climate.
At eleven or so one morning, my mother appeared in the tiled doorway of the Cinema Scene staircase and I closed my notebook, figuring she was taking an early lunch. But we didn't go to the car. Instead, I followed her around the corner, and there, leaning on an old gold Lincoln with suicide doors, stood Barry Kolker. He was wearing a bright plaid jacket.
My mother took one look at him and closed her eyes. 'That jacket is so ugly I can't even look at you. Did you steal it from a dead man?'
Barry grinned, opening the doors for me and my mother. 'Haven't you ever been to the races? You've got to wear something loud. It's traditional.'
'You look like a couch in an old-age home,' she said as we got in. 'Thank God no one I know will see me with you.'
We were going on a date with Barry. I was astonished. I was sure the gamelan concert would be the last we'd ever see him. And now he was holding open the back door of the Lincoln for me. I'd never been to the racetrack. It wasn't the kind of place my mother would think of taking me — outdoors, horses, nobody reading a book or thinking about Beauty and Fate.
'I normally wouldn't do this,' my mother said, settling herself in the front seat, putting on her seat belt. 'But the idea of the stolen hour is just too delicious.'
'You'll love it.' Barry climbed behind the wheel. 'It's way too nice a day to be stuck in that sweatshop.'
'Always,' my mother said.
We picked up the freeway on Cahuenga, drove north out of Hollywood into the Valley, then east toward Pasadena. The heat lay on the city like a lid.
Santa Anita sat at the base of the San Gabriel Mountains, a sheer blue granite wall like a tidal wave. Bright banks of flowers and perfect green lawns breathed out a heavy perfume in the smoggy air. My mother walked a little ahead of Barry and pretended she didn't know him, until she finally realized that everybody was dressed like that, white shoes and green polyester.
The horses were fine-tuned machines on steel springs, shiny as metal, and the jockeys' satin shirts gleamed in the sun as they walked their mounts around the track, each horse coupled with an older, steadier partner. The horses shied at children at the rail, at flags, all nerves and heat.
'Pick a horse,' Barry told my mother.
She picked number seven, a white horse, because of her name, Medea's Pride.
The jockeys had trouble getting them into the starting gates, but when the gates opened, the horses pounded the brown of the track in a unit.
'Come on, seven,' we yelled. 'Lucky seven.' She won. My mother laughed and hugged me, hugged Barry. I'd never seen her like this, excited, laughing, she seemed so young. Barry had bet twenty dollars for her, and handed her the money, one hundred dollars.
'How about dinner?' he asked her.
Yes, I prayed. Please say yes. After all, how could she refuse him now?
She took us to dinner at the nearby Surf 'n' Turf, where Barry and I both ordered salads and steaks medium rare, baked potatoes with sour cream. My mother just had a glass of white wine. That was Ingrid Magnussen. She made up rules and suddenly they were engraved on the Rosetta Stone, they'd been brought to the surface from a cave under the Dead Sea, they were inscribed on scrolls from the T'ang Dynasty.
During the meal Barry told us of his travels in the Orient, where we had never been. The time he ordered magic mushrooms off the menu at a beachside shack in Bali and ended up wandering the turquoise shore hallucinating Paradise. His trip to the temples of Angkor Wat in the Cambodian jungle accompanied by Thai opium smugglers. His week spent in the floating brothels of Bangkok. He had forgotten me entirely, was too absorbed in hypnotizing my mother. His voice was cloves and nightingales, it took us to spice markets in the Celebes, we drifted with him on a houseboat beyond the Coral Sea. We were like cobras following a reed flute.
On the way home, she let him touch her waist as she got into the car.
BARRY ASKED us to dinner at his house, said he'd like to cook some Indonesian dishes he'd learned there. I waited until afternoon to tell her I wasn't feeling well, that she should go without me. I hungered for Barry, I thought he might be the one, someone who could feed us and hold us and make us real.
She spent an hour trying on clothes, white Indian pajamas, the blue gauze dress, the pineapples and hula girls. I'd never seen her so indecisive.
'The blue,' I said. It had a low neck and the blue was exactly the color of her eyes. No one could resist her in her blue dress.
She chose the Indian pajamas, which covered every inch of her golden skin. 'I'll be home early,' she said.
I lay on her bed after she was gone and imagined them together, their deep voices a duet in the dusk over the rijsttafel. I hadn't had any since we left Amsterdam, where we lived when I was seven; the smell of it used to permeate our neighborhood there. My mother always said we'd go to Bali. I imagined us in a house with an extravagantly peaked roof, overlooking green rice terraces and miraculously clear seas, where we’d wake to chimes and the baaing of goats.
After a while I made myself a cheese and sweet pickle sandwich and went next door to Michael's. He was halfway through a bottle of red wine from Trader Joe's — 'poverty chic' he called it, because it had a cork — and he was crying, watching a Lana Turner movie. I didn't like Lana Turner and I couldn't stand looking at the dying tomatoes, so I read Chekhov until Michael passed out, then went downstairs and swam in the pool warm as tears. I floated on my back and looked up at the stars, the Goat, the Swan, and hoped my mother was falling in love.
All that weekend, she didn't say a thing about her date with Barry, but she wrote poems and crumpled them up, threw them at the wastebasket.
IN THE ART ROOM, Kit proofread over my mother's shoulder, while I sat at my table in the corner, making a
