Chapter 38…Always…
"You always do this, you know," I say, eyeing the blue tops Em's holding as she opens the door to my dressing room in the back of this East Village boutique she found. We are on a mission to find some "elevated khakis." Or she is, although it was actually my suggestion. Dressing me has always been fun for Em. She attacks it with an inexplicable zeal and zest.
The Boiler Room dress code is khakis and blue shirts, at least until those official polo shirts arrive from the company that monograms them, but no one said they had to be the plain blue t-shirts that all the other newbies wear, or plain khakis. I have only the capris that I wore on Tuesday and want a few more pair. Never mind that I might not actually use them, since I've not been back to Falk all week. I'd finished the translation of the manual from home yesterday and emailed Vince to let him know. He'd only replied back to take Friday off. Which I'm doing today, with Em.
"Do what? Walk in when you're half undressed?"
"That, too, fermer la porte, por favor—I'm in my panties here!" The use of the magic word elicits a quickly shut door. She hangs up the clothes and sits down on the bench as I tug on the pair of bondage-looking trousers she'd brought in earlier. They are covered in zippers and buckled straps; who knew there was such a pair of pants to be had! And all in khaki. "But what I meant was, you always pick clothes for me that you would never in un milliard d'annees, ever wear."
This is maybe the tenth round of this sort of game we started an hour ago of, "You always do this."
Em had disappeared all week only to show up at The Rambler early this morning, and I mean early—she actually woke me up. Her being there was evidence that she wanted to talk, but she only climbed into my bed, first with a giggle, and then quietly stared at the ceiling. Once I'd showered and dressed, I stared at her staring at the ceiling, as I contemplated whether or not to take her with me on the errand I'd promised myself I'd do today, barring nothing. Finally, I pulled her up from the bed; she came wordlessly.
It took around eight blocks for her first bombshell.
"I quit Vogue."
"I figured as much."
"Why? Because you knew I was a complete loser who couldn't hack it in the big city?"
"No. Because it's 7:45 and you're in shorts and a ponytail and have made no mention of having to get to work." I didn't break my stride, but did shorten it when I heard her breathing hard to keep up. "Sherlock Holmes, see?" I tapped my forehead using the hand that Em was not clutching on to for dear life.
Then, in spurts, over several blocks as the city was teeming around us, "It was Tuesday. Tuesday morning. I didn't even know I was going to do it and my direct bosses were both out of town, on location, but all of a sudden I couldn't wait, so I went to their boss and gave two weeks' notice. She was nice about it and understanding. I went back to my desk and started working."
After a long silence, "One of those girls you saw, who hate me, is an assistant to my bosses' boss. I didn't think about that. I don't know what she'd whispered to her, but a little later, security came to escort me out." My other hand clenched up tight. I am not normally given to violence, but I swear I could beat someone up right now. "If either of my bosses had been there—they actually like me—they would've run interference; poor strategy on my part. All three of those girls came to watch. I was humiliated."
Okay, three someones. Even with my skinny gawky arms, I could take them all down one-handed. Instead, I poured all the love and comfort into the hand connected to Em and that quelled the violent urge.
Somewhat.
The sidewalks had gotten more crowded with people presumably heading to work. She dropped her second bombshell after I asked her if that's why she'd texted she didn't want to be around James.
"No. Well, partially I guess; I mean I don't want him to know about my humiliation, he's got that big investment job and all. But really…mostly…" We kept walking and it finally came out in a rush. "I need to go back to school and he's the only one who could keep me here if he says please don't go, or maybe it's just if I see him I'll be weak and stay here when I know I need to go back to Cali because he's just…I'm just so in…he's wonderful, Elle!" We got all the way to 34th Street before Em spoke again.
"You always do this, you know," Em said softly. Round One. "Go Walkabout when you're pondering a problem. Now I see why. Pounding the proverbial pavement helps somehow. I can think better."
When we'd walked up to the Rehab door, Em had asked if we were going to watch Henry do his exercises. In fact, I'd wanted to go early to Rehab to avoid running into Granddad altogether. If not for wanting to get here before he came over from his new home, and not wanting to leave Em alone in her current state of unease, I'd never have taken her with me at all. I would've even had her wait in the chairs in the lobby if not for the fact that if Henry came in, he might've seen her.
"No. I have to see a man about a horse," I'd non-explained. It wasn't a man I saw, but a young woman. Who, after ushering me into an office and after I'd showed her my power-of-attorney for Granddad—both Bea and I have one of these—she'd looked up the billing records and explained to me, sputtering and red-faced, that there was a big mistake. Huge.
When we emerged, onto the sidewalk a quarter of an hour later, Em had said testily. "You always do this!" Round Two.
Before I can even ask, "Do what?" she'd stomped away from me, down the street and I trailed along behind her. Okay, so maybe not explaining to her beforehand about the thousands of dollars I owed—or thought I had—was a huge mistake, too. She lead me down a side street and then rounded on me.
"You never tell me anything!" It came out somewhere between a holler and a wail. Possibly no one has noticed my new openness but me. Or maybe it feels huge to me, but seems subtle when viewed from the outside.
"I'm sorry." Em and I had never had any kind of harsh words with each other, ever.
"Do you not trust me?" Again with the holler-wail and all I can do is nod. "Then why? Why did you not tell me because I know you've been freaking out over this! Why do you always suffer alone!"
"Em," I plead. "You had enough on your plate lately and I just…I just didn't want you to worry." Yes, I really said that. "And I didn't want you to, you know, coordinate it or pay the bill or something. You always do that too."
"Even I don't have easy access to that much money!" Then softer, "Oh, I guess I do with what my mom and dad put into my account. And I would have." Her face crumpled then, and I watched the bluster seep right out of her. She said quietly, "I was always afraid that I'd coordinated you into being my friend."
"Is that what this is really about?" She shrugged in reply. I took a deep breath and decided to be truthful. "Well, let me tell you that you did. And stop with the face. Listen to me! You did coordinate me into friendship, but thank God, you did! Sometimes people need some help, a nudge, or a shove. I didn't know how to make friends and you taught me and I can't imagine life without my best friend, my sister. I would've been so lonely without you and I wouldn't even have known it. So yes, you Coordinated me into being your friend and I thank the heavens every single day. But I'm still learning. Just don't be mad at me while I try, okay? And see, the bill worked itself out anyway. I don't owe anything."
I was prepared to make a payment—brought my checkbook and everything after carefully figuring out yesterday how much I could pay now—when the woman at the billing office had explained that there was an insurance mistake and it was all covered, I didn't owe anything. She even called over to the billing office of the hospital—they're connected, part of the same health network as the Rehab—to confirm that nothing is owed there, either. I almost can't process yet what this means to me.
"I think you might want to see what the next bill says because that woman in there seemed kind of shifty. Maybe she doesn't know what she's talking about." That probably is a good idea. "Henry didn't know about the hospital bill, right? Or Bea?" I shook my head. "Is that why you got a job so soon after coming back?" I nodded, watching as her face morphed into an expression I knew well. "Since Henry's taken care of, and you don't have to worry about his bills, would you consider going back to Cali with me to finish our degrees together?"
Oops. I'd truly meant to tell her about graduating and never did. "See! You're trying to coordinate me right now. You always do that." Her face falls a little so I tried to lighten it up a little. "That was kind of a lame attempt anyway. The Coordinator I've come to know and love wouldn't give up so easily."
"I think I knew it would be a pointless endeavor anyway. I know you won't leave your grandfather and honestly, I admire that about you. But…but it just seems like everything is accelerating—life is accelerating—and old habits die hard, you know. And nothing's working the way it used to!" she whined.
I'd put my arms around her and it was then, looking over her shoulder, that I realized this is the same side street that Granddad and I had our Throw Down on two Sundays ago. "Maybe it's not supposed to."
"Will you point out to me when I revert to old patterns?"
"Okay. And in the meantime, will you help me find some khakis that do not look like Dockers?"
"You always do that, you know."
"Do what?"
"Redirect me. Especially when something gets uncomfortable. For either of us." Another echo—I said something like this to Leif in Philadelphia. "But you know full well that the lure of dressing you is irresistible. How far is the East Village?"
We walked. And while we did, I told her about my inadvertent graduation and how freaky that was, even in the midst of something way freakier—Henry's stroke. She'd told me that she'd been contemplating going back to Stanford for a while, since she just couldn't get her senior thesis together, but put it aside because she had achieved her dream first job—what she'd always said she wanted and how unnerving it was that she found she didn't really want it. And then she'd met James, and I came to New York, so she held on, determined, even after the job had turned into a nightmare.
What really accelerated it for her was looking at the structure of all those elaborate dresses in the dress room; the ruching, the origami-like folds and pleating, the artistic crewelwork, the expert craftsmanship and tailoring. And the lace! "Did you see that lace!" she practically drooled. It was then she realized that she was missing something huge: she didn't know how to make anything, build anything, and Stanford has that brilliant design department and maybe she should make use of it. She'd registered already for some entry level classes for the summer quarter. This week, after all of the rest of Tuesday spent in bed reliving her humiliation, she'd decided to try new things so she went to visit those two designers she'd met at that party. "And I even took the subway!" They live and work with a few other artists in a derelict former garage in the Red Hook section of Brooklyn.
When I told her that I'd never heard of Red Hook before this week and now it's all over the place, she'd brought up Henry and his echoes and cycles and that she has a new name for them—signposts. She kept getting signposts, pointing her in the right direction, only she resisted them. Henry would love that word used in that way.
"Speaking of signposts and new activities," I'd started. And I'd proceeded to tell Em about the new things I'd been doing every night this week.
"I can't believe you didn't tell me!" Her shocked face was almost comical.
"Dude! Am I one who disappeared all week with only a couple texts? I don't think so!" I'd finished my story with something James had done Tuesday night that had been perplexing me all week. It was only a small thing, but I couldn't figure it out. When I told her about it, she agreed that it was odd and out of character for him, but even she could offer no insight on this minor mystery.
"So no chance with Leif at all, huh?"
And I told her about what I overheard. In detail—I quote Leif's words. It's not breaking the non-disclosure, really, because it didn't really have to do with work. To my surprise and relief, she didn't look mad, only thoughtful. "So, see? You need to just accept it, and let it go."
"Could you have misheard? Because it just doesn't…"
"No! He was quite clear and let me be clear. Let. It. Go."
"You haven't," she said then, laughing. "Let it go, I mean. Somewhere in your subconscious, he's still there."
"I assure you, I have and it's not."
"When I climbed into bed with you this morning, you turned over and whispered, 'Leif?' before you fully woke up. It made me laugh."
"I did not. You misheard me." It was her giggling that fully woke me up.
"Did to." She exaggerated it theatrically. "Leif? Wherefor art thou Leif?"
"Did not." I grabbed her hand. "Come on Tweety-san, let's go find me some khakis."
"You're doing it again. Redirecting me, but I'll let you because we really need to cover those skinny gawky limbs of yours."
"Exactly, Ki-irogami." Japanese for "yellow-hair."
We'd arrived at the boutique and she set to work, pulling some very elevated khakis and blue shirts from the racks after ferreting out from me that, indeed, no one said that they had to be plain.
She hangs up the tops and sits in the chair, tilting her head, thoughtful. "Hmm…You're right. I do pick clothes for you that I don't have the nerve to wear." She is silent again as I struggle out of the trousers and into the sister version of them—a skirt with buckles and straps and one long zipper down the front. "But you never balk at it…" Then a flared skirt with leather inserts. "Unless it's something that's overtly sexy." I watch her, watching me in the mirror, but her eyes are far away, as I pull on a tight sailor-look pencil skirt with a lace-up front, in khaki, of course. "You're like my avatar, my muse…" I start in on the tops, all in an approximation of Falk blue as she continues talking to herself. "…because whenever I want to step out fashion-wise," Several in particular, I absolutely love. "I hear this voice in my head that says…" I hang everything up and start the process of elimination. I might as well use some of that money that was going to be for the hospital bill, but I can't buy everything. "…that says…Well, I don't know what it says, but it won't let me take a risk, so I use you."
I turn to her saying, "Three."
"Huh?" She blinks, seeing me again. "What?"
"Three. I count three complete sentences. Or complete-ish. This whole time."
"I'm trying to work it out in my mind."
"And I'm trying to work out which ones to buy. I can't get them all. Honestly, I would've just gone to Old Navy or something, so I'm happy to be your sartorial avatar." I look at one of the price tags. "Chikusho! I should've gone to Old Navy."
"I've got something else to tell you. Don't be mad." I feel her steeling herself behind me, before it comes out in a rush. "I booked a flight home to Atlanta this afternoon. I won't be at your birthday salon. I needed to tell Mom and Dad in person about everything—not finishing my thesis, quitting Vogue, going back to Stanford and all. Do you hate me?"
"Of course not, Em! Do what you need to do. I totally understand why you would need to go back to Tara." Her family home does look a lot like Scarlett O'Hara's plantation in "Gone With The Wind," hence the name.
"I might've liked a little more protest," she mutters. "Am I that inconsequential to you?"
I whip around to face her. "You said not to be mad at you!" And yeah, I feel that familiar stab of guilt before I notice her face has that conniving look of The Coordinator. Or the Controller. I narrow my eyes at her. "What do you want?"
"Why do you think I want anything?" she says in a very Southern accent.
"You always do that, you know—use my guilt against me."
"Well, at least that's one thing that still works!" She giggles wryly at being caught out before getting contemplative. "Why does it, do you think?"
"Don't know. I've never thought about it before. But, yeah, I feel responsible for everything and everyone. I feel guilty a hundred times a day. I've always been that way." As I'm saying the words, though, I hear a distant echo. I think it goes back to the accident. And my parents. I don't want to think about that right now. "So, Little Miss Daffodil, what did you want to use my guilt for?"
She grins slyly. "Well, there is the matter of your birthday present."
"But her family is well, right? Her brothers? Her mother and father?" James asks for the third time before he takes another forkful of his cheese grits. "She didn't go home because someone was ill, did she?"
I'd woken up in a great mood today. Saturday. Not so much because it's my birthday party, but because I do feel lighter and freer without that weight on me of those hospital bills. And Henry is due here an hour before the party, around six o'clock—the first time he's been back since the stroke; Dash and Dr. Magoo are bringing him. And Em and I had fun being silly all the rest of yesterday, calling each other names. I'd put my language skills to good use by coming up with any number of ways to put together "squawking" "yellow" "bird" and "flower." She called me every skinny animal name she could think of; heron and praying mantis being the favorites. All that giggling name-calling was like sunlight and air, serving to take any sting out of those hurt places in both of us.
Also, nothing could dissuade me from my good mood this Saturday morning because, in a strange dichotomous way, not seeing one dark-eyed god of the sea since Tuesday night has made me almost, almost forget that alive feeling he brings when he's around, and that is a good thing, a necessary thing. I've almost forgotten the depths of those blue eyes and the flickering emotion I can sometimes discern in them. And that smirk-smile, which I've come to like. Or the easy open one that makes him look his age. And those masculine, but artistic hands. Yep, I can barely remember them, they've been supplanted in my mind.
There's that, plus I had a blast last night, which also makes the forgetting easier. The dichotomy part of this lies in the fact that I get to see him tonight and I am thrilled with that prospect.
But when I do see him, I'm really going to have to set some boundaries with him. Keep him at a distance.
So, in my good and magnanimous mood, I'd set to work immediately on a promise I'd made Em yesterday before she'd left for the airport—to take care of James this weekend while she's gone. I'd called to invite him over for breakfast. I wasn't even disappointed when James said he'd woken up feeling lonely because he hadn't even seen Leif all week—he hadn't slept in the apartment since Monday night. I didn't barely wonder at all just where Leif had slept. No, I certainly did not.
James must've flown to The Rambler, he was here so fast.
Bea made a Southern breakfast for us. We have eggs and ham and biscuits and gravy and hash browns and grits set before us on The Ramber's kitchen island.
"Yes, her parents and Carter and Mitchell are all fine." I say for the third time, chuckling. At least I hope that's true. Em had texted last night to say her family is all in an uproar and some of it has to do with Carter, not her. She'd said she'd fill me in later.
"Here's another fun Em fact!" Yes, since he got here I've been redirecting him out of his pining for my friend. "Emory was named after the school where her parents met. It was her mom's college—her dad went to the University of Georgia—but he was there with some friends at a party. And here's something funny. Em's mom, Allison, confessed to Em and me one time that Mitchell and Carter were named after her longtime hairdressers in Atlanta. Em's dad doesn't even know that and would probably have a cow if he did. It's a secret that probably only we three know, and the hair stylists—Allison told them. And now, you." Em wouldn't mind my saying this—she thinks it's hilarious—although she did make me promise not to say anything to James about her going back to Stanford.
I tell him that Carter is just a little older than I am and sweet and sensitive, but he tries to hide it. Mitchell is a mini-me to her dad, all blustery good ol' rich Southern boy.
He mentions that I seem to like Carter best.
"I confess I do. But I love all of Em's family. It's just that Mitchell and her dad don't really know what to do with me because I don't fit in with their vision of what women are supposed to be, how they are supposed to act. I'm just not all Southern hospitality and feminine grace, like Em and her mom. I'm quiet, or used to be. So her dad just eyes me with suspicion and Mitchell spends the whole time we're ever together trying to get some kind of reaction out of me that will finally prove to him that I am, in fact, a human female."
"Let me confess something back," James says. "My own father doesn't know what to do with me either—he never has. I don't fit in with his vision of how a young man ought to be. He doesn't approve of me at all."
"I like who you are, exactly as you are." I reach over to squeeze his arm as he shovels another forkful in his mouth. "And more importantly, Em does."
"I just can't work out how a girl like that would want to be with a boy like me, but I'm trying my best not to question it."
"James Ransdell! You are a joy to be around, not to mention a total catch! There is everything to love about you!"
I am heartened to see one of James' sweet smiles. "I must say I do feel accepted amidst all the interesting characters here." He puts down his fork, eyeing the remaining food. "I could not eat another bite. This won't all go to waste, will it?"
I shake my head, giggling. "It is the work of fairies." I pick up my phone to send a text. "I wave my magic wand, and in a few minutes…poof!...all this will disappear. Like magic!"
"You seem naturally thin," he says, which doesn't bother me in the least, "but how in the world does Bea not weigh a hundred stone, what with eating all this lovely food she cooks?"
"I can best show you rather than tell you." I slide off my stool and affect the hushed British accent of any PBS animal-in-the-wild program narrator. Bea made our breakfast in the Rambler's kitchen, but returned to her own to start with the food for tonight. "Let us observe the creature in its natural element."
We hear the music blasting when we enter the hallway between apartments; I recognize it as an old and very frivolous R&B song that she loves, "Don't Disturb This Groove." We stand in the doorway of Bea's kitchen to watch her singing and dancing around wildly between the stove and refrigerator, her bright yellow caftan making her look like a butterfly, or better yet, a squawking baby duck flapping its wings. She's not seen us yet.
I lean in to James whispering in my British accent, "Scientists have discovered, through careful observation, that the species commonly known as Aunt Bea, belonging to the genus of Oddus Duckus, never stops moving. Hence, the copious amount of food consumed only maintains, but does not grow, the creature's median body weight."
James whispers back, "She's kind of a thing of beauty to behold. Her dancing is almost wanton in its guilelessness.
He's right. She is completely without reserve in this way. I decide to poke the animal.
"Quick!" I whisper. "Help me think of a heavy metal band. Any one will do."
"Um...I don't know…Motorhead?"
"That works. Okay, watch this!" I say with a devious smile before I call out loudly. "Hey Bea! Bea!" She finally hears me over the music and pirouettes to face us.
She lifts up a finger saying, "Hang on! Here comes the best part of this song." After a beat, she sings along, "Can you feel it? Uh huh!" She picks up a remote to turn down the music, slightly, but still doesn't stop dancing. "How was breakfast?"
"Lovely," James replies. "Absolutely divine. Thank you so much."
I paste on an innocent smile. "Hey Bea, can you play us some Motorhead?"
She smiles blissfully, exclaiming, "Motorhead? I'm impressed!" before looking down with distress at the array of ingredients and mixing bowls on the counters and island. "Oh, but…I'm, uh…I'm making the filling for some pastries right now, sweetie…and, well…that requires smooth music. I think Motorhead might infuse it with the wrong energy—it wouldn't taste right."
"It's okay, Bea." I gaze down, acting crestfallen. "I understand."
James shoots me a look of admonishment before saying. "Anything we can do to help?"
"You two could go check the Salon. It's been cleaned, but see if there's anything else to be done in it and move the furniture around to how you want it." James pulls me away as Bea calls out behind us, "I could make the enchiladas next. I can play you some Motorhead then—it'll give the enchiladas an extra kick!" The R&B music turns back to blasting levels as I'm dragged away by the elbow.
"I would've never guessed it, Ellawyn, but I do believe you have a touch of cruelty in you," James says, looking over at me as we walk out of Bea's apartment. "There was something merciless about that—Bea genuinely felt bad and I felt badly for her."
"You may be right." I dissolve into laughter, briefly explaining how, while cooking, Bea will only play music that—in her alternate universe of a mind—matches the dish she's preparing. "Don't worry about her, though. She gets her own back with me all the time."
He still has hold of my elbow as we walk in The Rambler. Now seems as good a time as any to bring up the little mystery I'd talked to Em about yesterday. "This reminds me of something I've been curious about, James." I stop us. "After we saw Adam's band play, why did you drag me away from him?"
Standing on the sidewalk outside Henry's neuroscience center on Tuesday night, a distracted Leif had hailed a cab for us three. I'd thought. But after James and I had jostled ourselves in, placing his graduation art gift over both our laps, Leif stood at the cab's open door, not getting in. "James, make sure Ellawyn gets home," he'd commanded. "I've got something I need to do." When I'd balked at James having to go all the way downtown when we were already in Chelsea, presumably near to their apartment, Leif shot James a stern look saying, "All the way home." He'd ignored my muttered, "Does everyone always do what you say?" as he gave the driver some money, and my address.
He never looked directly at me, but stood and watched the cab pull away and it wasn't at all that I wondered where he was going in his suit that made me turn to James and ask him if he wanted to go with me to see Adam's band play. I would've gone anyway. I'm pretty sure. We redirected the driver and I'd waited in the cab when we stopped for James to drop off his gifts first, although I really wanted to see their supposedly dinky apartment.
Adam and his band were mid-song when we walked in and found a table over to the side. When he spotted us, he broke out in a huge smile and after the song ended he said, right into the mike, "Ladies and Gentlemen, you're looking at one sublimely happy man!" all the while looking right at me.
Their band was playing mostly acoustically, or softly, at least, in this small wine bar in SoHo. Early on, James leaned over to exclaim how good they were. I was enthralled. After their set, all four of them joined us at the table and Adam made the introductions, saying he hoped we'd stay for their second set. When I excused myself and rose to find the restroom, Adam followed and waited in line with me—there's always a line for the ladies room!—so we could talk. When I came out, we stayed in the restroom hallway, talking. Closely.
That is, until James came to find us. After telling Adam how great his band was, but claiming he had to be up early for work, he dragged me away by the elbow. With a hurried goodbye, we left.
James looks down to where he's got hold of my elbow now, just like Tuesday night, and immediately drops it. "I'm sorry about that, Ellawyn. Was I out of line?"
"No! You were fine. But I was curious." I watch his contemplative face, hoping his usual openness will hold sway.
"I honestly don't know. I did it without thinking when I was going to the toilets myself and saw you two. It was instinctual. Maybe it was just that you're so young."
Great. Someone else essentially calling me a child. He must see my face fall when because he says again that he's sorry. Now it's my turn to feel badly as I can't stand the look on his face.
Damn my guilt! I really need to work on that.
"Don't think about it again, James. Seriously. Come on, I'll show you the Salon. If you think the kitchen's beautiful, you'll freak out at this."
Before we're even as far as the kitchen, James phone starts ringing out Coldplay's "Yellow.
Finally! When Em had me promise to take care of James this weekend, I'd made her promise in return that she would call him. She'd only texted him up 'til now. His face lights up and he stops to answer it. I go in the kitchen to find the twins finishing up the last remnants of the breakfast. They give me the mix tapes they made me for my birthday of all brand new music. They obviously spent a lot of time on the design of the CD covers; one is titled "Yin," and the other, "Yang."
Heid says, "We have something else for you tonight.
"Is it a homemade gift?" I ask them, narrowing my eyes. "In keeping with the Gift Rule? You've not cheated, have you?"
They look at each other, saying together, "We didn't cheat!" before beginning their twin-speak.
"It's a story like…"
"…these mix tapes are kind of a story, only…"
"…in another form."
"We'll be late, though…"
"…because the party we're DJing doesn't end until ten, but…"
"…the warehouse where it's at…"
"…is pretty close to here."
The "Gift Rule," as it's nicknamed, was an idea of my dad's when he was a little boy decades ago; Grand-mere told me that. They three were in Eritrea, on the horn of Africa, when my dad's birthday was approaching. Many of his playmates were deep in poverty and couldn't afford to buy him a gift. With my grandparents' guidance, he came up with the idea that the only birthday gifts allowed were small homemade ones, but best was a gift of a story from your own life. Even today, we keep to that at parties because we've always been surrounded by people of all socio-economic groups and never want anyone to feel badly about affording a gift. But privately, we all kind of cheat. It is no surprise that—within my circle at least—the biggest cheater of all is Emory. Grandmother was pretty bad, too.
I thank the twins profusely for the CDs and remind them of the promise they'd also made me earlier in the week. They leave, practically running James over in the process.
"I assume those were the aforementioned magical fairies," James says as he enters the kitchen, eyeing the empty plates.
I nod, stacking the dishes in the sink. "That was quick." I'm not really worried though, because he's beaming. "How was Em?"
"She's fine. Brilliant, in fact! I've got some errands to run, so is it okay if I see you a bit later? I'll come early to help you get ready for the party." I tell him I'll see him then.
He says, "And Em told me to tell you something right before I leave. She said don't be mad, but there's something for you in her room."
She always does this!
I am wandering around the Salon, with the lights turned low, one of the twins' CD's playing on the stereo. "Yang," I think, Heid's. I'm getting reacquainted with this space in the geographical and probably emotional center of this home—like my grandmother, who created this room, was the emotional center of everything. Before she died, she mandated no funeral, only a small party here, a wake, like a New Orleans wake, or an Irish one; lots of music and drinking and stories told. The only thing that kept me from just checking out entirely was that I had to take care of Grandfather and Bea. And our housekeeper, Zarahi, and Patrick, and all the other extended family who were hurting from her death. But mostly G and Bea. It was the only time I've seen Bea drink, and boy, did she drink—a three-day hangover followed.
That was the last time I've been in this magical room, mostly decorated and furnished in gold and silver and black and white, maybe twenty by thirty feet—larger than many Manhattan apartments—but still somehow intimate. There are several seating groups, two fireplaces, hidden TVs, a staircase that leads to absolutely nothing, a grand piano, a table for playing cards, intimate chaises for tete-a-tetes, and all of the furniture made to be moved around for different purposes, depending on the type of party, the number of guests, depending on whether or not they'll be dancing. Strangely, after mere minutes in here, I don't feel sad, just…maybe grateful is the right word. That's it. Grateful. And blessed.
A new song starts right when I stop to look at a huge glittery painting of the Yin/Yang symbol my grandmother got from a street artist when we were in Turin during a school break. That's when I realize all the songs on this CD have been masculine-themed, like Yang is the masculine of the Yin/Yang continuum. I would guess J's CD is all going to be themed feminine, a la Yin. This song's lyrics say something about being a young man and shaking up the world. That's when I say a mental thank you to the twins—I love this song!—as the music swells. That's when I start dancing. I close my eyes and twirl and spin, gaining momentum, and dance as brazenly as Bea, feeling huge and expansive and light as air and warm as sunlight and like I'm flying in this dark room without windows. I feel so free and alive.
So alive. So alive. So…
Thunk!
I collide with something, but somehow manage to keep my eyes closed because I know immediately what, or I should say who, it is, and for a moment I'm conscious that it can't be any past eleven and I whisper what are you doing here? and hear a whispered I stayed away as long as I could… I couldn't wait until tonight and I don't know how to translate this but an arm snakes around my waist and my outstretchedhand is grasped and my other hand curls around a warm neck like it belongs there and I, now we, are dancing again and time and space disappear and the only language is encased in this song and this connection and the expansiveness grows to ocean-sized and I clutch him tighter as we dance in the near dark.
The music slows as the end of the song approaches—why must it end?—and I open my eyes slowly as the song says something about being a young man built to fall and I stare into the most alive pair of deep pools of ocean water and I just want to dive right in.
But I don't. I can't. I'll never find the shore again.
I take a step back to break the connection. Or try to.
"You always do that!" The words tumble out.
