ARCANALOGUE: empress

This is the twelfth installment in a series of short essays inspired by the 22 Trump cards, featuring original artwork by Greg Erskine (Click and scroll down for large version).

When I decided to move to New York City, my parents were as supportive as they knew how to be. “If something bad happens, or if it’s just not working out, or if you need anything,” my mom said, “Just call… and we’ll buy you a ticket home.” Aside from this one-way offer, I’d have to sink or swim on my own, which I figured was only fair. So I proceeded to do both those things, sinking a little here, swimming a little there, and floating when I got tired -- which was often, because I couldn’t afford to eat much of anything.

Right away I landed an unpaid internship at a small publishing house. To my eyes this was a career-defining opportunity, a chance to make up for the vast waste of my old life. Who cared if it meant I couldn’t get a real full-time job anywhere else? This internship promised better things down the road, I told myself, which were more important than food. As long as I could scratch up enough to pay for my daily grapefruit and Cup-O-Noodles, I was set.

Then winter came, and hunger didn’t seem interesting or sexy to me anymore. It became a real drag, actually. My left eye began to twitch and flutter all the time, as did my left ventricle. I felt myself zombie-walking through my magical internship, trying to appear industrious when actually I was hoarding energy, trying to look like I was reading manuscripts when I was actually snoozing like a housecat. If it wasn’t for the illimitable fresh berries and mini-quiches of our catered publicity events, I probably wouldn’t have even made it till January. But even so, I woke up one morning with a definite sense that I’d reached the end. Rent was due, I was a hundred dollars short, and I had nothing to eat for breakfast. It was eleven degrees outside. Dragging myself to the office that morning, I knew what must be done.

Dear Mom, I typed. I hoped it wouldn’t come to this, but…

I was about halfway through the email when my boss pulled me aside. It just figured, I thought. Getting fired from a job that paid zero dollars an hour was the just the sort of final indignity I had coming to me.

Ted waited to speak until I’d closed his office door behind me. “How are you with kids?” he asked. Was I hearing right? He and his wife, he continued, had a four year old girl and eighteen-month-old boy. They were looking for a new babysitter. They were willing to pay ten dollars an hour. Did I have any experience with children? “Oh loads,” I said, lying through my teeth with starvation-flavored enthusiasm, “I come from a really big family, there were always babies around. I’ve been babysitting all my life, actually!”

I was prepared to claim wet-nurse experience if it meant I could stay in the city for just a few more months. And it wasn’t a monstrous lie. I had done my share of reluctant babysitting in high school; surely I could just call my mom if I had any questions. This, I decided, would be my gift to the rich, spoiled publishing heirs and heiresses of Manhattan. I would be just their Mary Poppins, with additional nose-ring and whisker stubble.

The job began immediately, as in that day. Ted’s wife, Iris, welcomed me into their sprawling brownstone. Immediately, my heart began to ache for her; she was clearly a sensitive and intelligent woman, but her naked gratitude for even five minutes of adult companionship made me wary. It also made me wonder how late Ted came home at night.

The children were cute, at least. The baby boy, Cal, was one of those radiantly sweet children with wise eyes who never cried more than absolutely necessary. His big sister was a fey beauty (by pre-school standards, anyway) and also quite a little storm-cloud. The first time Iris left us alone to play together, Alice set the tone for all our future days and nights together.“I am not your friend,” she said, looking up from her coloring book to punctuate the warning with meaningful eye contact. “Not yet perhaps,” I replied cheerfully, “But over time I hope we’ll grow to be quite good friends.” She just stared at me for a moment and then gently shook her head as if I was the thickest person she’d ever met.

And just like that, my ass was saved. I couldn’t believe my good fortune -- nor could I believe how trusting this family was. What kind of parents would relegate their children to a starving intern who’d lived in the city for less than six months? Ted had never so much as checked my references nor even seen my ID, yet here I was, in charge of keeping his baby from falling down the stairs. I was determined not to abuse that trust -- but I still couldn’t resist helping myself to a share of whatever food was prepared for the kids. A handful of Cheerios when Iris had her back turned, a jelly sandwich the second she left the house, a piece of chicken, endive from the Park Slope co-op -- anything left lying around was devoured. These people were rich by any definition I was familiar with, and they didn’t seem to notice or care how much they spent on food. Whenever I took Cal out in the stroller, Iris would hand me between five and ten dollars to buy him a snack, pointing me toward a nearby bistro. “He especially loves their stewed greens,” she told me. She never once asked for the change. Since he usually slept soundly through our entire outing, I ate for two. I didn’t see any harm in it, and besides: the greens were excellent. That baby had great taste.

The more time I spent around Iris, the worse I felt for her. I got the impression that she felt a bit out to sea, spending her late thirties chasing after two kids all day and night while Ted enjoyed quiet, civil days at the office, surrounded by the kind of New York aesthetes who spontaneously start speaking French over dinner in SoHo -- people whom until recently had been her contemporaries as well. Iris adored her children, but she was bitterly self-conscious about the changes motherhood had wrought on her body, her marriage, her entire identity. The few stolen hours she got to spend reading and writing poetry or swimming laps at the Y only enhanced her awareness of her isolation.

As months passed, she grew increasingly fragile and restless. She wanted to begin living her life again, she explained to me, but she couldn’t seem to remember where she’d left it. Once, at her request, I read her Tarot cards. I did so with much trepidation; I wanted to help her a little if I could, but I was already out of my league as a babysitter, I didn’t need to add impersonating a therapist to my list of crimes. Besides, I was afraid of her desperation, afraid of being relied on for more support than I wanted to give. And in my own hungry little heart I was quick to remind myself of the financial risk I’d be taking if I gave in and started feeding her the honest advice and support she craved. This job was the only thing keeping my head above water; if I wasn’t careful, I could wind up talking myself right off a ledge, with only a free ticket back to Arizona left to cling to.

I tried to avoid becoming a part of their family, but in the end, there I was: a queer sort of relation who came and went at odd hours, tending and eating and festering alongside the others for as many as thirty hours a week. As the gulf between her parents grew wider, moody little Alice had no choice but to accept my affection and entertainment. As grateful as I was for the concession, as happy as it made me to read to her or play the funny/scary monster in her games of make-believe, I could tell she resented having to outsource the work. The baby, of course, loved all of us with perfect angelic equanimity, regardless of whether anyone stayed out all night, or cried on the phone for hours, or broke dinner plans yet again. I hoped whatever was happening between Ted and Iris would sort itself out before Cal was old enough to be damaged by it. In the meantime I took more pride in helping him learn to walk and talk than in literally anything I'd ever done on my own. The children got to me in a way Iris had never been able to, slowly eroding my mercenary edge. The end of my year-long internship should have been a perfect opportunity to break away and pursue that real job I’d been pining for; instead, I began taking care of the kids full time.

As a result, the revelation of Ted’s affair wound up having more impact on my life than either of us would have liked. It was awkward: the woman was my age, and I knew her from the office -- we’d been interns together. Iris was the one who broke the news, which she presented to me as a triumph. Hadn’t she always known something was up? Not only did the discovery of this younger, slimmer, more confident woman confirm everything she suspected about Ted, it sprayed gasoline onto the suspicions she had about herself -- that she had been swallowed up by her own obsolescence, her loss of purpose, the age creeping over her soft body.

They would need me more than ever, she told me, to help get through this awful time. She wanted to leave him; naturally, Ted wanted her to stay and just sort of deal with it. “He says he loves us both, and wants to be with us both,” she complained tearfully, “Do you think that’s even possible?” I was so used to telling her whatever I figured would cause the least harm, I discovered that I no longer had any real feelings or opinions worth sharing. If I felt nothing, then I had nothing to hide.

She began losing weight, first industriously and then obsessively. She left her journals (she kept several) all over the house, no doubt planted for Ted so he could read all about the agony he was putting her through. Knowing he would never bother, I read them all. I analyzed each dog-eared page, scanning for signs and portents of the future -- mine as well as hers. What could I do to help? I am not her friend, I tried to remind myself. But if that was the case, why did I bother, why did I return day after day? Why delicately peel up the dried pool of indigo paint from their exquisite hardwood floors, why scoop the cats’ shit out of the bathtub or the rotten food out of the kitchen sink, why scrub marker scrawls off of the walls? Why try to erase the signs of depression and decay creeping in from all sides -- because it was my job?

The children and I clung to each other during this time. We had many late nights together. “When’s MOMMY coming home?” Alice would demand, enduring as the promised nine o’clock hour came and went, followed by ten, then eleven. “Soon,” I’d say, no longer sure which parent would return at this point, let alone when. At the sound of the key in the lock, both Alice and her brother would burst into spontaneous cranky tears of impatience and relief. Or worse, they’d both be fast asleep across my lap with the TV light shining on their sweaty foreheads, having long ago succumbed to the realization that all grownups are liars, that no one was never coming home.

One evening mommy came home early. Alice was still upstairs playing with the neighbors, so I had a few minutes to talk with Iris over the baby’s head as he built the longest toy railroad track in the history of the world. She barely looked like herself anymore -- her hair was freshly chopped off short, and she’d slimmed down to the point of looking frantic and angular. She even sounded different, more intense. I made a mental note to see what prescriptions she was taking. “Ted says I’ve got to get a job,” she said acidly. The idea of entering the work force at her age, after six years of full-time mothering, had stoked her fear and anger. She couldn’t stop thinking about that bitch, how she was now practically running things over at Ted’s office. “I’ve never been that kind of person,” Iris lamented, “That type-A personality who can just show up and take charge.”

At least I could relate to her there. “You know what? Me neither,” I chimed in, momentarily letting down my guard. “She started working there around the same time I did, but it seemed like she already knew how to do everything,” I explained how lost and inadequate I’d felt having to learn from the ground up, while competing against people like that bitch who seemed to have everything figured out. I was a bit surprised to find myself talking to Iris so freely. Bonding, even! I guess I should have known better.

“Oh right, because she’s so great, right?” she sputtered, cutting me off mid-sentence. “She’s perfect, she can do anything, but I can’t! That’s what you’re saying, right?” I stared at her, surprised into silence. “Well, thanks a lot. Maybe you’d better go.” She got up and whirled out of the room. I was cut to the quick. What was I supposed to have said? Then there was a sudden crash in the guest bedroom, and the sound of glass breaking.

“Iris? Are you okay?”

“Keep Cal in the living room,” her quavering voice floated to me through the door, as if she was somewhere very far away. “I… um, I think I’m going to take this place apart.” What? There was another crash, louder, larger. The baby began to cry; I gathered him up in my arms. I listened as she tipped the heavy glass-doored bureau in the TV room onto its face. The floor shook.

I hid Cal’s face as Iris emerged and stampeded down the long hallway, toppling the furniture and tearing framed pictures off the walls, destroying everything she could reach. Shattered glass was strewn behind her in a glittering warpath. I followed delicately behind, listening to her grunt and cry as she demolished her own bedroom. I didn’t see any blood -- it was a miracle she hadn't been cut. Having run out of things to break, Iris lunged toward the window and threw it open with all her strength, leaning out over the alleyway and screaming her lungs out at the night sky. At the sound of it the baby began to shriek and convulse in my arms, as if in physical torment.

That was my limit. Seizing her by the hand, I yanked Iris back from the windowsill and marched her back down the hall and depositing her body on the couch. She was already deflating, as if all the energy had drained out of her with that awful scream. I thrust Cal at her. “You scared your son,” I hissed at her. “Take care of him! Alice will be home any minute and there’s glass all over.” In a trance, she accepted the child. Mother and son panted together quietly.

Where to even begin? The glass was absolutely everywhere -- had been pulverized in places, the dust sparkling in the cracks between floorboards. Holding back tears, I moved from room to room alternating between bare hands and dust pan, scanning and scraping, determined to sweep up every speck and make the house safe for children again. I righted the bureau and replaced all its contents, keeping an ear cocked in Iris’s direction in case she acted up again. I double- and triple-checked every surface with my bare hand -- better to have to tweeze the slivers out of my own flesh than from Alice’s or Cal’s. But this was the final threshold of my responsibility; I swore to myself I would leave this house and never return. Nothing was worth this.

I was just dragging a huge cardboard box full of wreckage out into the stairwell when Alice returned from her play-date. “I ate dinner upstairs,” she said cheerfully. Maybe the neighbors had overheard the demolition going on below and decided to keep her until things had quieted down. I swung her up onto my back so she wouldn’t see the tears in my eyes.

Within minutes I was gone; I left Iris sitting on the couch with a child on each knee. The woman looked pale and distracted, nodding and smiling unconvincingly as she listened to stories about Alice’s schoolday; one of her hands tapped and scratched against the coffee table absently, as if still intent on pulling something into pieces. I was afraid to leave, but I couldn’t bring myself to stay for even one more minute, or even to speak. “Goodbye!” she called after me as I shut the door. I didn’t reply, didn’t turn around.

On my way to the train I dialed a number I’d jotted down on my way out the door -- a friend of Iris’s who took her out to lunch sometimes. “This is Tom the babysitter,” I told her. “Iris is in really bad shape. In about five minutes you need to call her, and you need to stay on the phone with her until you can tell she’s okay.” I hung up and went underground before she could ask any questions. Never again, I consoled myself. My commitment to this family was severed. Never again.

When I returned the following week, we both acted as if nothing had happened. On her way out, Iris left five dollars on the counter so we could get ice cream.

Previously On Arcanalogue: The Empress

I ought to have covered this sooner, but Black Phoenix Alchemy Lab happened to release their "Ode To Aphrodite" collection of perfumes just as I began my break after completing this site's first full cycle of cards, and it's taken me a while to play catch-up. Fortunately this series, inspired by vintage nude postcard photography, is still available until March 13th, 2009. Each pose's exotic sensuality has been translated into the poetic language of fragrance; the lovely Psithyristes, for example, evokes lily of the valley, tea rose, orris, ambergris, and plumeria. And you won't have to jump through any hoops to catch Khrysee's scent of vanilla amber and orange blossom.

Like the voluptuous fauna of my previous Empress card, these beauties seem to occupy some sort of secret enclosed garden, but are far from what you'd call cloistered. As nude models, they're perfectly aware of the desires and enticements offered by the male of their species. In fact, just like last time, there's even a man present among their number, : the pensive Glukuprikos, enjoying the view through a mist of ambergris and oakmoss and offering the necessary counterbalance of yang energy amongst all that mysterious yin.

The dame on their introduction page struck me as the ideal visual representation of The Empress; she grasps the earth tenderly, but she is clearly not of the earth. She radiates sexuality, although her nudity is veiled in simple lace shawls and the only jewelry she's wearing is a single strand of pearls. However regal her pose, these homespun touches make her almost familiar -- she occupies an outpost somewhere between fantasy and reality, a true daughter of heaven and earth.

Whether the other gals behind her are mere dryads or Empresses in their own right, each postcard has elements that hearken back to the Tarot. I could lay out the Empress cards from miscellaneous decks and create the same parade of tempting flesh, redolent and generous for all eternity. The sense of comfort, immediacy, and pleasure that this card offers (or urges you to offer to others) is something that can't be faked or forced; it has to unfold naturally. However, if you need a little inspiration to get things moving, I happen to know where you can buy a bottle (if you miss the window of opportunity to order from "Ode to Aphrodite," you'll find that BPAL's site has no shortage of other gardens for you to wander through).

Just as many notes make a fragrance (or a chord, for that matter), the world's generosity, fertility, and hospitality combine to make the fair face of humanity to which we all aspire, regardless of gender. Smell, as they say, is the sense that is most connected to memory, and the craft that goes into constructing a harmoniously blended perfume requires attention to the most subtle details; wearing and enjoying one requires no such effort, though upon closer scrutiny, there is always more to discover than you thought possible.