Chasing Windmills

by Catherine Ryan Hyde

  “I would never think that,” I said. She just smiled. “You're the least crazy person I know.” She shot me a sarcastic look. “Okay, granted, I don't know a lot of people. But you're saner than my father.”

  “Honey, he don't set the bar all that high.”

  “But you're happy. You don't have to know lots of people really well to know that most of them aren't happy. You're happy. So I want to hear your advice.”

  She hobbled over and sat on the couch next to me. Patted my knee hard. We could hear rustling from the kettle, like it was about to whistle any minute. But she just ignored that.

  “If I was unhappy like you are now, here's what I'd do. Now just listen and try to take this in. Might not make much sense when it first hits your ears. When life just cuts me to ribbons and bloodies me and knocks me down, I go out of doors into nature. Now that's gonna be hard for you, where you live. If you could get to the ocean, that would be great. But I don't guess you can. But, you know, even the stars are good enough. Except, I suppose you don't see many stars in the city, because the city lights wash ‘em out. But I guess you see some, don't you? And even if you don't, there's the moon. The moon'll do. See, you're looking for something that's not man-made. And you won't get it indoors. Everything indoors we invented. No bigger powers involved. But we didn't make the stars nor the moon. Or trees or oceans or rivers, and we never could. Never will. That's how come you know something bigger's at work. So, look at that proof of something big. Breathe it in. And then here's what you say. You say, ‘Thank you for my life.'”

  I just sat there, slumped on the couch. Confused. The kettle started to whistle, and she got up to tend to it.

  “Why? Why would you say that if you're so miserable?”

  “That's exactly why. Because you're miserable. It's like, if you love somebody. When they hurt you or let you down, you let ‘em know you still love them. That's called unconditional love. Anybody can love somebody when they're making you happy. That requires no special talent. That's also how most people do it. But when you get a little wiser, you know you got to love somebody with all their faults. So, if you can do that with a person, what about your own life? This is like unconditional love for your own life.”

  I could hear the ice cracking and popping as she poured hot tea over it.

  “And then, after I say thank you for my life, then what?”

  “Then you keep going. Keep living. You wake up every day and get dressed and brush your teeth and see what life has in mind for you next.”

  I wondered if, when I looked at Maria tomorrow night, I could love her in spite of Carl. Which, let's face it, was a pretty big fault.

  I guess the better question was, could I stop loving her because of it?

  In other words, did I really have any options?

  THAT NIGHT I WENT OUT into the street after dark. After my father had gone to bed.

  I looked up at the sky, hoping to see the moon. Not that I knew what I would have said to it. I just wanted to at least do the first part. See and feel something bigger.

  But it was still all clouded over.

  I had another rush of memory. I remembered the stars in the desert, from my grandma's front yard. Billions of them. Like, you just never dreamed there were so many stars. You could hold up your hands and make a circle with them and there would be hundreds, just in the tiny round window you created. A whole sky thick with stars.

  I stood there for a long time, staring at the cloudy city sky. I was vaguely aware of people passing me on both sides. I could feel my neck start to ache under the strain.

  Then the sky opened up and it rained on me. Buckets, all at once. It just came down and hit me in the face. I finally got that rain I'd been hoping for.

  But, ironically, I did not feel like dancing.

  I showed up at my sister Stella's house less than twenty minutes after Carl left for work. This time I had not asked for special permission. Because I'm not supposed to go so often. Only when it's been too long. That much even Carl can understand, Stella being blood family and all, and also the only blood family I've got left. But not just a couple of days apart. That would have been a big red flag, or a red cape with Carl playing the part of the bull. So I just packed up Natalie while C.J. was in school, and I went.

  She opened the door about an inch so Leo couldn't bolt. “Oh, God,” she said. “You must be in even more trouble.”

  “Can I at least come in?”

  “Hurry quick,” she said.

  I slipped in with Natalie, who was unfortunately not asleep this time. She was just hanging on one of my hands with her left hand. Sucking her thumb with her right.

  “Do I even want to know?” Stella asked. She was wearing her hair up. Piled up on top of her head like the kind of hairstyle a woman will wear if she's going out for the evening. Which, I gotta say, looked really bizarre with pajamas and a robe. Not that I ever want to judge or criticize Stella, but it's hard not to comment on the fact that her life is full of a lot of very odd combinations.

  I guess I'm a fine one to talk.

  I said, “I have a very important issue on my mind. I was hoping for some information from your expertness in Tarot.” I was purposely trying to use words that Natalie wouldn't understand.

  Meanwhile Natalie pulled out of my hand and ran to greet Ferdy. Ferdy was her favorite of Stella's cats, which was not a hard choice to make, because he was the only one patient enough and friendly enough to be mauled by a two-year-old. She was trying to pick him up, but he was this huge fat orange tabby, maybe close to twenty pounds, and she could only get his front end off the carpet.

  “Come,” Stella said. “Sit.”

  “Well … Only thing is …” I gestured with my head in the direction of the cat-carrying kid. “Little pitchers have big ears.”

  “She barely talks.”

  “She's starting to talk.”

  “Okay. Okay.” She swept over to her entertainment center and picked a VHS tape out of potentially hundreds. Stella had no system of organization, as far as I know, so how she found it so fast was beyond me. “Natalie,” she said. With that kid-bright voice people use. “Do you want to watch your favorite movie ever?”

  Natalie's head popped up. She still squeezed the ever-patient Ferdy. Holding him half off the ground. Her eyes lit up. It looked like excitement with something else thrown in, something more like eagerness and also fear. “Whizzer da Boz?”

  “That's right,” Stella said. “Come sit down on the couch. Bring Ferdy.” Natalie hauled Ferdy over to the couch, still with only his front end off the floor, his back legs walking on the rug to keep up. “Now you sit right here and watch Dorothy and Toto and the Witch while your mommy and your auntie talk about boring grown-up stuff.”

  Natalie climbed onto the couch and pulled Ferdy up after her. She looked once over her shoulder to make sure I was still close. I sat at Stella's card table, so she'd know where I would be. Then she stuck her thumb in her mouth and put her head down to rest on the cat pillow of Ferdy as Stella pressed Play.

  “Thanks,” I said, when Stella joined me at the table.

  Desdemona appeared from nowhere to join us, leaping up and sitting on the corner of the table. I think she knows what Tarot cards smell like or something.

  “What's this big issue? What do you want the cards to tell you?”

  “Well … You know this guy …” I lowered my voice to a hiss of a whisper. “This guy you think I ought to leave Carl for?”

  She shuffled and spread out the cards as we whispered. “Honey, that would be just about any and every guy on the planet.”

  “The one I already know.”

  “What about him?”

  “He's a little bit younger than I thought.”

  “How much younger?”

  “Okay, a lot younger than I thought.”

  “How young?”

  “Very young.”

  “How long do you want to keep going around like this? How young?”

  �
�Kind of shockingly young.”

  “Well, he's legal, right? I mean, he's over eighteen?” I didn't answer. Just looked at the table. Just me and Desdemona, silently staring at a spread-out deck of cards. “Oh. Oh, dear. How far short of eighteen?”

  “Only four months.”

  “And you want to know what the right thing is to do.”

  Desdemona jumped off the table and sulked away. A split second later, Stella gathered up the cards with one long, expert sweep of her hand. She tucked them away in their lavender velvet drawstring bag.

  “Why are you putting the cards away?”

  “Honey, for this we don't need them. You call on the Great Spirit when faced with something hard. This is easy.”

  “It is?”

  “Oh, yes. Very. You have a choice between a guy who's young and a guy who hits you and controls every move you make. Take the young one. Wait four months, just to be decent. And then take the life that doesn't hurt.”

  I sat quietly for a moment, listening to Judy Garland singing “Somewhere over the Rainbow.” I'd thought Stella would tell me seventeen was too young. Out of the question. I'd thought I would lose my Tony dream in one sitting. But I didn't. And I was so relieved. In fact, I think I was kind of shocked by how relieved I was.

  “But I wanted to ask the cards something else.”

  “What's that?”

  “I wanted to know if he's going to be there tonight. ‘Cause last time I saw him, I kind of dropped this bomb on him. And then I said, ‘Day after tomorrow, right?' And he said yeah. But like he wasn't too sure. And I figure once he gets off by himself to really think about it, maybe he won't show.”

  “And you want the cards to tell you the future.”

  “Right.”

  “But they won't.”

  “They won't?”

  “I've told you that about a dozen times.”

  “You have?”

  “I keep telling you the future isn't set in stone. It's not all decided yet. The future is just what's down the road we decided to walk on today. You can change roads anytime. And that changes where you end up.”

  “Oh. I guess that does sound familiar. Yeah. So how do I change roads?”

  “Well, you have to start early. It's a little late to change your outcome now. But just focus on him being there. Don't get into doubts. Don't picture him standing you up. Picture him showing up. You usually get what you think most about.”

  I looked over at Natalie, lying on the couch. Sucking her thumb. Dorothy and Toto were swirling around and around in the house, spinning in a tornado.

  “Well, that leaves us with some time to kill,” I said. “You know we'll never pry her away from Whizzer da Boz.”

  “I'll just put on a fresh pot of coffee,” Stella said.

  IT WAS POURING RAIN when I went to meet him. The kind of rain that doesn't even feel like it could be made up of drops. It feels more like somebody just turned the biggest bucket in the world upside down. Dumped a whole ocean on New York City all at once.

  I was wearing my long raincoat and my big gray hat, but I could feel my hair frizzing up anyway, in the humidity, and the bottoms of my jeans were getting soaked.

  This much rain seemed like maybe a bad omen somehow. Not that I could really explain how exactly. Just sort of seemed like God would have to be pissed to dump an ocean on me. But that's extra stupid when you consider that I don't even believe in God.

  That's one of the very few things Carl and I have in common. We met in the Atheists Club at school. I was a sophomore and he was a senior. But I'm getting off track.

  No talk of bad omens, anyway. Stella said don't think about him standing me up. Think about him being there. So no more of this bad-omen crap. I would just force myself to think about something else.

  I thought, I'll have to give him some way to get in touch with me. Just in case. Because maybe I'd get myself painted into some kind of corner, and have to tell Carl about getting fired. But I couldn't give him my address or phone number. Maybe I could just get his. Or maybe also I could give him Stella's address, just in case of an absolute emergency. I tried to really burn it into my brain. Don't forget to do that. If he shows up.

  When he shows up. When.

  I waited in our special spot for a long time.

  I paced.

  I didn't have a watch with me. In fact, I didn't have a watch, period. But it seemed like maybe it had already been too long.

  Stella said keep thinking he will come.

  I decided he probably just fell asleep. That happened once. But he woke up just in time and came running. Yeah. That could happen again.

  But this voice in the back of my head was just too big. It said, You're a liar and you know it. He's gone forever. You knew he would be. As soon as you told him the truth. Why would he be interested after what you told him? Why should he be?

  After a little more pacing I gave up and took the stairs up to the street. He was never going to show. And the sad part was, I didn't even blame him.

  The next day, instead of running, I went down to the video store and rented West Side Story, with Delilah's blessing and on her account.

  Of course, I took it to Delilah's. How else would I see it?

  Delilah said that was really good, my new nickname. The whole Tony-and-Maria thing. Because it was basically just Romeo and Juliet. “Only told modern,” she said. “Except this was a movie from the early sixties. So it's not so modern now. Not anymore. One of these days you got to see a movie that was made after you were born. With no singing and dancing.”

  “I like the singing and dancing. What's Romeo and Juliet?”

  “You're kidding me. Right? Romeo and Juliet? William Shakespeare?”

  “I know Shakespeare. My father just had me reading Julius Caesar. But he never gave me Romeo and Juliet. Is it a love story?” That's what I'd been hoping for West Side Story.

  “Child, it ain't a love story, it's the love story.”

  So, that explained why I'd read Julius Caesar instead. My father didn't give me love stories. He didn't believe in them. According to him, that drivel about romantic love was just a big waste of time.

  “I forgot to tell you,” I said as she turned on her TV. “I had my first hot dog ever.”

  She stopped what she was doing and turned her face to me, staring at me like I'd just said something that wasn't in English. “You never had a hot dog before?”

  “Never.”

  “What do you two eat over there?”

  “Stuff that's good for you. Only. And nothing you buy on the street. You know. No hot pretzels, no pizza. He thinks people die of that stuff. But I had a hot dog, and I feel fine.”

  She still had that same look on her face. “You never had a slice of pizza.”

  “No. Is it good?”

  She looked up at the ceiling like she was praying. Seeking guidance. Then she shook her head and hobbled over to get her purse, which was on a little table by the door. She rummaged around in there and pulled out her wallet and held a twenty out to me.

  “I demand you walk out that door,” she said, “and you may not come back until you have two slices with pepperoni and a hot pretzel for each of us. And get plenty of mustard for the pretzels. And if they have slices with extra cheese, get that. God help us all. Somebody got to teach this poor boy how to live.”

  THE MOVIE WAS REALLY DIFFERENT from Singin' in the Rain. It wasn't about all these pretty, happy people living well-scripted lives. It was about these two tough street gangs in a really rough section of New York. Only it was funny, because here the white gang was menacing the streets, fighting this tough Puerto Rican gang, but they snapped their fingers and danced. Even when they were running or fighting, they danced every step. And for a long time it was just about being a Jet, which was the white gang, but no Tony and Maria. I was getting really impatient.

  But there was one thing that made me less impatient, and made it all livable. Well, okay, two things. Pizza. And a hot pretzel. The pizz
a was all greasy with cheese, and the pepperoni was hot and made my mouth tingle, and the pretzel was soft and had all these big rocks of salt on it. I could actually hear and feel the salt crunching between my teeth. I wasn't supposed to eat too much salt, because I guess it isn't good for you. According to you-know-who. But I ate that greasy slice and that salty pretzel with tons of hot mustard, and I've never tasted anything better in my life. It was almost enough to make me forget my troubles.

  Almost. Not quite.

  Then the leader of this white gang, Riff, went to see Tony to try to talk him into going to the dance. And there he was. Tony. He was tall, and better looking than any of the other white guys. The rest of them were kind of goofy looking.

  I said to Delilah, “Tony is the best-looking guy.”

  “Well, of course he is,” she said. “He's the romantic lead.”

  So then I missed a lot of the dialogue of the film wondering if I was Maria's romantic lead, and how I possibly could be, if there was such a thing as a Carl. How could she love me if she was living with him? Did that even count? And what did it mean?

  But in spite of all those questions, I knew it was love. A weird version of love, maybe. But also the only love I had. Weird or not.

  Only then I had to stop thinking about it, because there was Maria. The movie Maria, not the real one. “Oh,” I said. “She's pretty.”

  “She sure is, child. That's Miss Natalie Wood.”

  “Oh, yeah. She said her mother named her for the Natalie Wood character.”

  “Is she Puerto Rican?”

  “No. I don't think so.”

  “Her mother just liked this movie, I guess.”

  Then they met. Tony and Maria. They were at this dance, and when they saw each other, everything around them got all blurry. It was like they could see each other and not anybody else. It went on for a long time like that, and they just kept looking at each other.