17…Passing In The Night…
Back at Bea's, there are newcomers. Lots of them; this is turning into a full-fledged dance party. There are several more friends of the twins, it would seem, college-age kids, grouped around the food and drinks. And some others from our building, mostly older, in their forties and fifties. I greet the ones I know, starting with Mr. Pantano and his teenage son, Mason, who, live below Bea. They tell me they were coming in from a sushi dinner out and got caught up in the elevator with some of the newly arriving college kids. They have long-since sworn that they cannot hear Bea's sound system from their apartment, but I have a hard time believing that, especially when there are so many people here and it is so damn loud. But then again, we can't hear it when our door's shut and we're right next to Bea's. They ask after Henry and I say he is "away," at the moment. This is not unusual for him, so they accept it without further question. I mingle on, waving to others I know. Adam sticks by my side. Pat is dancing with another lady from his floor. This large space is getting almost crowded. I decide to check on the appetizers in the oven since Bea is more than occupied and because this crowd is almost becoming too much for me. Adam follows me and we chat easily for a few minutes in the relative quiet of the kitchen as I bustle around, pulling out more plates from the cabinet.
"So, can I ask you something?"
"Of course," I pull out one of the baking sheets.
"Um…Is that intense guy your boyfriend?"
What? I lean down to pull out the next one, taking my time, almost hiding my face in the oven, the heat from it blasting me.
I don't need to ask which guy he means.
"No, he's Emory's boyfriend's friend is all. I just met him a few days ago. Why?" Oh, I wish I hadn't tagged that question on to the end.
"Well, I was just…um, wondering…because…um…he seems to kind of follow you around…and…I saw his face when he was watching you dance…and…uh, I…uh…wanted to see if…uh…I could…" He spits the rest out in a rush. "I-could-ask-you-out-would-you-go-out-with-me-some time-maybe?"
Oh Dios mio, that's unexpected. By rote, I start to say that my class load is too demanding and I don't have the time, before it hits me that that isn't true any longer. I look up with my mouth hanging open and he is blushing so hard, not meeting my eyes. I feel for him as that, too, seems to be my near-constant state lately. But that isn't really what makes me decide to say yes. It's that from my peripheral vision, I see Leif has stalked into the kitchen behind Adam—a repeat of last time except that he stays by the door—and is glaring at us. I pretend not to see him again.
"Yes." I don't think I am actually answering Adam's question, but a different, unasked one. "Sure, I'll go out with you sometime."
He lets out a breath slowly, relief clear on his face. "Great! I'll get your number before the end of the night," he sighs with both relief and a huge smile as Leif stalks back out of the kitchen. We take the appetizers and more beer out. All I can really think is…Leif follows me around? I add that to, He's all enamored of some girl he met… Cindy, I think her name was?… I saw his face when he was watching you dance? I'm not sure exactly what to make of it all, but putting those thoughts together is kind of…kind of…exciting.
Em, her face flushed and smiling, is whirling around with Mason to a classic old song. James is dancing with Heid. I don't see Leif immediately, but when the dancing couples part for a moment, there he is on the dance floor with a pretty dark haired girl I don't know—probably one of the twins' friends. Adam at my side, I busy myself arranging the plates and beer on the food table, not sure why my stomach is in a knot.
As the current song starts a long instrumental fade, and the dancing couples slow, then stop, some breaking apart—including Leif and that stupid pretty girl—Bea's voice comes over the speakers. "This next is by a teenage artist from England who, it should be noted, is the same age as Justin Beiber. But from the old soul in this artist's songs—in his very being—he could be a perfect mating of early Dylan and someone's Appalachian great granddad. This is Jake Bugg's 'Country Song,' for our little English country boy, James."
That is another special talent of Bea's—finding out what you like music-wise, then expanding it, showing you new artists in that same vein.
Soft guitar chords start and I see James go to Em, pulling her close. As a heartbreakingly beautiful voice begins singing gently, Adam takes a step forward, tilting his head toward the dance floor, a question, holding out his hand to me. Behind him, I see that beautiful and clearly stupid girl put her arms around Leif's neck. I take Adam's hand just as Leif reaches up, removing that girl's arms, pulling away from her. She looks a little put out, the poor thing. That knot in my stomach loosens. Adam enfolds me in his arms and we start dancing. As we turn slowly, I see that same girl begin dancing with one of the twins' other friends—perhaps I've been ungenerous to her; she's probably not that stupid. Leif is now leaning against a wall, scowling at me.
We turn a little more and Mrs. Babushka comes into my line of sight. She is scowling at me as well. What? She turns her head a fraction to her right, toward the wall, toward Leif; now she seems to be scowling at him. Huh? There's a lot of scowling going on. Adam turns me a little more and I can't see Mrs. Babushka any longer, sure I must've misread her expression. As we turn slowly, I notice Pat is dancing with another of our building neighbors. Em and James are kiss-dancing. Another quarter turn and Leif is looming behind Adam.
"I'm cutting in," he commands. He pulls me toward him, easily disengaging Adam's arms from around my waist. The last thing I see before I rest my head against Leif's neck, closing my eyes and losing myself in this perfect song and his perfect scent, is the satisfied face of Mrs. Babushka.
The sweet slow guitar speeds up a little and I realize the music has seamlessly mixed into another song, without Bea's commentary. I hear a woman singing mournful words in a foreign language. This must be the goddess that Leif was referring to earlier. The word I hear most in the song sounds like, "sodade." Must be in Portuguese; I wish I knew what it meant. Leif keeps me close but his movements speed up into a kind of…foxtrot?...tango? I open my eyes, following my body with his, never so glad as now that my grandmother taught me to do all kinds of dancing, even if I don't remember the names of them all. We whirl around slowly in perfect rhythm and before I know it, the mournful song has perfectly melded into another. Bea has taught me well because I know this one. It's Aztec Camera's "Stray." I close my eyes again and in what feels like moments, I hear Sam Cooke's "Bring It On Home To Me," one of the sexiest songs I know. Leif pulls me closer and I feel every inch of his body pressed against mine. We keep dancing.
I have never felt so absolutely on fire in my life.
The change into the next song is kind of jarring, and I know without looking that Bea did not do this mix. I'm jarred further when Leif stops, pulling away from me. No! I want back in his arms. I look up into his face to see that blistering look, then the glare.
"So, you're going out with the poet?" He might as well have said axe murderer for all the derision he infused in that last word.
I feel pain, loss, my face pleading, "Please don't ruin it for me." I don't mean anything having to do with Adam, just that I don't want him to ruin these last perfect minutes; the absolute beauty of dancing with him, the aliveness of it all, that delicate feeling of being home.
"He follows you around like a little puppy." His face looks absolutely disgusted.
"That's what he said about you." I say this in almost a whisper, not as an accusation, but in a kind of defeat. I just want go back in time, back in the bubble of our songs and his arms. My throat burns.
For just a second, Leif seems a little wounded, lost even, before the glare returns, or the scowl, or that new burning look; hell, I don't even know anymore. He stalks off, leaving me standing on the dance floor. Couples whirl around me. I notice Mrs. Babushka's chair is empty. I stare at it dumbly. That's how it always is with her—she appears and then disappears.
A voice next to me. "I would ask you to dance, but this song is too fast for me." Adam.
"That's okay, I desperately need..." I don't know what I need, really. "I need a drink." I let him lead me away by the hand.
I can't find my original champagne flute, so I pour a new glass only to find I don't want it. I ask Adam about his studies, his favorite poets. He tells me that poetry is only his minor. His major is film, but the twins only seem to remember poetry. I smile politely at his answers, but I don't really hear them; there might've been some mention of Blake and then the English Romantics, then Transcendentalists, but it all just sort of washes over me.
Bea appears next to us at the table in a dither, fussing over all the empty appetizer plates. One of the college kids, a boy, tries to grab a beer from the ice bowl and she slaps his hand away. "You're not twenty-one yet, Alex. You are welcome to have a soda."
The boy slinks away, chastened. Bea looks up to see Adam and I both watching her.
"This is crazy. It's not just the kids who are scarfing up everything I can put out, but the grown-ups, too!" Hearing her, one could think she's complaining, but the pride is so evident behind her words. She loves this.
"Keep an eye on things, will you?" She asks me or Adam, distractedly. "That boy who was just here, Alex and…" She points to another boy hovering at the turntables with J and Heid, "…that one with the twins, Josh, are the only ones here without their parents who are not twenty-one, so don't let them have any alcohol. Everyone else is fine." I don't know how she knows this. Both the twins and I are not legal yet either, but the twins don't drink and I don't count to Bea. "I'm going to go scare up some more snacks, it may take a while." Bea would never in a million years just throw out some chips and store-bought salsa. She takes her food too seriously.
Adam asks her, "Do you need help?" I wonder if he's trying to impress her. To be featured on one of her radio shows would be a real coup for his band.
"Sure!" she replies.
Adam turns to me, "You don't mind do you?" I shake my head and they disappear into the kitchen.
The boy I now know as Alex immediately slinks right back over to get a beer. I don't stop him. I lean against the wall next to the table, scanning the dancers. I don't see Leif through the crowd, but it's not like I'm looking for him or anything. When Frank Sinatra's voice comes over the speakers, I close my eyes, slightly swaying to the dulcet tones of "Someone To Watch Over Me." Behind my closed eyes, I picture a twelve-year-old boy with black hair and dark blue eyes. This would be the age that Leif was when he and James met.
Partway through the song, the entire front of my body heats up. I open my eyes to see the grown version of that face I was imagining leaning against the far wall by the open front door, staring at me with an unfathomable look of longing that is not unlike how I was picturing him as a skinny boy. His gaze is fixed on me and I stare back, steadfast, until I am drawn forward toward him as if he is my personal beacon. He doesn't move as he watches my approach, but looks almost stricken as I get closer.
When I'm just inches in front of him, I see he is almost bracing himself and I don't understand. He doesn't move, just stares down at me.
I stand on my tiptoes, put my arms around his neck, and lean in toward his lips. Strong arms curl around my waist pulling me closer and our lips briefly touch, just barely. Then those same arms push me away again and somehow we are dancing, our eyes locked. He looks away first and I follow his gaze to where Em and James are dancing nearby. Em's head on James' shoulder, a smile on her face. Both of their eyes are closed. The song ends and Leif immediately steps back a few feet, eager it seems, to get away from me.
The opening guitar chords of another song come through the speakers and the words, If you're down and confused… It fades as the twins' voices speak over it, intruding on my ears; this is especially discordant coming so soon after Frank Sinatra.
"Here is the exact moment that our Aunt Bea,"
"Got her nickname from some kid,"
"Who was mauling the lyrics,"
"To a great song,"
"But that's okay because our Aunt Bea,
"Officially became Aunt Bea."
Vaguely, I think that both my grandparents and Bea have told me over the
years that I was the one who gave her that nickname, although I don't remember it. Another voice comes over the speakers. It takes me a moment to realize that the voice is mine. As a child. I am singing along to that seventies song, "Love The One You're With." You can hear it played low now behind my tuneless child's voice garbling the words. Instead of, "If you can't be…" I'm singing, "If your Aunt Bea is the one you love, honey, love the one you're with!"
Hearing my voice is bad enough, but what freezes me to the spot are the laughing voices that come after.
A woman's voice, "Sing that last line again, Little Monkey!" The child me does, loudly. "If your Aunt Bea is the one you love, honey, love the one you're with." A man and woman's voice happily laughing. The woman's voice again, "One more time!" I comply. Then, the man. "There you have it, Beth. That should be your new radio moniker—Aunt Bea. It could almost be a cautionary tale, because if your Aunt Bea is indeed the one you love…Ugh!...you should definitely love the one you're with." They laugh. Then Bea's voice, "I might be up for a little change. What do you think listeners? Call in to let me know if I should now become Aunt…" She must've broadcast it. I can't listen anymore.
My legs unlock as a veritable flash flood of feelings and memories almost blinds me—playing, laughing, happiness, security, then…dirt in my mouth. I get a sense of inner walls cracking, breaking down, stones clattering to the ground around me and I go stumbling out the nearby door into the fifth floor hallway.
I'm in a horror movie: The Rambler's open door, my door, seems to drift farther away the faster I plunge toward it. I make it more than halfway, I'm so close, before my knees give way and I crash to the floor on all fours. I can't move. I can't breathe. I can't hear a thing, but for a horrible roaring in my ears.
I am choking. I am drowning.
Those were my parents' voices.
I haven't heard those voices in thirteen years.
Inexplicably, two brown leather ships appear in front of my eyes. I think if I can flag one down, I can get help. I reach out for one of the ships. I put my hand over it, but that's as much as I can do. A lifeline that looks exactly like a strong golden arm curls around me and I am lifted to warmth and safety.
