The Underside of Joy

documents listed Paige’s address, and I drove by. It was in a suburban neighbourhood in a new development with one tiny birch tree staked in each yard. The house was a new, huge stucco wedged into a minuscule lot, surrounded by similar houses in alternating A, B, C, and D models. As much as the red door – so feng shui – beckoned for me to knock on it, I didn’t. Visitation was less than two weeks away, and I didn’t want to sabotage the kids’ visit to my place.
    I wrote in my notebook: Who is Paige? How can I convince her to talk to me? I wrote: Why did Joe even agree to take on the store in the first place? Didn’t he want to be a photographer? Since he was eleven? I wrote: Annie’s laugh. Zach’s toes. Us cutting lavender, hanging it in the barn. Annie’s bee sting. Her crying and saying, ‘At least that son of a gun makes honey too.’
    I focused on finding a place, staying positive. I would show strength and tenacity, and if Paige didn’t respond, perhaps a judge would acknowledge and reward my efforts.
    I left more messages for Paige. ‘I’ll have an apartment soon. I’d like to talk with you. Please let the kids know I called and that I love them.’ I also sent letters. I hoped she would not keep those from the kids.
    Finally, I found an affordable apartment that allowed a dog and had a pool. Those were its three only features worth mentioning. Paige had a pool, and I wanted the kids to be able to cool off at my house too. Plus, Zach needed to get over his combined fear and fascination of water and just learn how to swim.
    I sat on my sleeping bag in the empty apartment, the walls bare except for the map of Las Vegas that Clem had given me, tacked on one wall, and the Life’s a Picnic map tacked on another.
    David called one night and said the store was doing better than it had, but not quite good enough – yet. The rain hadn’t let up in weeks. He needed to run an ad playing up the fireplace and the greenhouse in back. He was thinking about bringing in a musician, someone who would play just for tips. Gina was talking about moving away, and she might not be around long to fill in at the store. Still, his spirits were up.
    ‘You are so in your element,’ I said. I wasn’t quite ready to tell him about the apartment, especially since he was in a good mood.
    ‘That I am. Let the man swim in Bolognese sauce and he’s happy.’
    ‘I don’t understand this, David. Why did the store go to Joe? He didn’t want it. He wanted to be a photographer. But you wanted it, didn’t you? Since you were a little boy. Joe outgrew the whole Joey’s store/Davy’s store rivalry, but you never did, did you?’
    He sighed. ‘No. I never outgrew it. That was just a lie to cover up my utter disappointment and rampant feelings of total rejection. Oh God. We could do an entire Oprah show on this one, El, and I’ve got a little catering gig tonight.’
    ‘You’re catering now too?’
    ‘This is the first try, but hey, whatever pays the bills . . .’ He promised me we’d finish the conversation later.
    I sat outside on my balcony, remembering how Joe and I used to sit on the porch in Elbow. On mornings when the fog lay thick among the tops of redwoods, their trunks so tall that even the peaks of them looked like full-size trees growing out of a carpet of clouds, I’d imagine our house, warm as bread, was perched in heaven with the jubilant blue sky above us while those under the fog line were living that same moment in grey deprivation. And then a twinge of guilt rose up that our little place on the hill was anointed in light, blessed, lucky, above – it had felt that way sometimes.
    Now I sat in the hot night, my skin going from green to blue under the flashing sign from the car lot across the street. I watched the herd of traffic one story below, snorting, fuming, waiting for the signal to change and set them free, until they reached the next stoplight a block away.
    David called again a few days later to ask if I’d be home for Thanksgiving, and that meant telling him I had taken an apartment.
    ‘You’re living in Vegas?’
    ‘Well, I’m not dying here. Not quite. They have me on a breathing machine. Which helps combat the effects of all the secondhand smoke.’
    ‘You know what I mean.’
    ‘It’s not exactly home, no. But I’m staying longer than I thought. Paige isn’t quite speaking to me . . . yet. I’ve got to figure out a way to get through to her, but she’s still too