Dating da Vinci

by Malena Lott

  I followed Doc down the halls of the English building, recalling the first time I learned Doc's Way of the Sword. “Sword” is an anagram for “words.” He liked the swashbuckling analogy of the sword with language; that it is only through effective communication and comprehension that the world can prosper. Doc claims that it is mis-communication that leads to poverty, war, and death.

  We stopped in front of a row of photos of the deans of the university. He himself was a dean in the '70s before he went into semi-retirement, but how can one ever retire from words? Words are life. He put his hand next to the photo of the current dean, Dr. Sanford

  Theodore Irvin, the first black dean of the college. “What do you see here?” He motioned with his case down the long row of deans.

  “A bunch of men with bad hair.” I smiled at my power to rankle the old prof.

  He pounded his wrinkled hand on the empty space. “No,” he bellowed. “You're looking at your future.”

  I raised my brows. “ I'm going to be the next dean of the College of Arts and Sciences?”

  Doc nodded once. “Well, I'm no psychic, but plan on twelve years from now. God willing, I'll still be alive to see it.”

  Ten minutes later, I was sitting in my black station wagon in front of the ATO house watching a slew of frats wrap Christmas decorations on the Roman columns of the porch. Da Vinci had been gone for two weeks. I missed him most at night, when he would climb next to me and wrap his warm leg over mine and pat my behind and rub my back, waking me to make love. And in the morning, when he would make the boys and me omelettes and toss the New York Times crossword to me with not one square filled in. And after school when he would go with me to cheer on Bradley at soccer practice or play chess with William and lose miserably.

  I'd missed his birthday, too. Twenty-six and life to go. Taking a deep breath, I grabbed for my purse in the passenger seat, noticing that one of Anh's da Vinci books I planned to return later that day had fallen to the floorboard. There she was: Mona Lisa, smiling up at me, and I couldn't help smiling back.

  The mystery of Mona Lisa's smile was one of the reasons people throughout history had been so fascinated with the painting. Da Vinci himself had been rumored to carry the painting around with him everywhere he went. Five hundred years later, Mona Lisa was still an enigma. Depending on which scholars you believed, she was either the wife of a Florentine tailor, named Monna Lisa, though the painting was named well after da Vinci's death, or the juicier choice was that the woman was Isabella of Aragon, part of the famous Sforza family. The juicy part? That da Vinci was her second husband. If the second rumor was true, then her alluring smile made perfect sense to me. Making love to da Vinci can most definitely put a smile on your face.

  And why would da Vinci need to doodle her name in his notebooks if he could carry her painting with him? Always by his side.

  I like to think that Mona Lisa could be any woman. Every woman. Whether her veil was to commemorate the recent birth of a child, as was the custom then, or that she was deep into the second phase of mourning the death of a close relative, Mona Lisa was undoubtedly expressing contentment with her place in the universe. Her smile seems to say: I am who I am and come hell or high water, you can't take that away from me.

  I peered into the rearview and curled my lips into the Mona Lisa smile. The same, exact one. This much I know: when you can feel it, you can smile it.

  As I bent to retrieve the Mona Lisa book and return it to the stack, a notebook jutted out from underneath the seat. I caught my breath. The notebook. He must be going crazy without it. I plucked it from the floorboard and opened it, half-guilty for peeking at something that could be a man's diary, but after all we'd gone through, I figured I deserved one little look.

  I opened it, expecting to find the sketches and musings he'd written there from his journey across land and sea, how he'd tried to love me, only to lose me, but finding a good life despite the odds.

  Instead I found pages upon pages of this…

  Brkfst. Omelette w/extra cheese plus dry toast-800 cals

  Lunch. Double turkey sandwich. w/chips plus brownie-1,125 cals

  And this…

  Monday-

  Jog 4 miles

  200 crunches

  50 push ups

  Make love

  I laughed out loud. Da Vinci hadn't been keeping a private journal at all, but a diet and exercise journal. He was even more obsessed than my sister. Was making love to me nothing more than a good way to burn more calories at the end of the day? I gathered the nerve to get out of the car, tucked his journal underneath my arm and made my way through the college men, recognizing Pickler and T-Bone.

  Figuring I should check in versus sneak in as I'd done before, I stepped in to the small office where a tiny desk and two chairs sat, and a small window through which I could see the guys decorating the front porch. I made my way around the desk, looking at the pile of papers of financials and frat business with notes in the margins. I sat in the swivel chair and saw a picture of me and da Vinci with the boys from Halloween taped to the computer screen. I winced. What were his things doing in the house mom's office?

  I opened the middle drawer to find the usual office accoutrements: pens, paper clips, pennies, and a pledge pin like the one da Vinci had pinned on my poodle pajamas just weeks before. Could it be his?

  The larger right-hand drawer contained a dozen notebooks just like the one I'd found in the car. How could anyone keep so many notebooks of calories burned and consumed?

  Grabbing the one on the top of the stack, I opened it, expecting more of the same chicken scratches of food and fitness. Instead, I found elegant prose written partially in English, partially in Italian.

  I flipped several pages, searching for my name. When I found it, my body became very still. Why do I fear that Ramona does not feel the same for me as I do for her? Why does she look at me like schoolboy who needs teacher? Why do I fear if she knows I know English better than I have let on that she will dump me? How can I make her know how deep my feelings are for her? I wonder most of all if love can be lost in translation.

  “Mona Lisa.” His voice was reprimanding, but not cold. He seemed more shocked to be seeing me there than I had been finding the journal.

  “Hello, da Vinci. Leonardo.” I stood and he hesitated, as if not sure how to approach me. A handshake? A hug?

  He air-kissed my cheeks. “It's good to see you. You look well. No, better than that. Ravishing.”

  I could feel myself blush. “You, too. I found this in the car.” I handed him the notebook I'd brought in.

  Da Vinci opened it then tossed it on his desk. “You must think I'm shallow to keep a notebook of such things.”

  I studied his features like one might a favorite painting in a museum. He grew more beautiful every time you laid eyes on him. “I think writing things down for posterity is a very good thing.” I gently closed the drawer door with my thigh so he couldn't see I'd found the others.

  Crossing one leg over the other, he leaned against the wall. “I am no longer a frat boy. I am, as they say, house dad. You must be twenty-six to apply.”

  “I hope you had a happy birthday.”

  “I did. Thank you.”

  “So you like it here, then?”

  “In charge of these crazy Americans. This way I get free room and board and some spending money and can still watch over them. And the work is never tedious.”

  I stepped out from the desk, proud of his English. Most frat guys wouldn't use the word 'tedious'. “You care about them, don't you?”

  “Everybody needs somebody to look out for them. Like you did for me.”

  I could feel the tears wet my cheeks. “I'm sorry, da Vinci. I'm just crying because I'm so happy for you. I mean, look at you. You made it.”

  He reached out for my hand. “And look at you. You seem happy. Truly happy.”

  “I am. I'm glad things worked out for you here. If you need some place to go for Christmas, I'm sure
the boys would like to see you.”

  Da Vinci tucked his longer hair behind his ears. It seemed like ages ago that I had done the very thing for him. Like another life. I resisted telling him he could use a haircut.

  “I miss William and Bradley. But Chiara is coming for the holiday. I was wrong to believe that distance would make me love her any less.” He pointed to his chest. “Even though I couldn't see her, she was right here all along.”

  Chapter 24

  ANH PLOPPED HER KEYS on the kitchen counter and Vi on my lap. She paced back and forth, and I'd been friends long enough to know not to push her. Finally, she leaned on the kitchen counter and looked me squarely in the eye.

  “Who have I become? Really? Because what I'm feeling inside doesn't match who I've always thought I was.”

  “Am I really supposed to answer that?'

  “Vi's mother wants her back.”

  I held Vi closer. “And you don't want to give her back.”

  “Is that not the damndest thing? I've been complaining practically since Vi's birth that I don't want to raise her and how I want her parents to be more involved, and when they finally wake up and want her, I can't give her up.” Anh's face screwed into a cry. “I can't. She's mine. I never wanted to believe it, but she's my baby. She calls me ‘Mom,‘ which is a helluva lot better than ‘Grandma,‘ by the way, and I know I can give her a good life.”

  “Of course you can. So you'll fight for her. You'll fight for what you want.”

  “And in the midst of my breakdown, what does my American boyfriend do?”

  “Proposes to you.”

  “How did you know? So much for an anti-climactic moment.”

  “I've been waiting for you to tell me. He told Rachel before Thanksgiving he was going to.”

  “And you kept this from me why?”

  “I wouldn't want to ruin your surprise. It's not often a woman gets proposed to. Wait a minute. I forgot who I'm talking to. So where's the ring?”

  “Ring? Ring? I didn't say yes! But saying no felt like lying. Which is why I came here to ask my PhD friend who just did a damn dissertation on love why I wish I would've said yes.”

  “Because you love him.”

  Anh made a face and went to the pantry to retrieve food-prob-ably junk food, the stuff that I rarely ate anymore. She turned around, her mouth dropped open. “Ohmigod. You finally got rid of the peanut butter.”

  “I did. It was time.”

  “Good for you.” She motioned to the Christmas tree in the living room. “And you decorated this year.”

  “The boys helped.”

  “Still.”

  “Still. I know. And as for you…”

  “I should say yes.”

  “Fourth time's a charm.”

  “I thought it was the third time? That was my most disastrous marriage yet. Where does that saying come from?”

  “America. No one knows exactly, but the precursor to it was Elizabeth Barrett Browning, who in a letter in 1839 said, ‘The luck of the third adventure‘ is proverbial. Then it was spotted in 1912 in a snooty newspaper report about a mature woman getting married for the third time.”

  “Women are such optimists. Talk about your American perseverance.”

  “We push on. As for love, it's worth the chance, I think.”

  “Are we talking about me now, or you?”

  “You. Of course. Though I might heed some of the advice.”

  Anh grabbed a fistful of Cheetos. Okay, I hadn't gotten rid of the junk food completely. “ I'm sure the duck house looks splendid this time of year.”

  The invitation arrived in the mail the next day, a silver envelope with a crisp white card inside with silver foil lettering.

  You are cordially invited to a Christmas Party at the home of Cortland Andrews on Friday, December 23rd at 7 p.m.

  I traced my fingers over the lettering. I'd only seen him twice in the last month, our schedules for coming and going out of sync, which was for the best. Every day I thought of him-every hour, though I wouldn't admit it-and I had so much I wanted to tell him but ended up calling up someone else instead to share the news. But instead of feeling satisfied, the things piled up inside of me: that I had accepted the job at UT to teach three days a week in the liberal arts program, that William had won the local chess tournament, that I had now organized every drawer and closet in the entire house and the boys were miraculously keeping their rooms clean.

  The little things, too, things that only Cortland might appreciate: that I'd completed the New York Times crossword in record time the day before, that I'd seen four ducks walking in front of his house last week on their way to a local pond, and they had stopped and looked at his house as if they knew they were welcome there.

  The invitation did not ask for an RSVP, so I decided I would just drop by. He had probably invited all the neighbors, though many would already be out of town visiting relatives, and it would be rude not to wish him happy holidays in his first Christmas in his home.

  More than ever, I felt Joel's presence in our home. As I removed the clutter, peace fell over me, the anxiety washed away. I missed him all the same, but as Deacon Friar had suggested, I felt Joel in my heart instead of pushing him out. Thinking of him had transitioned from hurt to comfort.

  This would be my first Christmas After with la vita allegra. I'd baked Joel's favorite Christmas foods-banana nut bread and peanut butter cookies-and doled them out to the neighbors. I had taken the boys to the ATO house to deliver four dozen cookies to da Vinci to share with his guys, and another three dozen to the Panchal Center. I had saved one loaf back to take to Cortland's party.

  Judith and Barbara took the boys to a Christmas party at Life so I could go to Cortland's party alone. I walked across the street at 7:05 p.m., not wanting to be the first one there, but no other cars were in the driveway. As I rang the doorbell, I heard Christmas music coming from the inside-the classics, Frank Sinatra. I wondered if the other neighbors had done as I had and simply walked over, though there were no other footprints on the snowy sidewalk.

  Cortland answered the door, wearing a red sweater and pressed slacks, handsomely festive. He took the banana bread I offered him. “You came,” he said as if he couldn't believe it.

  “Merry Christmas.”

  “Merry Christmas. Oh, come in. Let me show you around.”

  “Wow.” The place was completely transformed. New tile, new paint, new granite and stainless steel kitchen, just as he'd described. I admired his vision for change. “It's all so different.”

  “You like it?”

  “Like it? I love it. Wait 'til all the other neighbors get here. They'll be jealous.”

  He took my coat and hung it in the entry closet. I followed him to the kitchen and sat on the black bar stool and noticed two martini glasses on the counter. Two and not ten, twenty?

  “Can I pour you a Christmastini?”

  “A what-ey?”

  “It's pomegranate juice. Nice holiday drink. Pretty tasty, too. And full of antioxidants.”

  “And vodka, I presume.”

  “Well, that, too.”

  “One can't hurt.”

  He shook the martini mixer and poured me a glass, the rich, red liquid filling it temptingly. “So congratulations on your new post at the university, Dr. Griffen.”

  “How did you know? Wait a minute. Noble, Judith, my mom. You probably know everything that's been going on with me. And I had so much to tell you.” I caught myself, too revealing.

  “I'd much rather hear it from the horse's mouth. Not that you're a horse, of course.”

  I drank one, two, three Christmastinis and told him everything that had been bottled up inside of me, beginning with the mundane and getting more and more personal, about how I broke up with da Vinci the night before Thanksgiving and how I'd found his journals and how the boys had wanted to play matchmaker to make me happy again.

  We moved from the kitchen to the living room on the plush leather couches and De
an Martin sang to us as we ate the appetizers that seemed like an awful lot of food for two people. I'd been enjoying the party so much I hadn't noticed the time, or that no one else had joined us.

  “Where are the people?” I asked.

  Cortland looked around. “What people?”

  “The party people. Where is everyone you invited to your party?”

  “They're all here.”

  “They're all… wait a minute. You threw a party and invited one person?”

  “That's right.”

  “So it's not a party at all, but more like a date.”

  Cortland shook his head, playing innocent. “Nope. This has all the ingredients for a party: music, food, drinks. I think even you can't refute that this is a party.”

  “A party of two.”

  “Does it really matter what we call it?”

  “Of course it matters. Terminology matters very much.”

  “Well, I, for one, think whatever it is we're doing here is going pretty well.” He leaned closer, then noticed the snow falling outside. “Thank you, Jesus.” Cortland bounced off the seat.

  “Did you just thank the Lord for the snow?”

  “Yep. It's the one party ingredient I couldn't pick up at the store. I needed it to snow so I could show you this.” He grabbed my hand and led me outside, down the path, the snowflakes tickling our faces as we walked hand in hand to the swing. He'd placed little red scarves on the duck statues in the garden.

  “Nice touch,” I had to admit.

  We held hands and swung back and forth, watching the flakes fall onto the trees, the oak, the evergreen, the tops of the ducks' heads. I rested my head on his shoulder. “You do know how to throw a good party,” I said finally.

  “If you like this, just wait and see what I'm like on a date.”

  “Dating is for the birds. I feel too old to date.”

  “We could probably find a word you liked better. Mating?”

  I turned up my nose. “Eww. No.”

  “I've always liked the word ‘rendezvous.‘ It's fun to say: ron-daaaaaayvooooo.”