ODD NUMBERS

by M. Grace Bernardin

  “What?” they all asked looking anxious.

  “I need an honest opinion,” Vicky said turning to the side, revealing her tattoo. “What do you think?”

  “Don’t worry about the tattoo,” Allison said, seeming exasperated that she would even bring it up.

  “Mind if I take a closer look?” Barb asked. Vicky gave her permission. Barb held Vicky’s arm and examined the tattoo as only a health professional might. “Hmm, interesting depiction of a myocardial infarction.” Vicky glared at her. “Well, that’s my interpretation of it anyway, but then I’m not much on art.”

  “She wasn’t asking for your artistic interpretation of it,” Allison said. “She’s self-conscious about being seen in an evening gown with a tattoo on her arm.”

  “I wouldn’t worry about it,” said Sally. “The colors work with your dress and your makeup.”

  “Well, now ain’t that comforting,” Vicky said facetiously. “I gotta drawing of a heart attack etched onto my arm, but the colors work. I think I’ll just put that shawl around my shoulders right now and forget about it. You got it for me, Allison?”

  “Right here,” Allison replied, pulling out a neatly folded gold block of material from her bag. “And don’t let me forget your evening bag while I’m at it,” she said retrieving a small gold beaded purse.

  “What the…? Girl, what have you done?” Vicky said in astonishment. “I thought you were loaning me your black shawl and evening bag.”

  “I was. But then the more I got to thinking about it, the more I thought you really should be arrayed all in gold.”

  “How much did it set you back?”

  “It’s a gift. Just accept it.”

  Frank stood at Vicky’s door just minutes after the ladies left. He wore a classic black tuxedo with black tie and cummerbund, a fancy white starched shirt with gold and black studs, cuff links to match, and black shiny shoes with just the slightest hint of a crease on the toe, as if they’d only been worn once or twice before. He held in his hand a dozen long stemmed red roses. And then there was his face–all clean shaven and smelling good.

  Open and unguarded, he stood there. At the sight of her his face broke into a smile so broad it covered half his face, showing off the deeply etched dimples in those manly cheeks and causing his navy blue eyes to sparkle with lively exuberance. Everything about him, his smile, those eyes, the sound of his voice greeting her, the scent of his cologne, those hands so notably strong which had played the piano and caressed her cheek and now held roses, his presence, his very soul; all of these things that made up Francis swirled around her in that moment until Vicky felt as if her heart did a sudden quarter turn.

  “Be still my beating heart,” Vicky said catching her breath and slapping her hand upon her chest.

  They did what they so often did in those awkward unspeakable moments–they laughed. Laughter was their secret language, releasing all those pent up feelings, foolish, as lovers so often are to the casual observer.

  “I do declare, I never thought I’d see Prince Charming in the flesh standing right here at my door with roses,” Vicky said. “They’re beautiful.”

  “Of course. They match the recipient,” Frank said handing her the roses. Vicky accepted them, cradled them in her arms like an infant, and buried her face in them taking in the fragrance.

  “Come in,” she said, stepping back and allowing Frank to cross the threshold of her apartment. Frank closed the door behind them and stood as close to Vicky as one person can get to another without physically touching.

  “Your hair,” he said smiling and running his hand lightly over the side of her head.

  “It’s a big change, isn’t it? You like it?”

  “Oh, yeah! Mostly I like you,” he said in a soft voice.

  Feeling suddenly embarrassed and vulnerable, as only Frank could make her feel, she cleared her throat as if to clear away the discomfort of that intimate moment. She quickly walked away, busying herself in the kitchen with cutting the stems of the roses and filling with water the crystal vase which Frank had given her to hold all the flowers he’d bestowed on her.

  “Who cut your hair? Allison or Sally?” Frank asked.

  “Allison, but how did you know it was one of them?” Vicky said placing one rose at a time into the vase.

  “Our dear Sally isn’t one to keep a secret.”

  “Thanks a lot, Sally!” Vicky said letting go a chuckle. “I never would have thought anybody would make such a fuss over me like that in a million years,” Vicky said, separating the roses, one from another until they were just right in the vase. “If any of my biker buddies found out I played live Barbie doll to a bunch of giddy girls, they’d never let me live it down.” Vicky thought about how little she saw of her old friends these days, but decided in that instant not to pause too long on that thought lest she begin to feel morose.

  “Your secret’s safe with me,” Frank said.

  “Yeah, you probably love it. All these women going to all this trouble just so your date could look her best,” Vicky said.

  “I admit, I’m honored.”

  “You better be. I did it for you.”

  “Come here,” Frank said, and they walked toward each other until at last they were in each others’ arms. They kissed long and carelessly.

  “Oh, Vicky, this is what I wanted to do the moment I saw you there at the door–just grab you and kiss you. But I was holding roses and I didn’t want to snag your dress on a thorn.” They kissed again.

  “Sally went to all this trouble to get my face just so, now you’re gonna have it all smudged off by the time we walk out the door. And don’t get too near my hair,” Vicky said as he kissed her neck and his hand traveled near the back of her head. “You get your hand stuck in that snarled up mess of plaster and cement and you won’t ever get it out again.” They laughed while kissing–bestowing their merriment upon one another through the breath of their laughter, little fragments of joy exhaled and taken in through the mouth, passed on from one to the other like good medicine.

  “I’ve never laughed so much in my life as I have these past few months with you,” Frank said.

  “Me too,” said Vicky. “I’ll make a deal with you. The day we quit laughing and start making each other cry instead, it’s time to call it quits. Agreed?”

  “Agreed,” Frank said and kissed her again. “Thank you, Vicky.”

  “For what, Francis darlin’?”

  “For looking so lovely.” He took a step back and still holding onto her hands, he stretched out her arms as if to get a better, more full-length look at her. “Look at you.”

  “Look at you!” Vicky said right back at him.“You really like the hair?”

  “If I didn’t would I be attacking you like this?” he said pulling her to him once again and kissing her neck.

  “You’re a guy. I could be bald as a billiard ball and you’d still attack me. Come on, this is a serious question. I need to know if I ought to keep it short or grow it back out again.”

  “It doesn’t matter to me. I like it both ways. It’s you I like.”

  “Answered like a true guy. Anyway, the girls like it. Sally says it shows off my face more.”

  “That’s it! That’s what’s so different about you,” Frank said in a moment of epiphany.

  “That and the fact I generally don’t walk around in evening gowns and heels.”

  “No, it’s your face. You can see it.”

  “It’s right there in front of you, ain’t it? You know it’s weird, I keep going to brush my hair back, and there’s no hair there to brush back. I feel a little freer, lighter, like I told the ladies. The only problem is I think maybe it draws attention to my scar.”

  “Your scar,” Frank said touching the scarred cheek lightly and tenderly.

  “Maybe I could get that plastic surgery you talked about.”

  “I don’t notice the scar. Only you.”

  “You’re sweet, Francis,” Vicky said kissing the palm
of his hand. Then looking at his wrist watch she said, “We better get going. Don’t you have dinner reservations somewhere?”

  “Indeed I do.”

  “Oh, I almost forgot something,” Vicky said going to the refrigerator for the boutonniere. She snatched the white cardboard box and hurried back to Frank as quickly as the long dress and high heels would allow her.

  “This is for you,” she said presenting him with the box. She watched his face carefully as he opened it. “I hope you don’t think it’s too foolish or immature. Tonight is the high school prom I never had.” Frank looked up at her, his brows knit together in an expression of poignancy.

  “Thank you,” he said in a voice so low and tender it was almost inaudible. “I’m truly touched. Would you put it on me?”

  “I would be most honored,” Vicky said with a smile. She pinned the stem onto the lapel amid barbs and bantering about being careful not to stick him with it.

  “Shall we go?” Frank said after she had finished. “Do you have a wrap? It’s chilly out,” Frank said.

  “A wrap? I bet I haven’t heard that word since my first grade teacher, Miss Sweeny. We always had to have a wrap when we went outside for recess.” Vicky said grabbing her gold shawl off the back of her rocker. She started to put it on but Frank was there at her shoulder in a moment spreading the silky material over her bare shoulders.

  “I can dress myself, Francis honey.”

  “Why must we have this discussion every time?” said Frank.

  “I know, I know, it’s the gentlemanly thing to do–hold the door open, hold the chair, help the damsel in distress with her wrap. But still, how did this particular custom get started? Like someone might hurt themselves putting their coat on? What’re you gonna do? Dislocate a shoulder or something?”

  “I think it started back when women wore so much clothing they could hardly move. You know, they were on the verge of fainting all the time, so they required all this extra assistance. Then it just stuck,” Frank said.

  “Hmm, makes sense. Right now I feel like I could use one of them pageboys from the fairy tale picture books to hold my train so I don’t trip over my dress going up and down steps. Watch out for me.”

  “I won’t take my eyes off of you.” Frank smiled.

  Vicky switched off the light, closed the door to her apartment and locked it. Frank held the door to the apartment building open for her as they stepped out into the cool evening air.

  The September sun shone in the western sky, lower in the horizon with the ever shortening days of autumn.

  Chapter 26

  Anxiety settled in Vicky’s gut as the old Victory Theater loomed larger than life before them with each approaching step. The Victory Theater–the oldest movie theater in the heart of downtown Lamasco had been recently restored in an attempt to bring some life and culture into a dying downtown. The Philharmonic concerts where held in this beautiful old structure which seemed both daunting and mysterious to Vicky. She adjusted her shawl around her shoulders, making sure it covered her Sacred Heart tattoo. She concentrated on gliding and walking like a lady as they made their way through the front door and stopped just outside the old box office to hand their tickets to an usher. Vicky looked around at all the ladies. She was relieved to see many dressed as formally as her. It was something she worried about, but Frank told her not to worry, that many of the who’s who would be coming from a fancy benefit gala to kick off the season. The only ones who weren’t dressed up were the bohemians, but even in their studied carelessness, they emitted a certain pretension. Vicky was the only one of her kind there. An occasional customer from River Inn recognized her and waved, smiled, or said hello as they waded through the crowd; and she couldn’t decide if that made her feel better or worse. It was good to be acknowledged but embarrassing to think there were those that knew her true identity and might be judging her for being there tonight. Frank must’ve picked up on her thoughts and gave her hand, which he’d been holding onto tightly, a quick squeeze. “Don’t worry, Vicky, you’re the most beautiful woman here,” he whispered.

  It seemed a long walk halfway up the aisle on the left side of the theater, but at long last they were at their seats, bringing to Vicky some comfort and security in the fact that she could now just relax, sit next to her Francis with the house lights down dim and enjoy the music. It was the first time Vicky actually looked at her surroundings, the first moment since they entered the building which she was free enough from the burden of self-consciousness to really observe where she was.

  The Victorian décor transported her to another world, the reds and golds laced with intricate designs on the walls and ceiling, the heavy red velvet curtain on the stage, the candelabras on the wall, the balcony seats up and all around the theater where people mulled about. All of this was enhanced by the sound of the orchestra tuning their instruments, filling Vicky with a strange anticipation. As she looked all around she made a conscious effort not to gape, gasp, or exclaim though she was swept up by awe at her surroundings. She imagined she was in another time, another world, another place, and began to let go some of the anxiety.

  She read in the program about the lives of Mozart and Rachmaninoff and what was going on at the time they composed the music she would be hearing tonight. Their lives and their art were so often marked with hardship and conflict, and this knowledge filled Vicky with a strange hope.

  Finally it was time for the concert to begin. The house lights dimmed, the orchestra members stopped their tuning, and a hush fell over the audience. The first violinist came out on stage and everyone applauded as he took a bow. Then out came the maestro who bowed, shook the first violinist’s hand, and raised his baton inaugurating the evening’s performance with the Overture from Bernsteins’ Candide.

  It was a piece Vicky was unfamiliar with, but it was joyful, energetic, and fresh to the ears. With elation she experienced Mozart’s symphony as alive and filled with the optimism and enthusiasm that is Mozart’s signature.

  What really moved Vicky was the second half of the concert–Rachmaninoff’s Third Piano Concerto. The pianist was a Russian man, a Soviet defector, no less. Frank told her it was one of the most difficult piano pieces to master and there are few alive that can handle the Rach 3, as it is affectionately called by those who know and love his music.

  They were fortunate enough to have a good view of his hands from where they sat but not as good a view of his face which the other side of the house would have more of an opportunity to appreciate. Just like in the first part of the concert with the Mozart symphony, she was startled into a new awareness of the music with hearing it new, fresh, and live. It was not just the sounds but the visuals as well; watching the orchestra, the conductor, and most of all, the pianist with his skilled fingers moving up and down the keys. She could tell the music affected him from the way his body moved in rhythm to the various chords and from profile glimpses of his face showing at times profound emotion.

  And what of those emotions, Vicky pondered. Surely this artist was connected somehow to the heart of Sergey Rachmaninoff himself, being a Russian in a strange land and perhaps longing for certain things about his homeland that he had to leave behind forever.

  The piece started out with something deep, dark, and Russian. At least to Vicky it sounded like what she pictured Russia to be from her limited knowledge and scant memories of high school history classes. She wished she’d paid more attention in school, but nonetheless, her mind conjured up images of exiled Bolsheviks in Siberia dressed in heavy winter garb trudging through the snow, and braving all sorts of hardships. There was something persevering and disciplined about this opening, something of the human spirit that would continue to trudge forward despite a cold wind blowing in one’s face. It was struggle at its deepest core that Vicky heard and felt in this beautiful music. And then a change came about, like something hopeful and light blowing in, finding long awaited release from this struggle, a prisoner glimpsing at freedom; but never for long a
s the theme of struggle returned again and again with the sound of heart-wrenching melancholy, fighting not to surface, but in the end unable to restrain itself.

  The second movement was pure longing, like she’d heard before in some of Rachmaninoff’s other music. It was longing never quite quenched though the subject kept coming close, resolution was right there within reach but never grasped, leaving in its wake such deep sadness, relieved only by a few brief moments of humor. At times it was tragic. At other times, funny. It was the longing and homesickness of the stranger in a strange land who can never go back except in mind and memory.

  Though she’d heard the recorded version, there was something quite distinctive about hearing it live that triggered all her emotions–every little bit of longing, melancholy, homesickness, and struggle she’d ever felt. Frank saw the emotion she was trying so hard not to show and he handed her his handkerchief. She covered her face with it and wept silently, wanting only to compose herself. Frank squeezed her hand but it only made her cry more and she wondered why.

  The third movement began with a quick start, snapping everyone out of the dream world they had lapsed into during the second movement. It was here that all eyes were on the pianist hands as he pounded out the dramatic notes with powerful intensity, floating in and out of that dreamlike world, coming back to reality with that harsh reawakening, all of the various themes and emotions finally rising to such a height, achieving something of a resolution, then ending abruptly.

  The audience erupted into applause and everyone sprang to their feet for a standing ovation. Shouts of “bravo” and even whistles were heard, which surprised Vicky, thinking it beneath the dignity of the classical concert-going set to do such a thing as whistle. Frank turned to the teary-eyed Vicky and said, “Are you all right?”

  “Are you kidding? I’m exhausted. That was so chock full of feeling.”

  “It was indeed sublime,” said Frank.