Banana Rose

  “Please, later,” I said, and began running in the soft snow.

  He came after me and clutched my arm. “You’ve got to let me talk, Nell!” He was screaming now. “I’m not staying here forever.”

  I put my hands over my ears. “I don’t want to hear it. Don’t scream at me!” I yelled. “First Anna, now you. I don’t know what to do. I love you. I hate you. I’m all mixed up. I don’t want to go away.” I started to sob.

  Gauguin grabbed me. Tears were streaming down his face. His glasses fogged, and he pulled them off. “Please, Nell, please,” he wailed.

  “I can’t. I don’t know what to do.” I felt like a caged animal. I bolted and began racing down the hill.

  Gauguin ran after me. I dodged in and out of piñons. I was moving so fast, I felt like a jackrabbit. I gulped for air. He was close. I could hear his loud breathing but not his footsteps in the snow.

  “I’m going to get you!” he called from behind. Suddenly, it became a game. He caught up, and then as he passed me, he yelled, “Last one to the house is an elephant!”

  I grabbed his jacket. “No, you don’t!” I yelled back. He tripped me and I rolled three feet. The snow was dry, and I quickly brushed it off. I could hear his laughter as I saw his jacket flash between two piñons.

  “Stop, stop!” I screamed. I scrambled up and dashed after him. I hated being beaten in a race.

  By the time my wet face hit the heat of the kitchen, he was already undressed and in bed under the covers. My boots squished on the floor. I bent and flung one boot off. “Wait until I get you,” I called into the bedroom.

  I climbed into bed and grabbed for him. “Ouch, Nell, warm up first.” He dodged my hands, but he couldn’t get far. “Ouch, ouch,” he squealed.

  Then I began to kiss him. He moved his face away. “Nell, I can’t make love just yet. Can we talk first? I really need to.”

  “Okay, let’s talk.” My heart was much softer after the race. I turned on my back and traced the vigas on the ceiling with my eyes. “What do you want to say? I’ll listen,” I said. The third viga from the wall had a long crack in it.

  Gauguin paused awhile. I counted the wood boards that lay on top of the vigas. “Look, I can’t stay here forever. I’ve got to go, Nell. Come August first, I’m leaving, with or without you.”

  I finished counting the boards. There were twelve. “Where do you think you’ll go?” I asked.

  “I don’t know. New Orleans? Denver? Anyplace?” he reasoned.

  I took in a deep breath, turned, and put my arm over his shoulder. “Gauguin, I love you. You’ve been really patient, haven’t you?”

  “Well, I love you, Nell. I wish it felt right to stay.”

  I could see how relieved he was that we were finally talking. “I’ll think about it,” I said.

  “What?” he asked.

  “Whether I could come with you or not.”

  “Nell,” he said.

  He kissed me long and slow. We didn’t say another word. With my eyes closed, I saw rock gardens, bare cottonwood branches by the river. I made love out of something old and broken. We knew now that this would not last forever, this room, these windows, that sky outside. Our lovemaking was tender, the way pears lean on each other in a round bowl, and the whole time I heard the bells on Blue’s goats tinkling in the distance. The snow fell and I fell with it.

  Later, I sat at the table as Gauguin heated up black bean soup, his back toward me.

  “Gauguin, remember when we went to Israel and Kita’s wedding up in that meadow near El Salto? When we brought that blue bowl full of cut pineapple and cantaloupe?”

  “Yeah? How come you’re bringing that up?”

  “I don’t know. I’m reminiscing. I want to remember everything as it was before I go,” I said.

  When he turned around, a big smile was spread over his face. He placed a bowl of soup in front of me. “You mean you’re going to come with me?”

  “What else can I do? You’re the only thing I love better than Taos. I can’t imagine life here without you. Maybe if we went to Denver, I could find a painting teacher.”

  “How about Boulder?” he asked.

  “Yeah, we could go there.” I started to cry. Gauguin came around the table and held me. “What will you do?” I asked.

  “I could paint houses again, like I did before I left for Peru. I got real good.”

  “And then you’d play at night?” I asked. He nodded.

  After dinner, I sat at the table. I could hear Gauguin in the next room practicing scales.

  I remembered the Thanksgiving just past, when we had stayed up all night at the Luhan house. Gauguin and Neon drummed. Anna didn’t like parties, but I’d talked her into coming and she had a great time. Happiness was there, too, and Blue, Lightning, Cucumber, Tiny, and Fine Point. I brought my feet down one at a time to a slow sway in tune with the beat. When the sun finally rose and Gauguin and Neon quit drumming, I still stepped, one foot after the other. My feet were stepping with an internal drummer, my heart, and it felt as though I would never stop. I did stop, though, when Cedar brought out the sour cream chocolate cake I had baked the day before. She held it high. “Hey, let’s have this for breakfast. We never got around to eating it last night.”

  With my first bite, I said a spontaneous poem. “The title of my poem is ‘Chocolate Cake.’ ” I paused. I said the title again. “ ‘Chocolate Cake: I made it and I ate it.’ ” I liked it, it sort of rhymed.

  Cucumber, who was a totally pure macrobiotic, said, “I got one: ‘Chocolate Cake: I didn’t make it and I hate it.’ ” She squatted in the corner, eating a whole-wheat cracker.

  Sitting at the kitchen table, thinking of that Thanksgiving, I began to cry all over again.

  19

  UH-OH, THERE’S SAM, I said to myself as I turned the corner, heading out of Rexall’s. I wanted to avoid him. It was March, three months after that dinner at Blue’s. Whenever I visited her now, she was alone. I had begun to think Sam was a mirage. I wanted it that way.

  “Hey, Banana!” he yelled. I couldn’t believe it. He could speak.

  “Oh, hi.” I hesitated and made like I didn’t recognize him for a moment. “Oh, Sam,” I said, haltingly.

  “Yeah.” He smiled such a sweet smile, I was taken off guard. His hair was still matted. “It’s nice to see you.” He was friendly, too. “Have time for something at the counter?”

  I was so stunned, I nodded yes and followed him back into Rexall’s. We sat on two swivel stools.

  “You should come up sometime and see the house I’m building for Blue.”

  I nodded. I was still speechless. We both turned away from each other when the waitress placed our drinks on the counter. We leaned over our straws. I had a lemonade, Sam had a root beer. We said nothing for half the drink.

  Then Sam raised his head, turned to face me, and blurted, “I’m so in love with Blue and Blue loves you so much that I got scared. I wanted to make a good impression and instead I froze.”

  “Oh,” I said. “That’s okay.” Was it okay? I didn’t know. I was embarrassed that he was saying this stuff.

  “Really, you should come up to the mesa. Blue told me you’re leaving in August. Come before you go. It will almost be finished and I’m making a chicken coop out of bottles and beer cans as a surprise for her.”

  “Sure, I’d like that.” I nodded. We finished our sodas, left Rexall’s, and waved good-bye on the sidewalk.

  I hadn’t wanted to like Sam, but suddenly I found myself liking him. I wondered how much I had disliked him because I thought he was taking Blue away from me. I guess I had wanted things to stay the same, even after I left. I wanted to imagine Blue forever on Talpa hill and the mesa to be someplace that only existed before Anna met me.

  20

  A MONTH LATER, Gauguin received a Western Union telegram delivered right to our door. It was early morning. Gauguin stood barefoot, holding it in the kitchen.

  “Open it,” I said, excitedl
y.

  “ ‘Pick me up in Las Vegas. I arrive April twenty-ninth, at 4 P.M. TWA.’ ” Gauguin read it aloud. It was from his father.

  Gauguin looked at me. “That’s today.”

  “Gee, your father gives even less notice than my mother. I’ll go with you.” Then I changed my mind. “Maybe I’d better stay and clean up. I can make dinner. Las Vegas is only a two-hour drive away. You should be back in time.”

  “Are you sure Las Vegas has an airport?” Gauguin asked.

  “I’m pretty sure. I’ve heard they do. Call TWA from the post office and find out,” I suggested.

  “Naa. If he got a flight there, they must be landing.” Gauguin paused. “Holy shit! Rip’s coming! It’s just like him to do something spontaneous like that.”

  “Let’s put him up at La Fonda on the plaza. He’ll like it. They have D. H. Lawrence’s erotic paintings,” I said.

  “What do you mean by that?” Gauguin got defensive.

  “What’s wrong? I thought he was artistic, being an architect,” I said.

  “Oh.” He started to laugh. “I thought you meant he was a horny bastard.”

  We both laughed. I hadn’t thought of that, even though Gauguin had told me that Rip slept around. It was what finally broke up his parents’ marriage.

  “I’d better leave around one to have plenty of time. Nell, I wonder how long he’s staying. I have a gig in Albuquerque tomorrow. He’ll be too wiped from traveling to drive three hours down with me, and then I’m staying overnight.”

  “Cancel it,” I told him.

  “I can’t do that. I worked too hard to get it. Rip will understand,” he said.

  “Well, I guess you know your father better than me. If it were my family, they’d freak if I didn’t drop everything to be with them.”

  “Yeah, they’re not like that, and besides, he gave us such short notice.”

  I headed back toward the bedroom and then turned. “So, I’m finally going to get to meet someone from your family.” I came back and hugged him. “I was beginning to think they were a mirage.”

  At eight in the evening, the front door opened. Gauguin stepped through and dropped his car keys on the floor.

  “Nell, I waited. The air traffic control man said that no commercial plane had landed in Las Vegas in eight years!” Gauguin crumpled into a chair.

  “We got another telegram from Rip fifteen minutes ago.” I handed it to Gauguin.

  He read it: “ ‘Where are you? I thought Las Vegas was right nearby. Can’t get a flight to Albuquerque until tomorrow. I’ll take a limo up. See you then. Rip.’

  “Oh, no!” Gauguin put his head on the kitchen table. “He flew to Las Vegas, Nevada.”

  I wanted to burst out laughing, but I saw how upset Gauguin was. “Let’s skip the dinner I made. I’ll save it for tomorrow. We can just have dessert. Apricot cobbler.” I knew it was his favorite.

  “No, let’s eat dinner. While Rip is coming up here, I’ll be going down there—for that gig!” His face was so broken up, it looked like a jigsaw puzzle.

  “Well, you have to admit it’s kind of funny,” I offered.

  Gauguin didn’t think it was. “Very funny, Nell, very funny. You wouldn’t be laughing so much if it were your family.”

  Gauguin left for Albuquerque at two the next afternoon and Rip arrived at four on the one limo a day that stopped in Taos. When I picked him up, I recognized him immediately by his hair—red, though graying at the edges—and his spray of freckles. He was taller than Gauguin, maybe six foot, and he had a slight limp. Gauguin had told me he’d been in a bad car accident six years ago.

  “Rip!” I called out, and waved.

  “Ah, so you must be Nell.” His face lit up. He came over to me and bent down and kissed me.

  “Gauguin had to go to Albuquerque—” I began to explain.

  “When will he be back?” His face fell as he cut me off.

  “Tomorrow afternoon,” I said.

  “And I leave the day after that.” Then he brightened. “Well, I always wanted to see Taos.”

  I took him and his brown leather suitcase to the La Fonda.

  “Why don’t you come for dinner tonight?” I offered. I hadn’t planned to entertain, but I couldn’t just leave him alone. “I’ll pick you up at seven.”

  He seemed pleased.

  I dashed over to Safeway. They had a sale on mushrooms that had become a little old. I could get a whole bunch for half price. I thought I’d make mushroom Stroganoff, one of my specialties.

  I drove home and began to cook. On a sudden impulse, I walked up to Blue’s.

  “Come to dinner tonight. Gauguin’s father will be there.”

  “Sure, sugar, I’d love to. Want me to bring anything?”

  “Just yourself.”

  “Me, too?” Lightning stuck his head out of his room.

  “Perfect,” I said. “But you have to bring something—your hat!”

  He giggled. He was wearing his wool cap, as usual.

  I felt relieved as I walked back down the hill. I didn’t want to be alone with Rip. It felt awkward—I hardly knew him—and besides, I remembered Gauguin told me once that Rip had tried to make one of Gauguin’s old girlfriends.

  I had to drive back into town to pick Rip up before I finished cooking. When we arrived back at the house, he offered to help.

  “Here, could you finish slicing these mushrooms?” I handed him the bowl, a cutting board, and a knife, and he settled down at the kitchen table.

  “They seem a little old,” he said, holding one up.

  “Oh, they’re fine. I got them cheap, so I could get a lot more.” I turned from the salad dressing I was making and smiled.

  “You’re sure?” he asked, cutting them gingerly.

  Just then, Blue walked in with Lightning ahead of her. I could see by the way his face lit up that Rip thought she was gorgeous. I looked over at her. She was wearing a red velvet jacket she had sewn by hand.

  I introduced them. Rip popped right up into a standing position and took her hand. “My pleasure,” he said.

  “I just adore your son, Gauguin, and he looks just like his daddy.” Blue tweaked Rip’s nose.

  This undid Rip. “Please, please, let me get you a chair.”

  “I’m fine. Just get back to what you were doing.” Blue nodded toward the cutting board on the table.

  “Oh, yes, yes. I love to help around the kitchen.” Rip sat back down.

  I wished Gauguin were there. I wanted Rip to stop gawking at Blue. But Blue seemed oblivious to it.

  “So you’re an architect?” Blue asked when we finally sat down to the meal. “I just love dirt architecture. There are anthills all over the place, and sometimes I squat in front of one for a whole hour. Ever do that? I’ve been dying to see inside, but I don’t want to hurt the little bitty ants, so I just watch them come in and out, in and out of that top hole.”

  “Why, yes, yes. I never thought about that. Maybe you could show me one.” He turned to me. “Nell, do you have anything to drink? I’m awfully thirsty.”

  I jumped up. “Oh, I’m sorry. We have water. You should drink a lot, especially because it’s so dry and you’re new here.”

  I handed him a glass and filled a pitcher.

  “Honey, this dinner is delicious,” Blue chimed in. She’d almost emptied her plate.

  “Oh, yes, yes,” Rip conceded. I could see, though, that he was nervous about eating the mushrooms. He thought they were rotten, but he wanted to impress Blue, so he suddenly chugged down whole mouthfuls, followed by big gulps of water. “Yes, sir, this is delicious!” By the time he was finished, he had drunk three glasses of water. He went to the outhouse.

  While he was gone, Lightning looked up from his comic book. “He’s weird, Banana. I like Gauguin a lot better.”

  Blue placed her hand on Lightning’s arm. “He just comes from a different place, sweetie.” Then she turned, and with her hand cupped to the side of her mouth so Lightning coul
dn’t see, she whispered to me, “He is weird,” and scrunched up her face.

  I nodded. I started to say something, but just then Rip stepped back in the house. “Wow, is it beautiful out there! Worth the trip. Worth the trip.”

  I served up the leftover apricot cobbler.

  “I don’t get to see sky like that in the city,” Rip continued, “but sometimes I visit Camille, my mother, in Indiana, and we sit out on her porch and it feels good.” I placed a dish of cobbler before him. He looked down. “Oh, sweetheart, this looks delicious.”

  Rip snapped his fingers. “That’s it! Blue, you look just like Camille when she was young.”

  I burst out laughing.

  “What’s so funny?” Rip turned to me. “I’m serious.”

  Blue stepped in. “Oh, Nell, honey, I just love this cobbler.” She leaned right into Rip’s face and asked, “Did your mother make dessert this good? I bet she did, didn’t she? You love your mother, don’t you, sugar.”

  Rip was in heaven. “Yes, I love Camille.” I thought he might begin to cry.

  At this point, I excused myself to the outhouse. I also wanted to see what the night sky looked like. As I passed the Russian olive, I looked up in supplication. “Heaven help me.” I couldn’t make Rip out. One minute he seemed like a lech or a con artist and the next he was just a grown-up little boy.

  I drove Rip home that night and told him Gauguin would come by as soon as he returned the next afternoon.

  “Oh, sure. I’ll just walk around Taos until he gets here.” He thanked me for dinner and told me what “a fine gal” I was, also how much he enjoyed meeting Blue.

  The next morning I was setting up a still life on a low table. As I bent down to put a pear on the table, I glanced out the window. No! I stood up quickly. I couldn’t believe what I had just seen. I shook my head. I bent down and looked again. Sure enough, there was Rip, coming down the road on a big black horse, trying to hold on to a ten-gallon cowboy hat with his left hand while his right was gripping the horn of the saddle. The horse was trotting, and Rip was bouncing hard, his spanking new red cowboy boots wedged into the stirrups, his buttocks slamming down over and over on the leather saddle. He made a right before our house and went up the dirt drive. A guitar was slung over his shoulder. Was he going to serenade Blue? This couldn’t be true. Gauguin’s father had some screws loose. I stood up.