Chapter 40…Maps
"But I'm not used to just sitting around being useless!" I exclaim as Leif and James come back in the salon again with their arms full.
"You're so used to taking care of others. What if I want—we want—to take care of you today?" Leif says this so earnestly that I can muster no response before he leaves for another trip to the kitchen.
After my heart stops stuttering, I turn to his friend. "James!" I whine playfully.
"You heard what the boss said," he shrugs a smile before following Leif out.
Leif and James have sat me in one of a bank of chairs as they are bringing the plates and cutlery and glasses and everything else into the salon getting ready for the party. They, well, Leif really, won't let me lift a finger to help, saying that it is my day to be waited upon. Leif's actual words…Waited upon.
Sitting in my approximation of a throne, for the moment alone, my eyes rove around the salon, counting the maps—seven, I think—coming to rest on the antique map of Lower Manhattan on the wall closest to me. I start picturing a map in my head—my own personal one, mapping my journey here, to this moment.
From Worker Bee to Queen Bee, I'll call it. That imagined title makes me giggle, it is so stupid. But still, I can't figure out how I came to be in this place right now being served by two beautiful boys.
Just a month ago, I didn't even know these two existed; they weren't yet on the map. Just a month ago, I was a world away, on a plane being yelled at by some very annoyed Chinese shunu mei hao de. And then my professors and diploma in the San Francisco airport and then Henry and…oooh…Maybe I don't want to think of that desperate time right now. The panic of it starts to set in again. For some reason, the face of that kind Mediterranean man from the plane flashes clearly in my mind, easing that dark feeling. What was that phrase he'd said in Arabic? I know I'd heard it before the plane. I never got to ask Grand-pere what it was and now I can't recall it, probably because my brain was scrambled by panic at the time.
Now, it might be a little fuzzified by the champagne I've had. Because a short while ago, I'd decided to further test this whole servitude thing as Leif seems like the last person in the world to subjugate himself to anyone.
"Fetch me some champagne, knave!" Who cares if it wasn't yet five o'clock.
He'd turned to James who was placing some glasses on one of the tables. "James, fetch the lady some champagne."
"No. I want you to do it." I'd commanded.
He bowed, saying, "As you wish," then made a rolling hand gesture that flashed the diamond on his pinky nail before leaving. That was three or four trips ago on his part—each time flashing the diamond—and two glasses of champagne on mine, hence the giggling and the imagined maps.
I change the name of the map in my head to: From Desperation to Diamonds, a treasure map. The fact is, I can't quite map out Leif. None of the markers seem to match up in any discernable pattern. I only get wispy fragments; the disconcerting sensation of it is not unlike how it felt when I took that first Chinese class and couldn't quite grasp the structure of the language. Sometimes these wispy fragments seem like a war map—with trenches dug deep and the rat-a-tat-tat of battles fought. Other times, like today, a treasure map.
Leif's hardly left my side all day.
He went with me to Omega's Nolita salon—known for its artistic nail designs. When we arrived, way early, he asked to be fit in for his own manicure and pedicure and, even though it was a crazy busy Saturday, they did. Of course they did. And it wasn't as if they did it because he was with me; Omega wasn't at the front desk at the time, it was someone I didn't know.
"Does everyone always do what you say?" I'd laughed, while we were waiting.
"If they know what's good for them," he'd smirk-smiled. It's not the first time he's said those words. "Speaking of which…" And then he'd asked if he could choose my nail design and I'd said okay, because I was immediately and intensely curious about what he would pick. He looked through a nail design book before being sat for his mani-pedi. I shouldn't have been surprised that they took him first, as in before me, although I was the one with the appointment.
Every time I looked over at him sitting regally in his chair, being fawned over by two giggling young women, I'd grin and roll my eyes. I didn't even have to speak their language to interpret what they were saying about him, it was clear enough.
When they finally sat me next to him, I'd made them add something to the clear matte polish—"man polish," one of the girls called it—they put on his nails, claiming "What's good for the goose, is good for the gander." I'd thought for sure he'd balk, but he readily agreed when I had the woman working on his hands put a white-capped blue wave on the right pinky. With a glittering diamond at the crest. Like, right where the sun would hit the wave.
The diamond he keeps flashing at me every time he comes in the room, like now, with James trailing behind him, arms laden.
"I kind of hate to tell you this, after you've made so many trips already, but there's a cart in the butler's pantry that you can put everything on and wheel in here," I say. "Not to mention, there are two more wheeled serving carts you could use in this room alone, you know." I point them out on each side of the salon.
Leif says, "But that would defeat the purpose." I tilt my head quizzically as he sets his thick stack of plates on a console table and then faces me. His shirt sleeves are rolled up to the elbows and he draws up, full height, and raises his arms in the air, making a fist of each hand, a severe look on his face. "Of showing off my muscles. I'm strong like bull!" he exclaims in an indeterminate and frankly hilarious foreign accent—his second of the day.
That's it. That's all it takes for me to dissolve in laughter, which seems to delight him. He comes to stand in front of me, watching the whole time. I catch a breath, demanding, "Seriously, dude, why are you in such a good mood?"
"I already told you. Why are you in such a good mood?" he asks.
The first thought that pops in my champagne-addled mind is that it's because I got to spend the day with him. But what I say is, "Hey, do you think we might actually make it through this entire day without fighting?"
"You think we fight a lot?" I snort-laugh in reply to his perplexed expression. How can he not know that? But I guess he wouldn't know about the most serious and pivotal fight we've had; when I heard him talking smack about me—body shaming me—to Vick. I'm certainly not going to clue him in. "Really?" His face is scrunched up in concentration and damn if that's not the cutest thing. After a moment, that morphs into the familiar smirk-smile. "I'm sure that's all on you. Because me? I'm a lover, not a fighter."
Once again, I'm a giggling pile of mush. Propelling the humor is the fact that behind Leif's back, James has looked up from arranging dishes on a table in the far corner of the room and his face is one of something akin to horror.
I say, "Fetch me more champagne, knave!" Really, I want to talk to James alone and, well, I can't deny I'm enjoying ordering him around.
He bows. "As you wish," then backs out the door, with a rolling hand gesture that flashes that diamond on his pinky. James stares after his friend, looking nothing short of dazed.
"James, why do you keep giving your friend such strange looks?"
"Was it showing?"
"Comically so," I snort. "Grab a glass and come sit with me a minute. Take a load off." I lift the champagne bottle from the ice and fill the glass he holds out. "Explain."
"Hmm…Well, it's that I've known him, let's see…this summer will be eleven years. And except for that first year, I've seen him nearly every day for most of that time. He's driven, disciplined, reserved, taciturn, impassive, controlling, authoritative—bordering on dictatorial. His will is a force of nature! He's kind, generous, loyal, self-possessed, brave, intelligent, insightful, focused… I mean he maps everything out, rather like a long-term chess match—he's always ten steps ahead of everyone, including me. And I'm sure there are other words I can come up with to describe the interesting character that is Leif. I've seen him truly perturbed only a handful of times in that decade, but I've never seen him like this—servile, goofy, almost giddy. I mean…that diamond on his pinky? I can't think what's gotten into him. It's sort of freaky." He sighs heartily, seeming relieved to have expressed this.
It brings to mind an earlier time. "James, it's not quite the same, but I can think of one other time since I've known him that he was playful. Publicly. Kind of, aside from today." I describe that first day at Falk when Leif was named the Boiler Room Second. "I'm telling you, his energy infused the entire room with an esprit de corps." Well, until it didn't.
"What?!" James shakes his head, shocked anew. "No. He told me he was planning on clamping down on the crew, first thing, to get them in line. They weren't disciplined enough and he was chomping at the bit to put the fear of God in them. That's the only thing Mr. Falk respects—hard-nosed discipline, and Leif's not far off that. He'd been going on about it for months. I was kind of scared for them. Honestly, the way he was talking about it made me glad that I did not work there. I'll have to ask him about that—we've not had a chance to talk at all this week." James finishes his glass quickly and I pour him another, emptying the bottle. "I warn you, I get rather ebullient when I drink champagne, as if the bubbles go right to my head and animate my mouth. You've seen it already a couple times. Leif will get annoyed with me."
"Well, as you said, he's not the boss of you, James. Drink up!" I become cognizant that sitting next to me is someone who knows Leif better than anyone and yet even he is perplexed. What hope do I have to map him out?
I top off James' glass, noticing that he, too, is lost in thought.
Earlier, on our jaunt around town, I'd so wanted to ask Leif about work.
I wanted to bring up what Cherie alluded to—that Leif had something to talk to me about. What I really wanted to know is what he'd said to get Cherie on his side again when she was so furious with him after overhearing his conversation with Vick. But figuring out a way to do it that would not let him know I heard anything of it was tricky, at best.
I was going to, I think, right when we were crossing Forsyth Street, but then I made an unconscious decision to avoid those subjects that I knew to be fraught with, with…I don't know… difficulty? I guess.
Partially, it was self-serving because, sure, I was enjoying this lighthearted Leif. But mostly, I knew innately that it wasn't often he let himself put down his burdens and just play—didn't James just confirm that?—and I wanted to give him that. I wanted to create that safe space for him, even if it was only momentary, even if it was as ephemeral as a bubble.
It is only now, looking back, that I consciously understand my decision to restrain, if only for a while, my desire to know everything, replacing it with my desire to take care of Leif in this small way. But now my hunger to know him is back with a vengeance. And with it, is more than a little annoyance at myself for reengaging that pattern of mine. See, this is just one reason why it's best to stay away from him, keep some distance.
My eyes stray back to the map, but I don't really see that one. It is the fragmented map of Leif, in my mind's eye, that I see. It is no closer to being stitched together, made whole. In fact, the more I know of him, the more mysterious it becomes, he becomes.
My itinerant attempt at cartography is interrupted when Leif comes back in the room, a bottle in each hand. His easy smile wipes out my amorphous map as if it was drawn on shifting sand, and I'm flung back into the present. I find myself smiling back at him.
James calls out, "Hey! Ellawyn tells me that you were not, in fact, ghastly to those poor interns of yours that first day at Falk. What happened?"
Easy smile gone, a dark cloud passes over Leif's features as he looks between James and me. He puts one bottle down, then expertly opens the other and positions it in the ice bucket.
Finally, carefully, "I changed my mind."
"But why?" James asks. "You were so set on it."
Leif reaches over to take James' glass out of his hand, setting it on the side table by me. "No more for you. You can't shut up when you drink that stuff."
Coldplay's Yellow rings out of James pocket and I think his immediately- elated being could power the whole city. He pulls out his phone, excuses himself then practically leaps out of his chair, but not before I swiftly thrust his glass back in his hand. As James floats out the door, he almost bumps into Bea who enters the room, also lost in thought.
Leif sits in James' vacated chair as we watch Bea move first to one table, surveying the array of dishes, adjusting them, then to another. She's too distracted to acknowledge us and I don't want to get distracted from our conversation.
"So, you were saying…" Although he really wasn't. "Why you changed your mind? About the Boiler Room?"
His eyes are on Bea, not looking at me, not forthcoming—no shock there. We hear her murmur to herself, "Okay, I think we can start bringing out the crudités," adjusting the dinnerware and glasses just so.
"It was good, what you did that first day in The Boiler Room. Everyone was on your side. You had them in the palm of your hand. They all loved you!" He turns to me now, his eyes searching mine. A slow smile unfolds on his face, mesmerizing me. I want him to answer, but in this moment, I don't even remember the question. Oh, right…why he changed his mind. "So why did you?"
"Isn't it a man's prerogative to change his mind?"
"I think you have that wrong way around."
"Well, as someone told me earlier…What's good for the goose is good for the gander." I roll my eyes at him and laugh for the umpteenth time today. And also for the umpteenth time, I give up getting answers, give up getting to know or understand him better. And there's that smirk-smile again. "Are you still trying to up my percentage to seventy-five percent of the time?"
"Not even," I answer. Why is understanding him such hard work? "It's just that humor and lightness can be a good thing, like how you were in the Boiler Room. It's good you changed your mind."
His eyes are still on mine and one eyebrow lifts, as if in challenge. Leif turns back toward Bea, addressing her across the room. "Hey Bea! I think you need to move that stack of plates one more millimeter to the left!"
She does just that, with deep concentration, before it dawns on her that he's joking. She looks up at us now. "Ha ha, funny boy!" She comes to stand in front of our chairs, regarding Leif with a smile. "You know, when I first met you at our little impromptu dance party, you were just like the fierce brooding sea god Elle described." Thanks, Bea. Leif shoots me a quick grin and for once, I know exactly what he's thinking. "I wouldn't have thought you'd have an ounce of fun in you. But you do! And I love being pleasantly surprised by people." Her face scrunches up for a moment. "Although, now that I think about it, you did have that great parting line from the elevator, so I guess the indicators were there from the get go. Gosh, Elle was so embarrassed about that whole elevator incident."
Lovely.
She plops down in the chair next to him. He picks up a glass from the side table and fills it, holding it out to Bea. She views it, deciding. "You know what? I think I will. Just one." She takes the glass, sipping from it. "Teasing is one way we show love in this family. You've caught on quick, but it took me a long time to understand that once I came to live with Rose and Henry."
"Why is that?" Leif asks.
She stares off into space and, miracle of miracles, answers him. "The only teasing I ever knew before then was cruel and mean, barely-veiled threats. It was bullying, power-mongering—a put down with a smiling face. Vulnerability was exploited, not rewarded. That was the hallmark of my prior family, my upbringing, along with a lot of other things that were unhealthy. Henry and Rose got me to see it in a new way because the intent was so different. It was loving, inclusive, about being a part of their lives, being a part of their family. Later, much later, they told me they actually strategized on how to get me to open up and let them in and teasing was one of those ways. The first time I teased them back—I was a very immature teenager then—Rose actually cried she was so happy. I thought I hurt her feelings and then I burst into tears. And then Henry cried. And then pretty soon we were all hugging and crying and then laughing and that was the precise moment my walls came down and I felt part of this family."
I've been holding my breath, listening. She so rarely talks about any aspect of her past and did so easily with Leif simply asking her Why? Now I'm shocked further when Bea reaches over to squeeze his hand lying on the arm of his chair, saying, "You probably haven't gotten to that story yet."
Leif squeezes her hand back, then notices I'm watching intently, gaping.
He gives Bea a pointed look before throwing out this non sequitur. "I was trying to show Ellawyn earlier, that I'm a lover not a fighter."
Bea snaps out of that faraway look she had, replacing it with an eager alacrity. "You know, there are a lot of songs that have that sentiment of a lover not a fighter! Country Queen Skeeter Davis has one, bluesman Lazy Lester, and that was covered by everyone from The Kinks to The Flaming Groovies and then, of course, there was that Paul McCartney, Michael Jackson song, 'The Girl Is Mine,' with that quote in it. I'll put some of those on tonight's playlist." She turns to me now. "Oh, and Elles, I've added some Motorhead songs to your birthday music since I didn't really get to play any for you earlier."
"Bea, I was joking about wanting to hear Motorhead. I don't know them. I was just trying to illustrate for James your whole music/cooking-continuum thing."
She shoots out of her chair, her hand on her heart, her face one of deep affront. "That's cruel!"
"You just said teasing was a way of showing love." I can't keep the laughter out of my voice. Leif, I notice, is watching us with an amused expression.
"Yeah, but some things are sacred! You can't…you can't joke about important things!"
"Important things like Motorhead?" I snicker.
"Yeah! I mean…Lemmy…an icon. He's…they're…seminal…" James floats into the room now, I don't think his feet are touching the ground—must've been a good conversation with Em.
Bea rounds on him. "Did you have anything to do with this travesty, James?" He stops short, the peaceful bliss falling from his face.
"No! No, Bea!" I swiftly and laughingly defend him. "James was my unwitting accomplice, he just supplied the band name. In fact, he called me cruel, too, which is now three times today I've been called that. Sheesh, get a grip. Besides, as my musical guru, it's your fault if you've never played Motorhead for me. How else am I supposed to know them?"
Bea seems slightly mollified as she turns back toward me. "Fine. But I warn you now, we're scheduling a heavy metal history lesson next week. You, missy, are going to get schooled." Then her pedantic face goes all crafty. "And in the meantime, I'll just have to find something to tease you about." My face darkens, because lately she has been merciless with that. Her teasing never really mattered until now.
She says to the boys, "Oh, and did Elles tell you that you can request dedication songs for her birthday music? It's a tradition. Just tell me what ones you want because I'm going to finalize the playlist in a bit after I put you two back to work. Or, if you don't have a song in mind, but want to convey a particular sentiment, you can tell me and I'll help you find the perfect song to communicate that sentiment." Of course Bea loves doing it that way best of all. James follows her toward the door and my eyes flit to Leif, still sitting next to me.
He's the one with a faraway gaze now. More than that, he looks almost green. I put my hand on his arm. It feels like stone. "You okay?" I whisper. He moves his arm out of my reach.
Bea says, "Come along Leif. We'll leave Cruella Deville here to contemplate her transgressions while we work like dogs to make her party perfect." He gets up from his chair and heads toward James and Bea, without once looking at me.
Not for the first time I think that I really don't understand this boy at all.
Bea stops, saying to me, "Not that you deserve it for taking Motorhead's name in vain, but are there any songs you'd like specifically, Elle?"
Immediately, a song pops into my brain and out of my mouth. "Maps," I state.
With a hushed reverence she asks, "Yeah Yeah Yeahs' 'Maps'?" and I nod. Her eyes narrow. "You wouldn't kid a girl, would you?"
"Not about something so important." It is not lost on me that Bea loves the Yeah Yeah Yeahs and maybe it'll appease her enough to go easy on me, teasing-wise. "'Maps' seems to be my theme song of the day," I add.
"Hmm…those lyrics…interesting theme song," she says, thoughtful for a moment. I didn't really think through the lyrics at all, it was the title of the song that was most germane.
I paste the most supplicating expression I can on my face as they start to file out the door. "Favorite Aunt Bea…sweet, wonderful, genius Aunt Bea…You can't tease me on my birthday. That would be cruel. Please. Promise me."
She stops just before disappearing out the door with the two boys and flashes a grin. "Okay. I promise I won't tease you on your birthday."
Whew! "Exit, stage right," I say aloud into the now empty room.
It takes me a beat or two to hear my own words echo out into the salon and enter my ears.
And a beat or two longer to understand why I said them.
It feels as if I've been sitting here watching a play—people coming in and out, putting on a show, making me laugh, making me wonder, making me curious, throwing down mysterious clues to mysterious maps. As I sit in the audience, a passive observer.
Which, might be how I've lived for a long time, possibly my whole life. Kind of depressing, if you think about it.
The one area I've not been just an observer is in school, at least within the academic realm. I rock at excelling in school, in learning. Or did—I'm not so sure about now.
I did learn a little about Leif today, although only some of it was stuff he willingly shared with me. The rest was me reading between the lines. Heh heh, yes…extrapolating. Looking back, if I retrace the path we took, replay today, just like I had to do in school when I had trouble understanding something new, I might be able to precisely map the markers of this new knowledge.
It was just outside our building, when the sun hit him full on that I saw his hair is not really black, but a hundred different shades—brown and some red and even gold. I'd seen him outside in broad daylight before, in Philly, but he'd just come from the barber shop and he had some kind of product in his hair, making it seem only deep black. And then once before that, walking home from G's rehab building, but I was recovering from that whole worlds colliding thing and didn't notice.
Okay, so, this was a relatively inconsequential thing to learn, but strangely kind of mesmerizing, too.
That hair that just calls out to have fingers rifling through it.
Damn that hair.
He caught me looking. Staring, actually. Completely dazzled. "What?" he'd asked.
"Your hair grows fast." I shrugged. That's true, too. Even after his haircut in Philly only a week ago, it's almost returned to its natural floppy waves.
"That's not really what you were thinking, was it?"
"I was thinking you'd look good in a hat," I started walking in the direction of Omega's salon.
He hadn't begun walking with me, so I stopped and turned toward him as he ran a hand through his hair, taunting me, making me envious of his fingers.
"You'd cover up this luscious hair?" he mock glared at me, one side of his mouth unable to keep his smile down.
I rolled my eyes and continued walking because yeah, I would—maybe then it would stop singing that siren song to me. I called over my shoulder, "Keep up Professor Peacock!"
It was when we got to bustling Grand Street that I learned that it's not really his face but his commanding presence that makes him seem older than his age. The crowds on the sidewalk parted right around him naturally. Men, women, children got out of his way.
"I have a new nickname for you," I said. "Moses."
"Moses? As in the one who parted the Red Sea?" I'd chuckled as we continued walking—he grasped on to the most pertinent aspect of it, although maybe not the why. I wonder if he has any idea what normal humans experience walking on a busy city sidewalk. "Hmm. So, this new nickname is still sea-related?" Uh…I'd glanced up at his smile-repressed face. He was looking straight ahead, nodding. "Okay, I'll take it." He looked down at me then. "But I like the Sea God better. Care to explain that one?" Cue the smirk-smile.
And right then, I'd decided to be brave. Yeah, it wasn't physical bravery, it won't win me any medals and no, I didn't save anybody from a burning building or anything, but still, for me, it felt like bravery. Or maybe, now that I think about it, I'd just wanted to get it over with and behind us. Either or, I took a deep breath and I told him. Talking while walking definitely helped, as did looking at the people on the street, the taxis, the storefronts. Anywhere but at him.
When I was done, we walked in silence for a moment.
"So…to recap…" I thought I detected some mirth in his voice. "To make sure I'm clear on this point…" He was brewing something. He paused and I knew he wanted me to look at him and I wouldn't. So he took my arm and swiveled me toward him as he stopped right in the middle of the sidewalk, a boulder in the river of rushing people. I watched as the passersby moved around him naturally, and more shockingly, because this is New York City, good-naturedly; I caught some smiles as they changed course to avoid bumping into him. This man!
He waited until I looked him square in the face again. "So, am I to understand the first time you saw me…" a mesmerizingly slow smile crept up his face, "you pictured me naked?"
"No, I didn't say tha…I just…kind of…" In this moment, no one listening would've believed I spoke any languages, let alone five. "You were coming out of the ocean, dripping…I didn't see you na…You were only half out of the water."
"But my chest was bare and what would a sea god be wearing, but nothing."
"I didn't get that far. It was just a momentary flash of an image because of that stupid trident. Quit extrapolating!"
"I've been called many things, but never an extrapolator." He made a mock serious face. "Is extrapolating a sin? A crime? Should we add it to my list?"
"Yes. It's right up there with pride!" Trying not to laugh, I grabbed his hand and pulled his pompous ass down the sidewalk. "Come on Professor Peacock, we've got an appointment to keep."
"And miles to go before we sleep," he muttered, slightly misstating a line from that Robert Frost poem. A line that Henry quotes often. He was still a few steps behind, letting me drag him and I turned my head to look at him. He smirked. "Yeah. You pictured me naked."
That's what he was thinking when Bea brought up the brooding sea god—You pictured me naked.
Mon Dieu, this man!
It was only when we got to Omega's and he let go of my hand to open the door that it hit me: we'd held hands for blocks. Blocks! I didn't mean to, it just happened.
When they seated him first, while I stayed in the little waiting area, I used that time to text Em.
Me: ? Question, mon amie. Can one hold hands as friends? It's okay, right? You know, like Ito and I or you and I hold hands sometimes?
Em: I can only think you mean the Sea God, so allow me to spell it out for you little chitlin:
1) NO, there's no such thing as friend hand-holding with a Sea God for many reasons, one of which is…
2) Think how it would look if viewed from the outside—I'd have a cow if I saw James holding hands with another girl and I wouldn't care one whit if anyone said it was "as friends." And…
3) As smart as you are, sometimes you just don't know enough to come in out of the rain. Creative Translation: I'm pretty sure you are totally delusional regarding the aforementioned god (not to mention Ito) and…
4) Have you told him?
Me: No
Em: Why?
Me: Je ne sais pas
Em: Read point #3 again re: delusions
Me: 1) The hands were contextual (too long to explain via text, no pun) and 2) My SPINDLY GAWKY self is now, and will forever henceforth be, a delusion-free zone!
Em: ConTEXTual or ConSEXual? #3!
Me: Not funny!
Em: Totally funny!
Me: Just sayin', don't quit your day job to take your comedy routine on the road. Oops! Too late.
Em: Not funny!
Me: Totally funny!
Em: I could so guilt you right now if you knew the drama that has ensued here at Tara re: quitting my day job.
Me: Oh. Sorry, Em.
Em: That's almost too easy. :)
Me: Gotta go, they're calling me. It's time to get my nails did. Bye Big Bird!
Em: I'll be back soon, Gawky Grasshopper! We'll talk. In the meantime: #3!
Em: ("Henceforth"? Really?)
As I started to put my phone away, shaking my head and laughing, I saw Leif was sweetly smiling at me from his mani-pedi throne. I surreptitiously snapped a photo of him before shoving the phone in my bag.
Like James, I've been dazed myself at his lightness today. There were only a few times that I could describe as dark, but they were momentary, mostly, like a cloud swiftly passing over the sun, and then just as quickly getting blown away to points beyond.
One of those times was just after they seated me next to him.
"I'm surprised Emory didn't come here with you." That was when I realized he didn't know she was in Georgia, so I told him.
"Does James know?" That was the first dark cloud. The knowledge gained from that—not precisely new though—is that he is very attentive to his friend.
And then I'd relayed Em's directive to take care of James this weekend and the cloud passed—he likes when others are solicitous of James, too. Then, I'd relayed to him my breakfast with James.
"Why didn't you invite me?" That was the second cloud. So he doesn't like being left out? That's the most I can make of that marker.
"James said he hadn't seen you all week. I figured you were, you know, busy." The giggling girls massaging his feet and hands seemed to punctuate this statement.
Once we'd left the salon, Leif had asked if I would mind going with him on an errand. I'd said yes, of course, because this would be another small insight into his life, which, I'm understanding now more than ever, to be hard to come by. When I'd asked what kind of errand, he only pulled out his phone and dialed a number.
From what I could gather via his end of the conversation, this place normally closed early on Saturday but agreed to stay open until he arrived. Of course they did. When he hung up the phone, I'd quipped, "Apparently, they know what's good for them, too."
Apparently, I don't though, because after he asked me which way to Hudson Square—He doesn't know his way around the city?—and as I turned to head further north, he took my hand then and I let him, reveling in his touch, in the connection; I only see that now in the replay.
It was only for a short while, though. Really, just moments later—okay, half a block later…alright, maybe it was a whole block…and a half, whatever. Anyway, it was soon after we turned onto Spring Street, that I realized. I stopped abruptly, shaking off his hand, and another dark cloud crossed his face until I covered with, "My nails!"
Cloud passed. "Right. Wouldn't want to ruin this masterpiece." We resumed walking.
He'd chosen a blue polish for me, edged all the way around in metallic gold. On each pinky, on top of the blue and gold, perfectly-rendered brown-black tree branches spanned out, in miniature of course, with one tiny glittering stone—red on the right and green on the left—to represent blossoms or leaves or even a bird, for all I knew. I have to say, my nails are a work of art. And combined with his right pinky, are reminiscent of the painting I hung above his bed, although neither of us knew what the other had chosen until it was done.
"Don't you want to know what I thought when I first saw you?" Leif asked a few steps later.
Honestly, I wasn't altogether sure because all I could think was "graceless idiot," but I said, "If you want to tell me, I guess I'm not averse to hearing it." I stared at the concrete as we continued, bracing myself a little.
"I thought of trees." Trees? Maybe I said that out loud because he seemed to answer my question. "Uh huh, trees." He was silent for a good while, and I thought that was all he was going to say on the matter.
I was right in the process of forming the first of a million questions—the primary one being how the hell did he get an image of trees from that elevator mishap—when I heard, "In the summer before our junior year of high school, James and I drove up to the Berkshire Mountains. I'd never been that far from the coast before. The further we got from the water, the more, ah, restive I got, shall we say."
I wasn't touching him then, but I could tell he was tense. Each word he spoke seemed to come at a cost. He was silent again. For half a block this time. This was more than a passing cloud.
"Why did you go? To the Berkshires?" He was rigid as stone and now I really wanted to take his hand again, comfort him, but wouldn't let myself.
"There's a theater festival there. We got extra credit for seeing a classic play over the summer. We camped out in the woods." More silence. "And while there, the hills, the forests, they kind of won me over. Amidst the trees, the air is so…so clean. Pure. Trees seem to be connected to both the earth and the sky—especially the tall ones. Under those long branches, they can be a place of solace. And shade, all those green leaves. A place to rest, a place to breathe. I never understood that until then."
We had to wait to cross Mott Street. He stepped in front of me. My eyes followed his hand as he reached down to lift up my right pinky, the one with the red diamond. "When I first saw you, initially at least, I thought of cherry trees. Then maybe apple trees, with blossoms." He let go of the right hand and gently raised the left one, with the green diamond. "Then it was just trees. Any kind of trees, whole forests of them. Like in the Berkshires."
The light turned green. I extricated my hand from his and we crossed. Even with this whole thing being so incongruent to our first meeting, maybe because it was, I wanted him to keep talking, keep explaining, keep sharing. I looked up at him and he was staring ahead, seeming so far away. I was almost afraid to ask him a question because I didn't want that mask to descend. I looked straight ahead, too, hoping he'd go on. He didn't.
I tried for innocuous, prompting, "Trees, huh?" Nada.
I tried again with, "Cherry trees?"
"Your grandmother's favorite, but I didn't know that then." He was still miles away, on some other map. "Nor did I know that most of your nicknames were tree-related."
I'd never thought of it that way, but yeah, they are—monkey, parrot, owl, bird, dove, squirrel, alouette, and for a while, inexplicably from Bea, pencil-tailed tree mouse—all things that live in trees.
I ask, "Apple trees?"
"Maybe it was that whole forbidden fruit thing." I could hear a wistful smile in his voice.
"Forbidden fruit?" I parroted. That time I wasn't really asking a question, just trying to ingest all this. Was he joking? A quick glance showed him seeming to shake himself out of his reveries. He leveled his gaze at me, shrugging as that familiar smirk-smile overtook his expression.
"Uh huh. See, unlike you, I did not picture you naked the first time I saw you. That would've been on the pervy side because you were so young." Yeah, he was joking.
"It was just May 2nd." I didn't quite comprehend that I said that out loud until he stopped on the sidewalk again and I looked at him then.
His face turned rigid, dumbstruck. "You know!" His eyes bored into mine. "He told you!"
"What? Who? Captain Gray? No one had to tell me. It was the day I interviewed at Falk." Actually, it's not so much the interview, but the date I met him that is indelibly imprinted in my mind—I'll never forget. But I wasn't about to say that.
"Years to the day," he'd said to himself, his face softening. "A signpost." He resumed walking, seemingly miles away as a small smile played over his lips. I followed. "You're sure it was May 2nd?"
"It was barely three weeks ago, more like two and a half, pour l'amour du ciel! Yes, I'm sure." Possibly, the tiniest bit of petulance had infused my adamant tone. "But what I meant was, the point is, it was only a short time ago—I wasn't so young then."
"Oh, of course," he said, shaking his head, snickering. "Right, Methuselah."
I rolled my eyes at him and muttered, "That's a tree, too, you know." He looked at me quizzically. "The Methuselah tree is supposed to be the oldest living thing, something like five thousand years old. It's in this pine forest in the White Mountains of California. My grandparents and I hiked up to it that first summer at Stanford when we were exploring the region. But within the forest, the actual location of the Methuselah tree is secret. So no one will chop it down." We, each of us, guessed which tree it might be. My last words led me right to something else. "I have another new nickname for you, by the way. Washington."
I saw him ponder it, but come up with nothing, so I explained. "It works on two fronts, actually. One, because you mentioned apple trees and, you know, Washington apples are famous." Forbidden fruit? What? "And two, Washington, as in our first president Washington, famously chopped down the cherry tree."
He looked put out. "I don't…I don't want to chop you down."
Too late. Spindly, gawky child. I shrugged. But what I said was, "On that elevator, you made me fall."
"You were just picturing me naked and that bowled you over."
Perhaps a mistake, that earlier bout of bravery? "Whatever. And then you didn't help me. Your arms just stayed by your side. To stand upright, I basically had to climb…" up your body. The memory of feeling every hard ropy muscle as I did so made me shiver right then in the warm sunny afternoon. "So yeah, Washington. The one who chopped down the tree."
His face was guarded. "I think historians have said he didn't really chop it down. That's a myth."
"Yeah, well, so are sea gods." And Prince Charmings. Not sure at all if I'd said that last part out loud. That shut him up all the way until we got to Mulberry Street and I didn't even feel guilty for it.
As we waited to cross, he asked, "Are you sure of the day? The elevator? That was May 2nd?"
"Yes, I'm sure. What's the big deal with that date, anyway?"
He affected a vaguely Asian accent. Like one you would hear in any Chinese wuxia movie. "All shall be revealed soon, Grasshopper."
Grasshopper. That shut me up all the way to Hudson Square.
