American Pie
"I think it's in Anna Karina," I said, "'All Happy Families are the same.'"
"Your family isn't like anyone else," Lisa told me, "It's not even legally sanctioned. Doughnut?"
I shake my head, "You're still queasy?" She asks me
I nod my head. It's been like this for a few days. Just the flu. It'll pass, I'm sure.
"So, what did posses you to join a triad?" She asked me.
"It's not a triad. It's a common-law marriage. I'm married to Michael and Paul, and they're married to each other."
She studied me for a moment, then muttered something about being "Damn brave for this town." Which shows how much she knows about Speckled Beach. It is a tiny town, but it's dirt poor and drags in most of it's money through commerce. Which is why Michael's second job and Paul's job are out-of-town.
Still, some small barriers separate us. Such as have-nots versus have-most's, the dividing line being between business owners and their employees. And I hover over that line, trying to force them into getting along. I am a teacher.
A music teacher with a slashed budget, who has to buy 25 recorders wholesale out of her debutante fund.
I'm relieved; I didn't become a pampered, spoiled society child. My parents had hoped that my grandfather's money would one day set me to something higher, but it's better for my artist's soul to scrabble in the hard dirt for a bit of luck. I tell Lisa that.
"Luck, shmuck," She grunts, "Every teacher here could retire on your crumbs."
It hurts, but it's truthful.
***
My kids are happy to see my cart; their teacher seems to want to restrain their bodies, but I encourage a semi-circle.
"Are you going to play for us today?"
"Can we sing Mr. Murphy?"
"Filmstrip!!"
"Since you've been so dedicated, and you've done a very good job learning your parts for the spring pageant. So we're going to celebrate with a filmstrip." A little cheer went up from my audience. I yanked out my laminated list of taskmasters and elected students to pull blinds, grab the projector, and another to run it. I settled at the back of the room, spreading out stacks of sixth-grade quizzes on the methods of the great composers.
For a moment, I study the heads of my students. Paul and I grew up a few rows away, in those seats by the windows (now occupied by a kid throwing spitballs; I reprimand him swiftly and return to my grading).
How our little lives have expanded since third grade! Meeting Michael and joining with him has helped to enhance our world. He's given me things that Paul simply can't. I love them both so much. Could I choose between them? Never.
"Pan! Pan! Greek God Pan!" Bellowed the studio musician, backed up by diaphanous horns and rolling timpani, yet causing more than one pupil to laugh. Our filmstrips are ancient and bombastic. I wish I could teach them more of the grandness of the world.
As the strip ends, I bid everyone goodbye until Sunday, then truck away my cart.
All of my favorite lesson plans are spread out today; the kindergartners follow me in a parade, striking wood blocks and jangling triangles. The sixth graders and I discuss classic forms of music. The Fifth graders and I analyze popular music lyrics and try to understand certain themes. I relish it all, and only wish that I had more money and time to spend.
The two of them are on my mind as I leave. Michael is a deep part of my being, but so is Paul. Michael makes me scream, and Paul makes me cry. Paul makes me think and Michael makes me come. They fulfill so many different needs.
Maybe I'm trying to convince myself.
Balanced checkbooks greet me at the bank, satisfying my curiosity as to the working order of the relationship. I add half of my pay to Michael and Paul's, withdraw an amount to go shopping.
No, I steel myself upon entering mother's store, It's just your mind. You need them. Give yourself permission to love.
Linda regards me sharply over the top of her glasses as I walk in. Assaulted by heavy scents of smoked sausage, cheese, herbs and chocolate, my mouth waters. I wonder if anything would stay down. Avoiding her eyes, I take down the items on my list. I wish reverently that the supermarket by our house would develop a taste for the gourmet, somewhat on the level of Michael's. My dark, dark basswood surrounding cloak and conceal.
A dark Andouli sausage, four pounds of bermuda onions, half of a wheel of camembert, and a stick of peppermint candy to calm my oral fixation. No questions are asked as mother rings up my bill of fare. She seems surprised that I can pay.
"$40.50." Linda tersely announces. I drop the money on her counter. Regret is silently expressed, but no treatises can be made in the stygian gloom of a tiny gourmet store. She takes me in once, up and down; conservative and with little makeup, I feel once again a school girl in her grip. Laying one arm under the bag and one over my bags, I carry them away, a thief in the night of her dreams.
Short stop at the supermarket later to complete Michael's list, I finally arrive home. Greedily seeking with my eyes the magical site of American Pie against it's suburban sprawl. I slide up her driveway and park.
God, do I savor my own little home. The literal dividing point between suburbia and country, my baby faces out over miles of rolling countryside, to the mountains. I count her red shingled roof, her bayberry blue exterior and white shutters (which is why we named her "American Pie"). A new chill in the air assaults me, and I must go inside.
All the better to caress our sticky red rails, the green and blue stuccoed walls, to gaze up at the high ceilings. They bellow back our words in their emptiness. I turn on the kitchen light and enjoy the slight, soft glow as I move to check Michael's crock pot. Still bubbling, almost complete. I stow away groceries in cabinets and rinse a fleet of dishes.
I'm momentarily stricken by a sense of worthlessness. Michael and Paul have sacrificed their very dreams so that I could go to Juliard without indebting myself to my parents. Now, the three of us are trying to pay back our exorbitant loans. We drown in debt beneath the weight of five jobs. On Saturday, I'll be on my knees in Madame Wickaden's Trousseau, hemming gowns.
Some small payment must be made, at least in part. Quickly, I roll out a sheet of cookie dough, punching out sets of stars, then transferring their sugary, fragile forms onto a cookie sheet. They bake for six minutes, then puff up to a pale gold, toasty and delectable. I toss some powdered sugar into some milk and vanilla extract, and dip them into a glaze.
Exhausted, I leave them to dry on a wire rack, sponge off a few counters and clean the dishes. Free to relax, I choose to become one with my cello upstairs.
When one has played an instrument for most of their lives, it becomes part of their thinking, tambre, and step. As I rest my chin on this sturdy instrument, I know only this much; I am music. My fingers are the notes. I live through the swoops and dives of the movement.
Paul enters my line of sight after an hour of playing. I smile at him, and he, tiredly, at me.
"Let me just listen," He says; typical Paul. I continue to play, and am so lost in the passion of music that I'm unaware of Michael's entrance to the room until he brushes my lips with a cookie.
Kissing him is like kissing my oldest lover. Kissing Paul is like kissing my husband. And only Paul himself can explain how it is between us all.