Someone Like Summer

by M. E. Kerr

  “Who is Juanes?”

  “You don’t know him? He won one of your Grammys one year for a song called ‘A Dios Le Pido…’ But my making songs and my singing is a dream. I work for tips at Jungle Pete’s. That’s why I work there only one night. A lot of customers don’t tip at all. Hey, let’s go in. The mosquitoes are biting.”

  I made Esteban lie down on the leather couch while I warmed up the paella in Dad’s new kitchen. Esteban’s uncle had given us extra mussels and even pieces of lobster mixed in with the chicken and rice. I didn’t want Esteban to do anything. I swiveled the table up and put a cloth on it with candles in star-shaped holders. Dad had been over to Pier One and bought little extras: lilac soap for the bathroom, salt and pepper shakers in the shape of swans, white napkins with tiny gold swans on them, even a swan vase he had put fresh daisies in.

  I put down our best dishes, white ones with gold stars in the middle. Mom had found them years ago on eBay. We hardly ever used them. But I noticed Dad had moved them from the house to the screening room.

  I poured cold green tea into tall clear glasses, remembering Dad’s new notion (or Larkin’s) that you should always be able to see the color of your drink. He announced that he would never again drink his nightly scotch on the rocks in a red glass. He put all our colored glasses into a box for the yard sale he said we would have one day.

  I called Esteban’s name, but he had fallen asleep. I went over and tickled his face lightly with the corner of a cloth napkin. (No more paper napkins was another rule Dad made since hanging out with Larkin.) Esteban didn’t budge.

  I played with the gold medal he always wore on the gold chain around his neck. He called it his Santa Cecilia medal. He said she was the patron saint of musicians.

  “Hey, you,” I said softly, and I squeezed in beside him. “Dinner’s ready, Swan Man,” I cooed. That name for him just popped out.

  Esteban opened his eyes. He was blinking and grimacing. I ran my finger across his brow.

  “Anna? Turn off the overhead light, please?”

  “Yes, and I want to light candles for us, too.”

  “Not yet,” he said. He sat up and looked into my eyes very solemnly. “I like what you just called me. Swan.”

  “Do you know that swans mate forever?”

  “We are swans then,” he said. I felt his small hands touch me.

  “Our dinner will get—” but “cold” never came out of my mouth. What happened next came spontaneously and suddenly, like a lighted match touching fireworks. Later I believed that I had known nothing about my own body before Esteban. With Trip, kissing was never so exciting. I liked more being seen places with him. But what I felt with Esteban made me realize all I heard about love in songs, all I saw in movies and on TV, was true. Finally romance was real and there was more to life. It was like discovering a new color or a new taste.

  How long was it before Esteban whispered, “No, Anna, no”?

  I knew what he meant. We would never control ourselves if we didn’t stop as soon as he found the words. It was not the time, not the place, but in all honesty those were the only things that made me agree with him.

  I was shaking when I stood up, trembling all the way across the room to the light switch. Even my voice sounded like someone else’s when I managed to say, “I’ll light candles for us. We want to have dinner by candlelight.”

  I was looking for matches when I heard Esteban exclaim, “Condenación! Dios!”

  “What? What?”

  Esteban was sitting up on the couch, staring at the ceiling.

  I looked up, too. There were rows and rows of nails coming through the wood on one side.

  Esteban was holding his head with his hands.

  It took him a few seconds to say, “I was angry with Gioconda when I left you in the deli and went to the hardware store. I got the wrong size nails. They are too long. Oh, Anna, I have made a terrible mistake! How can I ever face your father?”

  I didn’t know how he could face Dad either. It was too dark out for him to fix it, and he didn’t have the right size nails anyway. “Don’t worry,” I said, “it will—”

  He didn’t let me finish. He stood up and glared at me. There was this tiny vein pulsing in his forehead.

  He said, “Don’t lie!” His hands were balled to tiny fists. “It is my bad and I take responsibility for it! You think I can ever face him again? I cannot!”

  I wanted to say, Well, don’t blame me. Don’t look at me with your eyes furious. But more than anything I wanted to put my arms around him, to make everything all right.

  “Get away!” he shouted. “Ramón is right! You girls don’t really care about us. You belong with your own!”

  “What do you mean? Who’s this Ramón?”

  “I mean how important this was to me, to do this job well! I told you all I have is my good name and now it is what you say—mud!”

  “Who is Ramón?”

  “My homie. He guides me.”

  “He guides you wrong, Esteban. I care a lot about you! Your name isn’t mud just because of a little mistake.”

  “Your father will think it is.”

  “It’s just a little mistake,” I repeated, but I didn’t sound convincing even to myself.

  He gave me the dirtiest look anyone has ever given me, and he spat out the words, very slowly: “You don’t know anything!”

  But right behind the brown of his eyes were the beginnings of tears.

  I just stood there and watched Esteban pick up his tool belt and march out the door. Soon I heard his car start, the wheels skidding down the driveway.

  SEVEN

  SATURDAY MORNING.

  “Larkin?” I said as she stood in the doorway. “Are you Larkin?” I had almost mistaken her for Esteban, her hair was so short and dark.

  “And you must be Annabel.”

  “Come in. My father should be right back.”

  “I was so sure he said to come at noon.”

  “He did. Please come in. Something came up he had to attend to.”

  “Nothing serious, I hope.”

  “Oh no. Nothing serious.”

  My father was a wreck. He had come in late last night, so he had not seen the ceiling until this morning. I’d told him how Esteban had left practically in tears, that he was ashamed of what he’d done. I said he wouldn’t even eat some food I’d ordered from the Pantigo Deli. I often bought takeout for two even when I was alone, because of the delivery charge, and because I could always eat leftovers.

  “Since when does one of my workers get invited to dinner?”

  “I just felt so sorry for him, Dad.”

  “Wait till you see him when I’m finished with him!”

  Last night I had put away the tablecloth, the swan salt and pepper shakers, the candles, our good dishes, everything that spelled out romance. All morning I had tried to reach Esteban on his cell phone. He always answered it; he was always looking for work. But that morning there was just his recorded voice.

  Larkin walked by me, and I knew instantly she had style and grace: the long yellow skirt with the white high-heeled sandals, the low-cut orange top, the tiny gold earrings, no other jewelry. She seemed to glide past me.

  My father has a unique way of showing rage. Not anger—rage. He gets quiet. He speaks in a low tone, so often you have to lean forward to hear him, as though you were slightly deaf. He even gives you these quick little smiles when he says things like “I told that kid how important this job was!”

  “He knew it was, Dad.”

  “How could he be so sloppy?”

  “He felt ashamed, Dad, so ashamed.”

  “He should have.”

  Quick little smile.

  He said, “I’m going down to that house where they all live.”

  I realized I had no idea where Esteban lived, or who “they” were. Gioconda, I thought, and hadn’t he mentioned some man named Dario, someone who had to take a driving test?

  My father said, “Be welc
oming to Larkin, Annabel. If that boy calls, tell him to get his butt over here on the double!”

  “You could serve Larkin paella,” I said. “You know I always order too much.”

  “I don’t eat Latino crap!” he snarled.

  In fact he loved all of it, particularly paella.

  “I don’t mind that your father’s late,” Larkin said.

  “He really isn’t late. There was an emergency.”

  “That will give us time to get acquainted, Annabel. I love that name. There was a poem by Poe about a great love between two very young people. ‘I was a child and she was a child—’”

  “‘In our kingdom by the sea,’” I continued the poem.

  “Yes. That’s it. Her name was Annabel Lee.”

  “I was named for her. It was my mother’s favorite poem.”

  “Mine too,” Larkin said.

  You’d turn around on the street if you passed her, just to get another glimpse. She was not really beautiful, but my father was right: She was different, almost exotic, and she exuded warmth as she strolled around looking things over, speaking to me in this low, sexy voice.

  “Would you like a drink, Larkin? I’m sure my father will be right back.”

  “Oh no, thank you. If I drink in the daytime, I get sleepy.”

  So much for the bottle of French Champagne my father had put in the refrigerator a week ago.

  Larkin handed me a tape. Backstage at the Kirov. “This is a documentary about Leningrad’s Kirov ballet. I’m a balletomane. Your father tells me he is too.”

  “Whatever” was all I could say. I’d never heard the word before, but it was easy to figure out what it meant. The idea of my father saying he was a balletomane boggled the mind. Ballet? Dad?

  “Are you going to join us for lunch?” Larkin asked.

  “No. I think my boyfriend, Esteban, is coming by soon. I hope so, anyway. He has business with my father.”

  “Too bad. I hear your dad’s spaghetti sauce is superb!”

  “Or you could have paella. There’s paella, too.”

  “I’m going to leave the menu up to Kenny.”

  Kenny? Who had ever called Dad Kenny? He was definitely not a Kenny.

  Larkin said, “Will I meet your boyfriend?”

  “I wish you would,” I said. “Oh, and please don’t say he’s my boyfriend. My dad might not think he is. I don’t even know him that well.”

  “Your secret is safe with me, Annabel.”

  Before my father had slammed out the door, he had predicted that Esteban would hide out somewhere. That’s what “they” did when “they” made mistakes.

  “I don’t blame him,” my father had said. “What’s he going to come back here for? To get hell from me? To hear me tell him he’s not getting one red cent until he repairs that roof, and then he’s only getting half of what I would have paid him? He’s ruined my plans, damn him! Why would he come back?”

  I’d said, “Maybe he’ll come back because of me.”

  “Why because of you?” Then he got it. He just shook his head as though he was really sorry for me. “Honey, these muchachos, excuse me, these boys aren’t anything like your Trip Hetherton.”

  “He’s not my Trip Hetherton. When Claire was visiting us, that’s who Trip was calling. I was glad it wasn’t me!”

  “Too bad. At least Trip doesn’t have a room-temperature IQ.”

  “I like Esteban, Daddy. I’d like to see him again.”

  “So would I!” my father shot back. “So would I like to see him again!”

  “I’ll just stroll about and look this place over,” Larkin said. “Did your father design it?”

  “Yes. All by himself.”

  What was Dad planning to do about lunch? He was so rattled, he hadn’t made his famous spaghetti sauce, and I didn’t see any being defrosted.

  Larkin had this great scent about her. A perfume so subtle, you only smelled it as she moved around the room, and then very faintly. It was like the smoky smell of burning leaves.

  “You know what impresses me most of all?” Larkin asked.

  “The table?” My father had paid a fortune for that table.

  “The ceiling. It’s a very emotional ceiling, very original.”

  “The ceiling impresses you?”

  “With its splash of nails up there in the corner. It’s very arresting,” Larkin said.

  I wanted to tell her that what she thought was emotional was actually a mistake, that what she thought was original and arresting was the “emergency” my father was off taking care of. But I also wanted to watch my father’s face when she told him how and why it impressed her.

  “It’s really very daring,” she said. She was looking up at it as if it was the ceiling in the Sistine Chapel, which my mom and I had seen in Rome the summer before she died. The famous artist Michelangelo had painted it.

  “May I tell you something?” I said. I had to tell her.

  “Of course, Annabel.”

  “That is the only thing Dad didn’t design. That is a mistake. Esteban calls it ‘his bad.’”

  “Some mistake. I hope your father keeps it that way.”

  “I don’t think he will. He’s furious. My boyfriend bought the wrong size nails while he was working on it.”

  “Esteban did that?”

  “Esteban Santiago. Yes.”

  “Tell your boyfriend that I like his mistake.”

  “I wish you would tell Dad that, but don’t say Esteban is my boyfriend.”

  “You told me that already. I remember. Esteban is a Latino, hmm?”

  “Yes, a Colombian.”

  “I will tell Kenny I like it, without mentioning Esteban.”

  “Thanks, Larkin.” Then I thought about lunch again, what Dad would serve her, “Do you like paella?” I asked.

  “I love it!”

  “Because my father might not have time to make his famous spaghetti sauce. He cooks it for hours.”

  “Paella takes a long time to prepare, too,” she said.

  “We have some from the Pantigo Deli.”

  “That is one of the best delicatessens out here.”

  “Esteban’s uncle works there. Sometimes he cooks there himself.”

  “You say his name a lot,” she said. “He must be special to you.”

  Another “new” idea of Dad’s he got from guess who. I must have blushed. My face felt hot.

  Larkin hurried to add, “It’s a lovely name. Esteban Santiago.”

  We talked for a while about what college I wanted to go to when I was graduated in another year. When Mom was dying, a social worker named Elaine had helped our family and become my role model. I wanted a profession where I’d help people. Dad had set an example for Kenyon and me. He volunteered for everything. When a fatherless boy from Seaview came back from Iraq blind and missing a leg, Dad worked on college applications with him, helped him figure out what benefits the Army offered, and walked with him while he learned to use his prosthesis. If you called an ambulance in Seaview, Dad could be giving you oxygen on your way to the hospital. If you were old and alone, he could be the one from Meals on Wheels dropping off soup and a sandwich. Mom said it was sexy the way he cared for others. Did you ever see his face, she’d say, when he talks to those people? Those soft blue eyes?

  I’d decided to get a master’s in social work. Elaine had said a B.A. was not enough for the good jobs. Think about becoming a therapist, Elaine had said. I told Larkin that was what I wanted to be.

  “How will your Esteban fit into this college picture?” Larkin asked me.

  I was glad I didn’t have to answer that. I didn’t have an answer. Saved by Dad. A second after she said that, he banged through the door shouting, “Is he here? Have you heard from him?”

  “No hello for me, Kenny?” Larkin said.

  “I’m sorry. Of course I have a hello for you.” He went across and held her and kissed her. Then he sighed and said, “That’s some ceiling, huh?”

  �
�It is like you, smooth and sweet but with a small nail salad on the side.” Larkin chuckled. “That’s what I like about you, Kenny. Although you’re not an artist yourself, not necessarily a creative person, you don’t stand in the way of originality, do you?”

  My father was pondering the question, standing there in his work clothes, wearing his old cap, a little grubby, needing a shave. He was looking from the ceiling to Larkin’s face. He was trying to figure it out. Was she serious?

  “Whether or not you like it,” he finally said, “this kid didn’t follow my orders.”

  “He made a mistake,” I said.

  “I can’t afford to have workers make mistakes. And now he’s taken off. He makes a mistake and pfffft, he beats it.”

  “Wasn’t he home?” I asked.

  “They don’t have homes, Annabel. They have houses, four and five to a room. They even sleep on the kitchen floor! And no, he was not there. Even Ramón doesn’t know where he is, and Ramón always knows where they all are.”

  “Calm down, honey,” said Larkin. “Let me make you a cool drink.”

  “They don’t answer for their mistakes! They run!”

  “Who are they supposed to be, Dad?”

  “The muchachos. Hispanics. Latinos. Whatever you call them…and they’d better stay away from my daughter!”

  “You always say what good workers they are, Kenny.”

  “Have you ever heard me say I want one of my workers coming to dinner? Have you ever heard me say I want one of them trying to make out with my daughter?”

  “He was not trying to make out with me!” I would never think of Esteban in that smarmy way, as though he was doing something to me I didn’t want him to do.

  “Kenny, please relax and let me make you something cool to drink,” said Larkin.

  “I need to shower,” Dad said.

  Next, the sound of Esteban’s old Pontiac rattling up our driveway.

  “He didn’t run!” I said. “He’s here!” I left the two of them in the screening room while I rushed out to meet him.

  Be still my heart, I thought. It was what Mom used to say when something thrilled her.

  EIGHT

  “ANNA, I AM SORRY. I came to give you some thing and to see your father.”