Havik: Inside Brilliance

month-to-month tenant. A constant awareness
of Isoletta’s presence weighs me down.
I know her exact location at every moment.
She carries her Rioja out the back door and
stands on the deck, sipping and surveying
our hibernating weed garden. She returns in
under five minutes. She goes into the guest
bathroom, causing me to worry whether it’s
clean enough. I recall the moment when, as
I moved my stuff into the upstairs bathroom
drawers, I came across her forgotten jar of
facial “serum” made from mink oil, with a
$175 price tag still stuck to the bottom. It
was tempting, but I threw it out.
I try to ignore her but can’t.
At one point, I spy her standing next to
Lou. They make a handsome couple, both
tall and effortlessly stylish. I’m shorter than
them, closer to the ground, more detail-oriented.
They stand not face-to-face but sideby-side.
He hands her something. What is it?
It’s the snow-globe, a custom-made ball of
crystal containing an image of a child-sized
snowperson and an adult-sized snowperson,
representing Kate and Lou. Lou had it made
for Kate during our trip to Oslo to see the
fossilized Viking ships. Kate gave it to me
last Mothers’ Day, a gesture I understood to
mean that she sees the two snowpeople as
herself and me. This chokes me up whenever
I think of it. Now Isoletta receives it
with both hands, gazes down, then gently
shakes it to make the snow fall. I watch from
the other side of the room, hoping no one
watches me watching her. She tilts her face
up. Lou inclines his head toward hers. They
talk. She smiles. Is he giving it to her? No.
He puts his hand out to receive the globe
back from her. She pauses, then returns it.
Their hands touch unnecessarily.
As I pass, I overhear Isoletta say “… it’s
the typical freshman fifteen…” and feel momentary
outrage on Kate’s behalf. Cafeteria
food. She’s a bit rounder. So what?
I walk around the room, re-filling
glasses and collecting plates, trying to enjoy
the good fortune that has brought me this
life, these people. Kate, central to this
tableau, cut her hair while away at college
so that it looks a lot like mine, short and
low-maintenance, which is not exactly a
wise choice. For a moment, I feel a surge
of fierce love for this child who spent her
middle and high school years in our house,
the house I share with Lou. But the next
moment, passing plates of marquesitas for
dessert, which the slender Isoletta refuses,
I feel apart from the gathering, someone
whose job it is to carry away dirty dishes,
and make sure everyone else is warm and
fed and content.
Do I resent her? Not exactly, I realize,
as I move through the living room, discharging
my hostess duties. It’s Lou who disappoints
me. Is he treating me like a waitress,
or have I willingly assumed this role? I want
him to stand next to me, slip an arm around
my waist, look proud of me— I know I’m not
trophy material. Would such a small gesture
assuage my ugly jealousy? Maybe I should
prompt him.
I walk over to where he sits on the sofa
engaged in animated conversation with Isoletta
and the couple from next door, people
who have presumably seen it all, from their
close vantage point. “Dear,” I say, “how
about giving me a hand with the coffee?”
“Sure, Sam, I’ll be right there,” he
says, but he doesn’t follow me as I retreat to
the kitchen.
I am wearing my forest green sweater.
It’s my best color. I try to recall exactly
15
how long it’s been since we had sex. More
than a week. Two weeks? I return to the living
room carrying a tray of cups and a carafe
of coffee. I catch Lou’s eye and try to communicate
with him nonverbally, but there’s
no universal gesture for “hey you, walk away
from that other woman and come over here
and help me.” I approach him again. He’s
still seated, still yucking it up with Isoletta
and the next-door neighbors.
“Could you please take this around for
me, Lou?” I ask, interrupting him.
“Yeah, yeah,” he says, his hands in mid-air
as he gestures to illustrate some point in the
story he’s telling. “Just a minute.” He turns
back to his audience. “And then she goes,
‘Well Dad, what’s the point of traveling the
world if you’re afraid of a little raw conch
salad?’” They all laugh. I stand waiting. No
one looks at me. I set the tray on the coffee
table and withdraw again, irritation morphing
to actual anger. I think maybe it shows.
I’m okay with that.
In the kitchen, I stand by the sink, my
back to the door that leads to the dining
room.
“What’s with you?” Lou says, as he enters
and comes to stand next to me at the sink.
“What do you think?”
“I have no earthly idea,” he says.
“Put yourself in my place,” I say. “How
would you feel if I invited an old lover here
to our home and you had to wait on him
while we flirted on the sofa?”
“Seriously? You’re jealous? That’s ridiculous,
Sam.” He gives his head a small shake.
“You’re over-reacting. We’re not flirting. Get
over it.”
“I can’t,” I say.
“I can’t believe you’re doing this. I’m going
back to our guests.” He swivels, his back