Rebecca Handler

o n e w o m a n p a r t y

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A Very Happy Woman

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A Very Happy Woman lives down the street. I have met her several times but for some reason, her name has not stuck with me. It is something friendly, like Maisie or Daisy. It could be Georgia.  

I don’t think she knows my name either. She just says hello there, or beautiful morning isn’t it. I often see her on my way home, after walking my daughter to school. She might be pulling weeds or squinting at something high up on a branch. Anything good up there, I ask. I love this time of year, she says, or, I thought I saw something.

This morning she was up early. My daughter and I were on our way to school, and spotted her standing on the lawn, in a royal blue tunic, flowy gray pants and strappy sandals. Her white hair was freshly combed and she poked at jacaranda petals with her tortoise shell cane. She looked like a social worker called in to testify on Law & Order. She saw us coming and waved her cane.

You look happy this morning, I said. It’s my birthday, she replied, leaning forward with both hands resting on her cane. Happy birthday, we said. How exciting, I added.

My daughter asked what she was doing for her birthday. Funny you should ask, I am about to walk down to the lake. I suggested she look for the two duck families I saw there yesterday. Perfect, that would be lovely. She told us last week she saw the most magical thing we would not believe it. She leaned down to look my daughter in the eye and, as if she couldn’t believe it herself, whispered, a black swan was dancing on the surface of the water. The woman swayed her arms back and forth as she stood up, mimicking the bird. She said she had never felt luckier in her life, to see a black swan dancing.

I’m eighty-three, she said, answering a question we hadn’t asked. Wonderful, I said, hoping that was the appropriate response. She nodded. It is wonderful. It’s not that old, she said. I used to think it was but it’s not anymore. She dropped a tissue. When I picked it up, I noticed it was folded into a triangle, the edges carefully tucked in.

The Very Happy Woman told us her daughter dropped off the most beautiful plant. She really hadn’t wanted anything for her birthday, but then again this plant is lovely. She doesn’t like fragrance of any kind and this plant is perfect in that it doesn’t smell and it is awfully nice to look at. It was thoughtful of her daughter to come by this morning because she has a very busy job and it is difficult for her to make time. But today she made the time, and someday we must see the plant because it is just lovely.

We said goodbye and continued walking. She’s nice, said my daughter, leaping over a crack. We talked about feelings you get from people, and how amazing it must have been to see a black swan dancing on the lake. We agreed to keep our eyes open.

The Day I Stop Feeling Anything Is The Day I Stop Hunting

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“People all over the world are craving potatoes,” she whispered to me across the table, between bites of barramundi. Her husband was in the middle of a story, and she didn’t want to interrupt him. It wasn’t a story exactly, more of a description of his frozen food storage company.

“Guess what makes up more than fifty percent of our business?” the Belgian man had asked me. I didn’t have a guess.

“French fries!” he revealed, before sipping his Pinot Grigio and smoothing back his hair. He looked like he would be comfortable wearing an ascot.

This is when his wife confided in me about the worldwide potato craze.  

“The Japanese, especially,” the Belgian man added. “The Japanese cannot get enough french fries. They are starting to eat them instead of rice.”

I pictured a sushi chef serving raw salmon atop beds of Stouffer’s french fries. I glanced at my husband who smiled at me as he brushed a fly off his glass. This is all you, he seemed to be saying.

We were dining in a lodge in Arnhem Land, a remote area in Australia’s Northern Territory. We had traveled here to hike, fish, swim in fresh water, and view Aboriginal cave art, some of which was more than 20,000 years old. Earlier that day, we had climbed up and over rocks to see delicate drawings of stick figures that were created at a time when you could walk from Australia to New Guinea. My mind was full of majestic and mysterious things.

“All Asians actually,” the Belgian man said. “Asians are really getting into potatoes.”

I decided to change the topic. “Have you ever been somewhere this remote?”

He had. Kyrgyzstan. For a “boys trip.” Hunting Marco Polo sheep.

He spoke about stalking these spiral horned animals for days before identifying the oldest male for the kill. He slept in the mountains in a tent with his friends. “The kill is a small part of our time together.” He explained how big game hunting assists in the conservation efforts of protected animals, and that the sheep’s wool is used to make pashminas and the meat is eaten by the locals. I asked if he had photos of himself squatting beside dead animals, and he said yes. I asked if he kept mementos from his kills and he said yes. I thought of Gaston in Beauty and the Beast singing, I use antlers in all of my decorating.

That morning, I had watched a St. Andrew’s Cross spider weave her decorative web on the edge of a rock, peacefully preparing for her meal.

“Do you ever feel bad? Shooting animals?” My question was childlike but I was curious.

“Of course. The day I stop feeling anything is the day I stop hunting.”

Lions and Tiger Snakes

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My husband and I have developed a formula over the years. When one of us plans a family outing, it is the responsibility of the non-planning partner to promote enthusiasm for the adventure, even when the adventure involves a boat trip – correction, is a boat trip – and the non-planning partner struggles with motion sickness.

One of the things that has happened to my body since giving birth is that I am incapable of sitting on a swing at a playground without my center of gravity moving from my stomach to the back of my knees, to my chest, and eventually to the ground in the form of vomit. One reason I love swimming in the ocean is that if I remain still in wobbly water, I feel sick. Boats are the worst.

Carnac Island is a few miles off the coast of Fremantle. Dave learned about a company that would take us out to this tiny island to snorkel and swim with sea lions.

My one close encounter with a sea lion was three years ago when I was swimming with my brother in the San Francisco Bay. It popped its head up directly in front of me, growled, and immediately sunk back under the murky water. I yelled at my brother, “What the fuck was that?” knowing exactly what it was but hoping for the response, “Ice cream. That was ice cream.”

Between the boat ride and the sea lions, you’d think I might have stayed home, but if my children were going to be eaten by sea lions, I wasn’t going to be the mom who stayed home to catch up on Scandal while her children were being eaten by sea lions. Plus, I’m in love. I got up early, ate some bircher muesli, and took two Dramamine.

The sky was overcast and the sea was bouncy. Two kayaks labeled Perception and Emotion were strapped to the deck. Seven thirty-somethings were ready for the best day ever and had coolers of beer and salami. When I see people eating on a boat, I feel like they are brushing their teeth at a cemetery. The captain offered us a platter of brownies and tiny muffins and I wanted to grab the tray and chuck it into the sea. We are on a boat! I wanted to scream. This is no place for muffins!

My husband and younger daughter stood at the railing and laughed hysterically as the wind turned their cheeks to Jell-O. The older one inherited my inner ear so she sat next to me, clutching my hand, staring at the horizon. That morning, she had taken one Dramamine. It tastes gross, she had said. So does barf, sweetheart. Drink some water.

Upon anchoring, the captain pointed at a dozen sea lions that were napping on the beach. They had obviously not been told about the tourists who were promised a romp. The captain suggested we dive in to see if we could “tempt the lions.” He then advised against walking on the beach because Carnac Island is home to hundreds of venomous tiger snakes. This is Australia and I live here.

My older daughter and I peeled out of our clothes and stood shivering at the back of the boat. “We’ll feel better if we get in the water,” I promised her as the waves crashed and the wind whipped through our hair. We jumped in.

It turns out the sea lions were not interested in frolicking with humans. A few passengers, including my husband, swam to Medusa’s Lair to get up close to the sea lions. “We’ve got those at home!” I wanted to call out to Dave. “I’ll take you to Pier 39!” My daughter and I swam back to the boat to join her sister who was on her second brownie.

We made it back to the mainland without vomiting, and almost immediately, I felt famished. We walked to Little Creatures Brewing Company and ordered as if it were our last meal. The four of us consumed half a dozen oysters, one margarita pizza, one plate of nachos, one beet salad, one stack of sticky lamb ribs, two glasses of wine and one beer. When we got home that afternoon, I slept for three hours. I awoke to my daughters bouncing on my bed.

Things That You Can Touch Or Feel

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In 1993, between bites of a piping hot dinner roll at Bertucci’s in Harvard Square, my father leaned across the table from me and declared, “When you marry someone, you marry their family.” He revealed this as if it were a carefully guarded secret that had been passed down from generation to generation.

I had been telling my dad about my boyfriend, specifically his mother, a clog-wearing woman who made her own earrings and often glared at me. My boyfriend and I broke up later that year. I still have a childhood blanket of his that my children sometimes use to build forts.

My husband comes from a large family. He has eight brothers and sisters, all of whom live on the east coast of the United States. Recently we pulled the kids out of school in Perth for three weeks and flew across the planet to drink Dunkin’ Donuts coffee in Rhode Island (medium, milk, one sugar). The last time we visited my in-laws was more than two years ago, when Dave’s youngest sister married a gregarious New Yorker with excellent taste in wine and cable knit sweaters.

The nine children and their assorted partners are a diverse lot. We are dentists, poets, accountants, stay-at-home moms, engineers, mail carriers, actors, economists, and students. We have strong opinions. Some of us drink eggnog coffee while others think this is a beverage for monsters. Some of us prefer cranberry sauce out of the can. Some of us believe in God. Some of us feel crushed by the recent presidential election and some of us are more ok with it. (Before our trip, I reminded my daughters that family is more important than politics, and the younger one suggested, “Maybe we don’t wear our Hillary t-shirts on Thanksgiving.”)

Several of the nine siblings have had children themselves, and the kids are just as varied. My eleven-year-old niece recently stood up to a bully at school, and my four-year-old niece likes to throw chairs.

There were 30 of us for Thanksgiving this year, and we descended on my sister-in-law’s house with side dishes and folding chairs. As casseroles slid in and out of the oven, and children chased each other up and down stairs, I felt like I was in a 90’s home-for-the-holidays rom-com. All that was missing was Bill Pullman.

After the feast and the cleanup, we put the little ones to bed, poured ourselves more sangria, and gathered in the living room for the most sacred of family traditions: Pictionary.

I have been playing Pictionary with my in-laws for more than 20 years. We are fiercely competitive. I was infuriated by my brother-in-law’s inability to draw a hot air balloon that looks anything like a hot air balloon, and he chided me for my attempt to illustrate “cold” without including a thermometer. (I drew a stick figure in shorts and then crossed it out.)

At one point, the newest spouse in the group, the gregarious fellow with the sweaters, became enraged by a teammate’s failure to quickly identify the “object” category on the Pictionary card and shouted, “Things that you can touch or feel!” His baptism was complete.

My dad was right of course. It’s no secret that when you marry someone, you gain a family. And if you marry someone who has lost a family member, you respectfully inherit this absence as well. I am honored to be part of this clan. It is one of the greatest blessings of my life. And I am not just saying this to score points. Unless we’re playing a game.

What To Do While You’re Waiting

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I am waiting for my cat to come home. He disappeared on Wednesday. Today is Friday. People say he’ll come home, that cats always come home. But maybe you should check local shelters, just in case.

I go to Cat Haven, which sounds almost like Cat Heaven. There is a mural on the side of the building with red hearts and smiling cats. I hand a photo to the lady with braces and brown hair. In the photo, Finn is stretched out on the couch, showing off his soft belly. The lady with braces and brown hair asks me questions. Yes he is microchipped. Yes this is out of character. I tell her I am treating this as if my child has disappeared which of course is a ridiculous thing to say and also not true. She says, “But he is your child.” I do not argue with her. She works at Cat Haven.

My friend Celena knows how hard this is. Her cat is named Boris and likes to sleep on top of the bookshelf. She posts flyers near the lake and calls Finn gorgeous which in Australia means enjoyable.

The neighborhood kids come over after school. I feed them Arnott’s biscuits with rainbow sprinkles and slices of apple. My older daughter distributes flyers, exactly 24 to each child, and goes over the plan. They will walk down Keightley to Hensman. They will stay together. They will be back in 40 minutes.

I make tea and check Lost Animals of Perth. A Maltese named Roxy was last seen on Parry Street. One Rainbow Lorikeet has been found, and another is lost. It is not the same one. This has been confirmed.

My phone rings. It is a woman with an Eastern European accent. She lives in the neighborhood and received a leaflet from a child, but she has not seen my cat. She loves all animals and will keep her eyes open.

I call the microchip company, located in Ontario. A woman named Sherri answers. Sherri’s job is to talk to people who have lost their pets. This is what she does all day. I give her Finn’s microchip number and she asks what the weather is like in San Francisco. I say I don’t know but it is raining in Perth, Australia and I’d like to make sure they have my correct phone number on file. I tell Sherri I will put Finn’s litter box outside, but not food because Sherri says it will attract other animals and from what she’s heard about Perth this is a real concern. Sherri has a friend in Perth. I tell her I’ve met several Canadians here, they like the weather.

At night, I promise the kids I will wake them if the cat returns. Dave and I are rewatching Friday Night Lights so we cue up the next episode. It is called, “What To Do While You’re Waiting,” the one where Smash needs to fold towels in the locker room as punishment for taking steroids. We talk about how kind people are in Perth, how much time people are willing to give. This lost cat reminds us why we love it here.

I dream that my cat comes home. As I pet him, he turns into a dog with the face of a man I don’t recognize. Where is he, where is he, where is he.

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