Read Online Tales of a Female Nomad by Rita Golden Gelman - Free Book Online
Authors: Rita Golden Gelman
Tags: Fiction
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cold and empty. And it is screaming at me: I’m not yours anymore.
Actually, it never was. I feel nothing for this place, this building. I never did make it “mine.” Nine years ago we moved to L.A. from Manhattan, a family of four (Mitch was fourteen and Jan was thirteen) and a dog. Most of our New York furniture was threadbare, so we brought only a few pieces.
We bought the house and all its garish furniture from the previous owners, who needed money in a hurry. I was thrilled that with no effort or shopping on my part, the rooms were filled. There were, and still are, “smoky” gold-spattered mirrors; a white-and-gold fake French bedroom set; a hideous carpet in the family room with an orange, red, yellow, and green print; velvet curtains; a white furry love seat; and more. None of it my taste. I figured we’d decorate when we had the time and money, but we never got around to it. Decorating has never been my thing. As long as lamps light, couches sit, and beds sleep, I’m happy.
So when I walk into the house that has been my family’s for nine years, it does not cuddle me. I feel only emptiness, abandonment, alienation.
My husband arrives a few hours later and announces that he has decided to end the marriage. He has already talked to a lawyer.
I have been preparing for this moment for four months, but I cannot stop the tears. The Pollyanna part of me that believes anything can be fixed if you really want to fix it is devastated; the tears are for the fact that I’m not even going to have a chance to try . . . and for the lost dreams of a young couple in love.
But the realistic part of me knows that I cannot continue to live as we were. In the last months I have been a woman who has felt joy, shared laughter, explored other worlds, and rediscovered a hidden me. I will not, cannot, bury her again. I too hire a lawyer.
I do not want alimony; I have always had an aversion to dependency in either direction. And I do not want
things,
not even the things that are mine, like books and paintings and records and clothes. I have always dreamed of owning nothing but the stuff I could carry on my back. Now that I am answering only to myself, I can make that happen. I shed my skin in Mexico; now I am shedding the material trappings of my life.
My husband and I work out a dollar figure for our joint possessions. When we are finished, I do not own a book, a towel, a chair, or a spoon.
Fortunately, I do have a source of income. As a writer of children’s books, I know I can sell most of what I write. But it’s not reliable income, and it isn’t that much; not enough to support myself in the U.S. If I stay here, I will have to get an apartment and a regular job in order to survive.
I don’t want an apartment, and I have even less interest in a job. What I want is to do more of what I was doing in Mexico: discover the world and interact with the people in it.
I can write fiction for kids wherever I am and send the manuscripts to my agent in New York. If I live in developing countries, I don’t have to make very much money.
I sit down with some loose figures. Let’s say my expenses are $10 a day for food and lodging; that’s $3,650 a year. Double it for plane fares and entertainment and miscellaneous expenses: $7,300. Then double it again for health insurance (around $3,000 a year through the writers’ union) and luxuries and amenities like a bookkeeper and gifts and taxes: $14,600. Not very scientific, but it’ll do. If I stay in developing countries, I can live nicely on $15,000 a year!
Very
nicely.
Happily, three of my books—
More
Spaghetti, I Say!, Why Can’t I Fly?
and
The Biggest Sandwich Ever
—are doing well. My annual royalties from them and other already written books will probably be around $12,000. One new book a year will bring in at least $3,000 more. I should be in great shape.
For the five months it takes us to do the legal stuff, I feel like a lost child. I live in the tiny (eight-foot by
Actually, it never was. I feel nothing for this place, this building. I never did make it “mine.” Nine years ago we moved to L.A. from Manhattan, a family of four (Mitch was fourteen and Jan was thirteen) and a dog. Most of our New York furniture was threadbare, so we brought only a few pieces.
We bought the house and all its garish furniture from the previous owners, who needed money in a hurry. I was thrilled that with no effort or shopping on my part, the rooms were filled. There were, and still are, “smoky” gold-spattered mirrors; a white-and-gold fake French bedroom set; a hideous carpet in the family room with an orange, red, yellow, and green print; velvet curtains; a white furry love seat; and more. None of it my taste. I figured we’d decorate when we had the time and money, but we never got around to it. Decorating has never been my thing. As long as lamps light, couches sit, and beds sleep, I’m happy.
So when I walk into the house that has been my family’s for nine years, it does not cuddle me. I feel only emptiness, abandonment, alienation.
My husband arrives a few hours later and announces that he has decided to end the marriage. He has already talked to a lawyer.
I have been preparing for this moment for four months, but I cannot stop the tears. The Pollyanna part of me that believes anything can be fixed if you really want to fix it is devastated; the tears are for the fact that I’m not even going to have a chance to try . . . and for the lost dreams of a young couple in love.
But the realistic part of me knows that I cannot continue to live as we were. In the last months I have been a woman who has felt joy, shared laughter, explored other worlds, and rediscovered a hidden me. I will not, cannot, bury her again. I too hire a lawyer.
I do not want alimony; I have always had an aversion to dependency in either direction. And I do not want
things,
not even the things that are mine, like books and paintings and records and clothes. I have always dreamed of owning nothing but the stuff I could carry on my back. Now that I am answering only to myself, I can make that happen. I shed my skin in Mexico; now I am shedding the material trappings of my life.
My husband and I work out a dollar figure for our joint possessions. When we are finished, I do not own a book, a towel, a chair, or a spoon.
Fortunately, I do have a source of income. As a writer of children’s books, I know I can sell most of what I write. But it’s not reliable income, and it isn’t that much; not enough to support myself in the U.S. If I stay here, I will have to get an apartment and a regular job in order to survive.
I don’t want an apartment, and I have even less interest in a job. What I want is to do more of what I was doing in Mexico: discover the world and interact with the people in it.
I can write fiction for kids wherever I am and send the manuscripts to my agent in New York. If I live in developing countries, I don’t have to make very much money.
I sit down with some loose figures. Let’s say my expenses are $10 a day for food and lodging; that’s $3,650 a year. Double it for plane fares and entertainment and miscellaneous expenses: $7,300. Then double it again for health insurance (around $3,000 a year through the writers’ union) and luxuries and amenities like a bookkeeper and gifts and taxes: $14,600. Not very scientific, but it’ll do. If I stay in developing countries, I can live nicely on $15,000 a year!
Very
nicely.
Happily, three of my books—
More
Spaghetti, I Say!, Why Can’t I Fly?
and
The Biggest Sandwich Ever
—are doing well. My annual royalties from them and other already written books will probably be around $12,000. One new book a year will bring in at least $3,000 more. I should be in great shape.
For the five months it takes us to do the legal stuff, I feel like a lost child. I live in the tiny (eight-foot by
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