remaining big branches. He’s wearing two hoodies at the same time and has a blanket over his shoulders. I regard him doubtfully but ask if he will help and though he generously agrees, the gods hear us both and it starts to rain.

I clean up the wood and the heap of discarded pine needles. When I come in, John helps me wash my hands. “Don’t tell my father,” I say, as we scrub at the sap, “I know I should have worn gloves.”

A month ago, a thousand years ago, I was in Florida with my old man. We had the spray paint out for a dollhouse we were building; I refused gloves and got paint all over my hands. Dad made me wash them with gasoline, which totally worked but is probably not a habit I should get into. I have always taken my cues on protective gear from him, a man who once removed the guard from a circular saw because who knows why and then put that blade through his kneecap. I make a note to look for work gloves, maybe this is a good time to start being smart about these things.  

As the rain continues, we’ve just put the “jazz for study” station on and settled in front of the gas fire to read for a little while when my sister Facetimes me. The first thing I see is June’s face in a furious pout. She’s ignoring me, busy unspooling a roll of scotch tape which she eventually tries to wrap around her head before a hand comes into view and stops her.

She has napped zero minutes, my sister informs me, but we manage to wrangle her into reading The Gruffalo together, one of the many picture books John has packed. June knows most of the words, which is ridiculous as she’s not yet three. We start to lose her interest toward the end and eventually she disappears from my view. I am looking at my sister when suddenly she drops the phone and I am staring at the side of a basket.

“No, you can’t have the glue,” I can hear my sister saying, then a wail.

“I’m not putting it on my lips,” June shouts indignantly, and I quietly disconnect the call. Maybe we’ll talk more later.  

***

Looking out the window has always been a preoccupation here, but now it’s a part-time job. John and I like to scream “PRIVATE ROAD” at the people walking by, safely behind the glass where they can’t hear us, and demand various types of identification. Sometimes we want a badge, a letter; often we pretend-scream to see a sticker.

“EXCUSE ME,” we yell, “MA’AM. MA’AM. PRIVATE ROAD. PLEASE SHOW YOUR STICKER.” We haven’t discussed what kind of sticker we’d like to see but I’m feeling something like a monkey face or a piece of fruit, scratch-n-sniff.

***

It’s really weird to be in someone else’s house when they’re not here. I’ve been a guest many times, so often that I have my own bag of toiletries I leave here, but still: it’s not my house. I do laundry, and I am careful to dry the washer afterward, the way my mom and Gail both like to; of course I’m cleaning the lint filter after each load, but can you imagine having two people, one a stranger, suddenly living in your home? The things you have to let go of, the worries you can choose or discard: I hope I know enough to do the right things, but I’ve also rearranged every LAKE sign I can find to read KALE so I can’t say I’ll leave the place untouched. But I feel a terrible perfectionist guilt about doing everything exactly right, trying to remember which dishes are not for everyday use, obsessively dust-busting the kitchen floor.  

“John,” I say, holding up the dust-buster, “will you be the one to—”

I don’t have to finish my thought, which is good because I couldn’t, he knows I have this horrible phobia of UGH and so he interrupts me: “Yes, of course I will empty the dust-buster.” His face in that moment, such kindness!

***

Sunday morning, I am in a terrible mood. I have been having terrible dreams all week, dreams about people getting sick and awful things happening and I can’t shake this feeling of dread. John wants to talk about food again, about when and what we will need to resupply and I snap at him: I cannot think about this. I cannot have a conversation about whether or not there will be food or how we will get it. I have just read about Instacart shoppers going on strike and I can’t believe what a bunch of assholes we are, asking these people to do our grocery shopping and deliver our bags to the curb so we don’t have to touch anything, don’t have to risk anything, the app politely suggesting we consider tipping at the high end of the scale during these “difficult, uncertain times.”

Being at the lake house does not feel like a difficult time. Each day the lake is a little different, a huge expanse of blues and silvers stretching out in front of us. This house is all windows in the front and the view is irresistible. I find myself staring out the window at nothing, at everything, marveling at the way the lake reflects exactly the colors of the sky.

A robin has been flying into a glass door all day. He disappeared for a while and now he’s back. He perches on the railing then launches himself at the glass, doing this over and over again. Finally I walk toward the door and he flies away, why did I have to scare him off? Why couldn’t he realize what he was doing?

John pussyfoots around me, trying to be cheerful then not too cheerful, reading my dark mood. He makes cheesy eggs and we have guacamole! toast and three kinds of berries and orange juice and again I am seized with unhappiness, this isn’t right, this isn’t fair. I try to explain and he listens encouragingly, reminding me we promised to talk to each other. Our shopping list has “pie crust” and “heavy cream” and we definitely need jar sauce but only if it’s Rao’s, what if they don’t have any of the good kind left? I go to my room and download Into Thin Air from the library. I fall asleep and when I wake up I feel better. John gives me a hug and I apologize for being in such a mood all morning. “Have you met me,” he says smiling, and I hug him tighter. He goes off to make more coffee to replenish our stash of iced in the fridge.

***

Monday. Work, another discussion about food—do we have enough, how can we get more. I snap at John again. “This is a TRIGGER for me,” I say very loudly, definitely not yelling, yelling is different from talking very loudly. John retreats and now we have a new tool for communicating. Later, I am rattling some containers and John doesn’t look up but says from the couch, “You know what’s a trigger for me? If you even fucking THINK about putting those chocolate-covered almonds in the trail mix.”

I was totally thinking about putting the chocolate-covered almonds in the trail mix. I back away from the counter.

We found a ladybug when we first arrived. She was sluggish but alive. We put her on a piece of paper and drew a circle around her and at first we would check to see if she had moved and record the time on the paper so we would know how long it had been, then suddenly it was five days and she was still in the circle and we had a big argument about what kind of funeral she would get. John wanted a Viking funeral, like float her out on the lake on a leaf, and I wanted the same thing but also to set her on fire.

“She could still be alive,” he told me.

“If she’s alive and I set the leaf on fire then she can get off the leaf before she burns up,” I said, and then had a private thought about how maybe I could leave a little more room for grace, like maybe I didn’t need the ladybug to prove herself to me, maybe I could just let her go without needing an answer.

***

Tuesday, a full week in. It turns out the robin comes by every day, sometimes twice a day. Now that I’m used to him, he’s kinda funny, not so tragic. He parks himself on the porch railing and from there, launches himself at the door over and over again until the sound of his little body thwacking against the glass is no longer hilarious and I have to get up and shoo him away. There is a little bird-shaped mark where he aims himself and if his goal is, as my father told me, to scare away a handsome but dangerous rival bird he sees, which is actually his own fool self, then perhaps it’s for the best that he stays too busy tilting at windows to procreate.

I come back from shooing him away and pour another cup of coffee. John’s at the table, on a conference call, when he suddenly yanks an ear bud out. “He’s doing it on another window,” John says, aghast, “I can hear him.” We both pause to listen, me with the carafe suspended in midair, and then, faintly, that dumb bird’s signature thwack. I go back to my computer. There is only so much I can do for you, bird.