The Complexities of Intimacy
Excerpt

THE MOTHER’S MIRROR

It is commonly known that those nearest to us, those of whom we have the most extensive, intimate knowledge, are often held at arm’s length in our minds. The saying rolls so easily off the tongue: "familiarity breeds contempt," and the idiom "to take for granted" is as familiar to us as those we do. An elaborate system inevitably-yet inadvertently-evolves whereby we offer such permissions to each other.

                Thus even as we hold our spouse’s hand, or feel with genuine concern the tepid forehead of our firstborn, we simultaneously regard the ridge of black under the former’s nails, the tiny white specks that fall to his shoulders when we smooth back his hair, and when our eyes travel furtively down, they settle on the latter’s scuffed, untied shoes, his toe beginning to emerge from the leather like an egg in the very process of hatching.

                The foot inside that shoe is not often idle as we speak to the flesh of our flesh, our firstborn son, as we speak with the intention of exchanging pleasantries, conveying affection; to elicit tenderness, or heaven forbid, solicit information. The foot taps; it jabs the ground. Our reluctant interlocutor’s replies are listless; his eyes elsewhere, anywhere but in contact with our own.

                Perhaps we keep our disappointment to ourself or perhaps we voice it, and once articulated, it is all too seductive to make a ritual of the words, as if they were beads of a rosary and we gathered by each repetition indulgences instead of alienation. As luck would have it, any replies which we receive do no more than inform of complications, superstitions, idiosyncrasies, compulsions: in short, excuses. The shoes, for example, have grown to have sentimental value; it is too unmanly to fuss with one’s cuticles; least rational of all is our husband’s insistence that excessive washing of the hair may cause it in time to thin, to recede, and eventually, to fall out. Is that what we want?

                What would be the point, in the wake of such a confrontation, in trying to address our younger daughter’s ostentatious makeup and jewelry, the revealing bodice of her dress-on those occasions when she does dress-or more usually, as today, the threadbare sites on her dungarees? From the time of her conception, we had imagined a special closeness with our daughter: the seeking of advice, the poignant offering of secrets, both joyful and anxious, the sharing of that which is distinctly feminine-at least, as we construe the word. And yet the girl is more sullen even than her brother, less forthcoming in our presence, mistrustful for no reason we can possibly surmise. And if we are so bold as to critique the company she keeps, allude to standards of behavior, or imply that certain activities might be less than edifying, her terse reply will put us in our place: what can an old-fashioned housewife know of contemporary mores, styles; advances in our culture? This is not our business, nor our metier.

                Thus, after actual or imagined encounters, all the more frustrated, we find ourself admiring obsessively the graceful countenance, the courteous demeanor of our colleagues or our supervisor-granted we refer to the part-time employment of a woman who is principally a housewife, whose image is a fixed one, in community, in family-but regardless of the context, we cannot turn away our gaze from the prominent cheekbones or delicate wrists of strangers, or cease to dwell upon the uncanny way some women’s stockings never sag below the knee-as ours inevitably do after only an hour of wear-or how some stylish men manage never to display an inch of flesh between top of sock and hem of pant. Why is that strip of flesh so bothersome to us-appearing to glow in the dark as he sits in the living room chair in our home? Why do we find ourself enraptured by the sonorous voice or elegant meaningless gestures of those we do not harbor in our homes? We are given to imagining, increasingly, how fulfilling life might be if it were he or she or they whom we greeted at table every morning, dined with every evening, perhaps by candlelight, without the television’s ubiquitous, intrusive presence; perhaps even held, in certain circumstances-when we allow ourself the thought-in our embrace; the weary sequences of habit replaced by spontaneous rather than contractual affection, replaced by-might it ever be?-incendiary fervor?

                Just take a look at yourselves, we want to cry; just for once would you listen to yourselves, to the persons of our household who seemed at one time to take more pride in their appearance, to be more refined in their behavior, more courteous, more appreciative of ourself? For recently it seems that when an individual is needed for any task, be it rising wearily to make his coffee, or driving to the pharmacy for yet another urgent errand, or cleaning out debris in the garage, it is the hand attached to our already strained shoulder which rises automatically to volunteer.

                Yet should not one who regularly offers services, who does one’s share, be given also certain compensations? Should not such persons be allowed to make, occasionally, demands? There must be some control over the degree to which we take each other for granted. How, for instance, have we spent this evening? With hardly a thought to our comfort. It may be that what others think of as necessity has been transformed in our perception into luxury; so that, for instance, we consider it less troublesome to ignore the fullness of our bladder than to interrupt her cosmetic application-an at-least-once daily ritual requiring intense concentration-or than to knock so loudly as to be heard over the sound produced by our firstborn when in his throat he does the internal acrobatics of suspending flavored liquid with the intention of freshening his breath before a visit from his girlfriend. The sound is in fact so comical to our ears, reminding us as it does of the gurgling of his early years, that it increases our urgency even as we strive to ignore the insistent pressure; we must cover our mouth with our hand lest we laugh out loud, or worse. And we may have to hold out longer still, for it is likely that he has negotiated with his sister over who precedes the other in the bathroom, and she will need to linger long before the mirror, taking to her eyes what would appear to be an instrument of torture, and with the clamped end, forcing the defenseless lashes into sculpted curl.

                Not only are our physiological functions hindered by these rituals; pragmatic matters of the house are left on hold as well. We would like to start the laundry, so his sweatshirt and her ragged dungarees will be available on demand. We would like to let the dishwasher initiate its cycle, now that we have cleared away all traces of the repast we spent the afternoon preparing. Ingeniously we have fit all the vessels into the wire racks of the appliance: the pots and pans and flatware, even the tiny plate on which we put our own supper-the full-sized dinner plate that completes the Blue Danube pattern china set was accidentally broken recently-his girlfriend is our guess, but we are not so small, so petty, as to mention it, make issue of it-and we would not want to ask any other family member to make the sacrifice of crowding food onto such a diminutive surface. Still we are tentative about pressing the oval silver button that starts the cycle, lest we alter the consistency of our husband’s bath-known to last over an hour-or perhaps the children’s showers are now in progress: those pre-trysting rituals during which the steam rises and disseminates to fog not only the bathroom mirror, but all the windows of the house, as if our family resided in the humidity of the tropics rather than the temperate climate of a Northeastern suburb of the United States.

                How much is it to ask that we use the facilities; who but ourself would hesitate? Certainly not our firstborn, who, when a toddler, never did so before barging in on our privacy. (This too, so long ago, may have contributed to the shaky condition of our bladder.) We should not ask at all; we should announce, by fiat, our intention. The door is unlikely to be locked. No one would be aghast, for there is not a prima donna in the house: such are the permissions of domestic familiarity. Nor are we or any member of the family inclined to give excessive priority to propriety in this house, where the men are likely to come to dinner in their undershorts, and our daughter to wear as street clothes what most women would deem inappropriate for private lounging.

                Why is it then, that when we form a fist before the door we cannot bring ourself to make contact in such crude fashion? It seems intrusive, so that at the last moment we resort to stealth; for if the door is unlocked, then knocking is not a functional prerequisite to entry, and we need not disturb whomever now occupies the bathroom; we only need perform one humble function, after all. If a shower is in progress-as the sounds we hear would now indicate-the curtain might preserve discretion. (We have heard that in fancy European hotels, bath and bidet are altogether separate spheres of activity.) Yes, clearly an outburst is unnecessary; obtaining the far more modest objective should be our focus-so intent a focus, in fact, by this point, that we cannot waste a moment in knocking, or for that matter looking at what lies before us as we make our way, purposefully, through the steam, to lower the toilet seat-always raised, it seems-to sit in mingled pain and relief of micturition-damn, blood again ( we did not mean to swear out loud)-this is the consequence of trying to train one’s bladder; our organs are not circus animals, after all; we should not wait so long; we are ridiculous; our dubious heroism is destructive; will we ever learn?

                In our vexation, and then resignation, we raise our eyes to see, in the corner, our husband, his back to us. He makes rapid movements with his hand, his elbow pumping up and down: gestures which, when he turns his head to see who has sworn, turn furtive; but when he continues, too intent on his objective to cease, he cannot stifle his expression of catharsis: an ecstatic sound we can barely recall from his mouth as his own momentarily vertical stream finds more joyful release.

                We applaud; we blow him a kiss, surprising him. (Never were we one to resent the good fortune of others, no matter the contrast with our own circumstance.) He is unsure of how to react; he had not expected an audience, particularly not our approval, is suspicious of it, we would guess. And then we see, through the admittedly obnubilating mist, that all of them are present: in our company, in the bathroom-though removed, at the same time, preoccupied. Their distance, however, has a different quality than usual. Through the semitransparent curtain we see the most curious silhouettes: flawless, agile bodies, as if in choreographed ensemble, seen through scrim: dramatic, seductive, mesmerizing. The vision seems to have one hundred arms, like the Indian goddess, so swift and graceful are their movements. How much we wish to peel away the membrane separating beauty from beholder.

                And is there obstacle? No greater than there was to opening the door. Although our mission is, as it were, accomplished, we are transfixed; we cannot make ourself depart. Gently, stealthily, we draw back the curtain. They will not be distracted by its whisper, so engaged are they in their activities, which, when unsheathed, seem both ordinary and exalted. Has the mist begun to dissipate, or have our eyes begun to adjust? It would seem some seal was broken when we first opened the door.

                Uninterrupted, and un-self-conscious in their nakedness, the group of them are painting on the tiles, in flamboyant brushstrokes, what appears to be a mural; the scene seems tropical, lush, idyllic. It seems, in fact, to expand before our eyes. A small child we have never seen before completes the party, molding a tower of the waterlogged remains of the transparent bar in the soap dish: quite an impressive edifice; his eyes wide before his own accomplishment. Our daughter’s leg, meanwhile, is raised as if in pirouette, as he, the one for whom she spent the evening "dressing," glides a manual razor tenderly, deftly, up her calf, making, eventually, a circle around her leg, while she attempts to do the same procedure to his face and upper lip. Given the awkwardness of synchronizing his head down, her hand above, they take, eventually, to lying down, reclining the length of their bodies in the bath, despite the waterfall that rains down upon them all the while, in order to make the mutual gesture. Then, when the flesh of face and calf are silken-smooth, each, facing the other, dangles one foot out of the tub, while taking clippers to each toenail in sequence. There is not a nick for all the contact with sharp instruments, not a drop of blood.

                The unfamiliar child has completed his slippery castle and embraces it to slide down, finding the slender clippings piled on the side of the tub; he marvels at them as if they were luminous seashells at the beach; perhaps he contemplates including them in his composition as a decorative addition. Instead, he blows into a plastic flute, making surprisingly articulate tones. Is that our eldest son behind him, building a boat, with more alacrity than we have ever witnessed him exhibit? And more skill. In less than a minute, it seems, he has crafted the bow, the stern, the ship entire; then down the drain he sails, a disappearing act; even the others are momentarily distracted from their independent activities to gape, as when a woman is sawed in half by a magician. No sooner has he submerged than he resurfaces, only to repeat the cycle over and over, the others applauding at each completion of his round trip.

                Our husband, meanwhile, who initially drew our eye, having completed his goal, is celebrating with acrobatic maneuvers of even greater magnitude: swinging from the curtain rod-hopefully sturdy enough-with the dexterity of a professional; movements of which we never knew him capable. After he has warmed up with a series of chin-ups-the bar, too, seems to have a resilience beyond the ordinary-he does more intricate balletic maneuvers, employing his hands as if they were feet; his feet as if hands. We cannot, again, restrain ourself from applauding, and he seems less self-conscious, less ambivalent, in this mode than before.

                But lest we embarrass or intimidate or compromise him with our gaze, we let our eyes wander to the other members of the troupe. Our daughter’s boyfriend is now vigorously lathering her hair. How attractive she is without makeup. If only the world could glimpse her freshness: to see the sweet serenity behind the harsher mask. By the same token, our son, for the first time since adolescence, appears not to be slouching.

                We have fallen into paradise through the most mundane of circumstances. How lovely to think of the effortless transformations! We cannot wait to view our own, which surely, by osmosis, must occur. With a facecloth from the linen closet we wipe the mirror of steam, quickly, before it has a chance to form again. We will smile at the image of ourself, with lips like those we see on these exalted faces, lips resembling ripest summer fruit. How wondrous is the world and its discoveries!

                But the mouth that looks back at us from the defogged reflective surface is, on the contrary, brittle, and the nostrils above, thin and severe. We whimper to see the wrinkles, even more numerous than we had imagined, the deeply furrowed brow, and the puffiness of the lids that can only partially mask the icy candor of our once quite striking blue eyes.