“Mary Jane.” Izzy kissed my face all over. “Don’t cry. I love you.”
“Everyone loves Mary Jane.” Jimmy kissed my head and then he started singing, “Mary Jane, Mary Jane!”
Izzy sang with him and I started laughing. Jimmy sang as he went to the living room. He returned, still singing, with his guitar.
As Izzy and I set the table, Jimmy sat on a chair plucking at his guitar and singing. I wished so badly that we hadn’t seen Jimmy with Beanie Jones. Or that Beanie Jones had never moved to Roland Park.
Sheba came into the dining room first. She was wearing a long batik sundress with no bra, and was barefoot. She sat right beside Jimmy, watched him for a minute, and then harmonized. They sounded magical together. What if Jimmy and Sheba broke up because of Beanie Jones? What if they never sang together again? What if Sheba went nuts again and Jimmy ran off and did drugs and overdosed? Something was going to unravel and I felt like I was the person who was holding the loose string, about to pull and watch it all fall apart.
Nothing seemed unusual during dinner. If anything, Jimmy was happier and more upbeat than most nights, and Dr. Cone was more engaged. Everyone loved the pot roast and Izzy was thrilled with her centerpiece. Each time someone passed something across the table, she stood on her chair to make sure no shell from the centerpiece was disturbed.
After dessert, Jimmy pushed back his chair and said he’d clean up. Mrs. Cone stood and said she’d help him. Like Sheba, she was wearing a long sundress, but hers wasn’t batik and looked a little pilled and old. She was barefoot too. Every time someone walked across the kitchen, I said a quick thanks that no glasses or dishes had been broken and there were no unseen shards waiting for a soft, tender foot.
I pushed my chair back and looked at Izzy. “Bath time.”
“But wait.” Izzy stood on her chair. “We need a polar bear photo of my centerplace!”
“Excellent idea.” Dr. Cone went off to find the Polaroid camera as Sheba and I took dishes to the sink. Jimmy and Mrs. Cone had already started washing.
Dr. Cone returned within minutes. Izzy sat on the table near the shells and lifted her hands in a wide V. Dr. Cone clicked a picture and the flash exploded with a brilliant white light that made me see stars for a minute.
“Now everyone with my centerplace!” Izzy said.
“Another excellent idea.” Dr. Cone leaned over Izzy and kissed her head. “BONNIE!”
I was surprised Dr. Cone had shouted the way he and Mrs. Cone did at home. The dining room was open to the kitchen. We were looking right at Mrs. Cone and Jimmy, side by side at the sink, chatting and laughing.
“WHAT?” Mrs. Cone turned and looked at her husband.
“GROUP PICTURE.”
“Oh, we have to take a group photo.” Sheba was carrying the pot roast platter into the kitchen. She came back with Jimmy and Mrs. Cone.
“I’ll do it. Long arms.” Jimmy took the camera from Dr. Cone and we all gathered around behind him, Izzy’s centerpiece somewhere behind us.
“Say sober!” Jimmy pushed the button, the flash exploded again, and stars swam before me. Jimmy pulled out the photo and lay it on the table next to the one Dr. Cone had taken.
“We’ll look at them after your bath,” I said to Izzy. I could smell the gluey odor of the fixing agent Dr. Cone was applying to the Polaroids as I picked up Izzy and carried her to our bathroom.
In the tub Izzy sang the Beanie Jones song again.
“Let’s sing the rainbow song instead.” I’d taught Izzy “The Beautiful Land” from The Roar of the Greasepaint—The Smell of the Crowd soundtrack.
We started together, “Red is the color of a lot of lollipops. . . .”
When Izzy was in her pajamas, her hair combed, her skin smelling like line-dried cotton sheets, I carried her into the dining room to look at the Polaroids. The grown-ups were in the living room. The smoky eraser smell that accompanied them at night filtered into the dining room.
Izzy stared down at the photos. “We look pretty.”
“Yeah, we do.” Disaster was looming and yet we did look beautiful. Everyone was smiling. We all seemed relaxed, like we’d just fallen into place. And each body was connected to another body, closely. An unbreakable chain of love. It was the opposite of the staged family photo my mother sent out every Christmas. In Mom’s picture, our decorated tree—put up on the first of December—was in the background. My mother and I wore dresses and shoes the same color. Always red or green, with beige stockings on our legs. My father put on the same tie each year: red with a pattern of green Christmas trees. I stood a couple of inches in front of my parents, whose bodies didn’t touch. My mother placed her right hand on my left shoulder and my father placed his left hand on my right shoulder. Usually the photo was taken by our next-door neighbor, Mr. Riley. Once, on a family trip to San Francisco, we visited the Ripley’s Believe It or Not! museum at Fisherman’s Wharf. When I saw the wax people there, I thought of our Christmas photos. I’d always thought that waxy strangers-in-an-elevator look was just because no one in my family was comfortable in front of a camera. But now I wondered if it was because no one in my family was comfortable with any other person in my family.