Hallo, Dear Readers. Ah, feedback, never enough, but sufficient to encourage me to post this chapter. Letters and words and sentences and paragraphs floating out across the bytes and cables and phone lines... Amorphous. But no matter. This story must be told: humble Dimitri, a voice that needs to be heard.

Chapter 17: The Art of Giving

Wednesday. Grace's birthday. Seventeen. She came to class with her hair partly clipped back in a simple barrette, the rest hanging down. A deep rose shirt with a scoop neck, the shell necklace delicate and shining against her pale skin. Tad was right; red did become Grace. She smiled slightly as she entered the classroom. I had her story to return and held it up, so she stopped by my desk. "Those changes look good," I said, handing it to her. I had wanted to give her something today. A flower, a card, a token of my affection, but couldn't. I indulged in a yellow sticky, stuck on the last page, wrote simply, "And happy birthday. A.D." That was okay, that was something a teacher could write. But I said it, too, as I handed her the paper. "Have a nice birthday today."

She grinned, took the story, and went to her seat. I noticed Alexa was sitting behind her, and her eyes went to the story Grace held, then to me, and suddenly I worried that Grace might leaf through it now, but told myself there was nothing to worry about. Still, to my relief, Grace put the story in her folder and pulled out her notebook.

At the end of class Alexa came up to me with a few pages. Grace started to approach the desk, but saw Alexa there, turned, and left the classroom. Alexa said, "Here's the draft you told me to write. I know it probably doesn't make any sense. But it's, like, what you told me to do."

"That's good, Alexa," I said. "I look it over tonight and give it back to you tomorrow."

*****

Thursday, finally, was the Gay/Straight Alliance meeting at my house. I had bought some new Chabichou. I hoped Grace would come first; I wanted to tell her more about Chris. She may not have needed it, but I wanted to tell her exactly what had happened between us; for me, with Grace, honesty was so important, and I didn't want any airbrushed versions of truth between us. At least in this regard.

But Tad arrived first this time, again to my surprise. "Hey, Mr. D.," he said, coming into the kitchen where I was getting food ready. He picked some slices of apple off the plate. He looked like he wanted to say something. I stopped pouring chips into a bowl and looked at him expectantly. "Can I ask you something, like, personal?"

"You can ask," I said. "I might not answer."

He grinned, then got serious. "Are you gay?"

"Why do you ask?"

"Well, I mean, why do this? And, you teach drama and English, and you have all those CDs of musicals."

"You're perpetuating stereotypes, Tad," I said. "Actually, I will answer. I'm not gay, not that it matters, but have a lot of friends and family who are, and I think this is a worthwhile way to spend the little spare time I have."

"You have family who's gay?" he asked.

"Yes. My sister."

And now he was quiet, and pensive, and for a rare moment the football façade was down, the intelligence underneath came through, and he said, quietly, after looking around. "Can I tell you something, in, like, confidence? You won't tell anyone?"

"What is it?" I asked, making no promises.

He looked around; no one else had come yet. "I think my brother's gay."

"That's why you've been coming to these meetings?"

"Yeah. He's, like, a freshman, hasn't ever said anything, but. I saw something"

"Is he into drama and English?"

Tad laughed curtly. "No, actually. Math and science. Swim team. But, I walked in on him one time with his best friend, kind of lying on top of him… I pretended I didn't see anything, but…"

"Well, it could just be experimenting – "

"That's what I tried to tell myself."

"Or, you could be right."

"That's what I really think. I mean, at first, I was kind of freaked, but we've always been, close, but, I just don't want anyone giving him a hard time. I mean,  I don't want people like me giving him shit – excuse me. Especially when I'm not going to be around to protect him."

There was a knock on the back door. Grace. I just said, "It'll be okay, Tad. He's lucky you're his brother."

"You think?"

"Yes. Especially if we can really get the Gay/Straight Alliance on firm ground."

Grace looked questioningly at us, and I shrugged slightly. The front doorbell rang, and Tad went to answer it. Soon we were back to planning, decisions argued, resolved, date set for the dance. Tad left with the group this time, pausing to say a quick thanks. Then, at last, Grace was alone with me in the kitchen.

"You and Tad seemed kind of chummy today," she said, sitting at the counter and nibbling leftover cheese.

"Better me than you," I dared, and she blushed and didn't pursue.

But there was something I wanted to talk about. "Grace," I began. "I need to tell you more about Chris."

Her shoulders tensed, but in a neutral voice she said, "Oh?"

"When… when you asked me about her, the other day…"

"… in the car?"

"Yes… I said she used to be my girlfriend, in college."

Looking down, she said quickly, "Are you still seeing her in reality?"

"Still – no! No. We are just friends. In fact, she's engaged. But, we actually, we lived together for a long time. We talked about getting married. Then we broke up about four years ago."

"Oh," she said softly.

"And, well, until she got engaged last fall, neither of us were dating anyone new, so we still, sometimes, saw each other."

"And now?"

"Just friends. Just…"

She looked up at me and said, "Thanks for telling me. And, Mr. Dimitri – I would never go out with Tad. Even if it was just to talk about Jessie."

I said, simply, "Oh."

She looked at her watch. "Speaking of whom, I should go get her now. At her mom's." She stood, and I retrieved her coat from the chair where she had left it earlier, saying nothing as I felt her slip her arms into the sleeves, resisting the urge to zip her up, resisting the urge to step closer and remove the jacket, pull her close, trace the outline of her jaw with my thumbs. I stepped back behind the safe barrier of the counter. And watched as she left.

I went to the fridge and pulled out a half-filled bottle of Shiraz, poured myself a glass. I thought of the stories Grace was writing, and of the writers I had recommended she read. Chekhov. And the perfect present came to me, although I could not call it a birthday present, would not, though it would be a gift.

That night I looked through my library. In my room I had a bookcase with a glass door that shut and locked and kept moisture out. I kept my first editions here, my special collections. In college, in addition to majoring in Creative Writing, I had majored in Comparative Literature, with Russian as the language. Chekhov had been a favorite – more manageable and succinct than the Dickensian wordiness of Tolstoy. I had a leather-bound first edition of his short stories in Russian, quite valuable, though I had found it in a used book store in Providence, stock from an estate sale. And I had a valuable – not quite as valuable – second edition of the English translation. I opened the cabinet and lifted it off the shelf. I held it. Published in 1901. Over 100 years ago. I would hold these old books and feel the ghosts of previous owners, read, perhaps, by someone who knew Chekhov personally, who saw original productions of his plays.

I looked at his stories. That trilogy, the middle story especially, that I identified with too closely. Grace did not need this. Maybe she wanted it, but she didn't need this from me. What was I thinking. Give her this book? But I wanted her to have this book, which meant something to me, from me. And these stories, Chekhov had started writing very young; he had died very young. He was barely older than I am now when TB consumed him. I reread my favorite story in this collection. I knew Grace would enjoy this and others as she read it.

I went over to my desk and got a fountain pen, because one couldn't inscribe a century-old book with a ball-point pen. I held it, knowing if I inscribed the book it would devalue the book monetarily, but it would add a value to the book for Grace.

I held the pen, thinking what to write, picturing Grace in my classroom, in my car, in my kitchen, those deep, luminous brown eyes, thinking of how she had looked that day she had come to my house, when I had covered up my feelings with papers. I wrote quickly, before I could think and consider and spoil it: "To the girl with the loneliest eyes."

There. I had written in the book, made it something permanent, defining that connection between us. But I hadn't signed it yet. I went into the kitchen, poured myself a another glass of Shiraz. Sipped it, drank it, went back. "To the girl with the loneliest eyes" Staring back at me. Not on the first flyleaf, three pages in. Would she see it? Would she notice it? Would she respond to it?

What… was I doing. The wine was old, had turned slightly, but still warmed my mind. Holding the glass was helping me… maybe not helping me in the right way. Why did I want to send a note to this girl? I was 40. She was 17. She was a junior in high school. And I… loved her. So I wrote "Love" and then, before I lost the nerve, I wrote "always," because I knew, wherever she went, whatever she became, I would love the person I was giving this to, this book, this part of me. And I couldn't follow such a closing with the formal "Mr. Dimitri" could I? Or even the more casual A.D. of that yellow sticky note I had left on her story.  We had become friends, and friends can sign "Love," and friends can sign their given name. "August," I wrote. "Love always, August," I said out loud in my empty house. I imagined, for a moment, hearing Grace say my given name, longing to hear it from her lips.

I blew on the page to help it dry so I could close the book. I would give it to her… when? There was no rush, really, and yet it felt urgent to me to do so. I felt 17 myself, as if I were sending her a note in class, hoping the teacher wouldn't catch me. Was this something to be caught? What would Chris say? Chris would say, "Gus, what are you doing?" Go away, Chris, I thought. What was I doing? What did I hope to accomplish? I just thought she needed to know someone loved her. Someone saw who she was. Me. And she would know from my inscription that I knew, and that I cared.

I went back to the kitchen, poured myself another glass, finishing the bottle. Brought it back to my room and read the English Chekhov, my Russian was rusty, stayed up till 3 in the morning and read every one of those stories in the book I was giving to Grace.

I fell asleep reading the book in bed. I had slept with the book, holding the book in my hand. Would I ever hold Grace's hand? Walking down the street? That was not something that could happen, and I knew it, and I knew I had better judgment. I put the book in my valise.

Friday. Class came and went, I didn't give it to her then. Lunch would have been good, but our time was shorter, as I met with both Russell and Lisa first.

"I did what you said," she announced. "Left my story lying around."

"And?"

"And I think it got covered up by the Sunday paper," she said.

"Oh, well."

"But actually, it's good. Because it's getting me used to the idea, and I think I want my mom to read it, and she's always the one who cleans the papers up and all."

We discussed "Voices" and "Instrument." I said, "I notice you've been exploring more with different points of view describing the same situation."

"Yeah, well, when you gave us that character sketch assignment, it made me think," she said. "I kind of like figuring out how the different characters might look at the same story, to try and understand the truth of what happened."

"Like Rashomon," I said.

"Like what?"

"Rashomon. It's a classic film by Kurosawa, based on a short story collection by this Japanese writer Ryunosuke Akutagawa."

"I never heard of it. Or him – or her," she said.

"Both hims – author and director. Rashomon's a classic! You must see it. And read the story, too, but after. It's one of my all-time favorite movies. You know – I think it's showing at that repertoire theater near Northwestern next week. We should go."

"Okay," she said.

I realized that we couldn't go, it had to be school-related somehow, and I quickly added, "I think Russell and Lisa would appreciate it as well – you're the creative writers, and Rashomon really makes you think about point of view and what is truth. I'll mention it to them. It's great to be able to see it in a movie theater, rather than on a TV screen. Especially with the subtitles."

"I've never seen a Japanese movie, other than, you know, animé."

"Rashomon is a little different from animé," I laughed. "Hang on. I think I have the theater calendar with me." I shuffled through my valise and found it. Next to the Chekhov book. "Yes, next Tuesday, at 7. I'll tell Russell and Lisa, and we can make it a field trip."

"I can let Russell and Lisa know," she volunteered. "Tuesday? I'll tell them."

I should be letting them know. But I left it to her. "Great," I said. "Then it's all set."

The bell rang as she stood to leave, and the book remained with me, waiting to be given to Grace. I brought it home, and it stayed on my bedside table until Tuesday morning.