Chapter 8
Willow brought home strawberries and made a shortcake. “Real whipped cream,” Amber said.
“Of course.” Willow reached into the refrigerator. “Trumpet flourish, please.”
“Ta da, teedle-oop tee tooo,” Amber obliged. “Champagne?”
“A modest vintage, as AhnRee would say. I celebrate. We celebrate.”
“You got laid—that's obvious.”
Willow poured two glasses. “Biology,” she toasted.
“Fucking,” Amber said. “Yumm.”
“God,” Willow said, licking her lips, “strawberries and champagne…Truly, it was a revelation.”
“It, Patrick?”
“Patrick, yes. The whole thing.”
“It wasn't the first time,” Amber said.
“It might as well have been.” Willow's face lit up.
Amber took another bite of shortcake. “Art's taking me to Nantucket.”
“Far out! Moby Dick.”
“Shrimp cocktail, gin and tonic—a great way to end the summer. Want to come?”
“End the summer?” Willow blinked. “No. I mean, I'm working. I don't want to end the summer. A terrible idea.”
“It is.” Amber sipped champagne gravely. “It isn't really the end. Art doesn't want to go until he finishes the outside of his barn. Two weeks, he thinks. But after that, it will be the first or second week in August. We might as well see a few things on the way home—and have a week or so before school.”
“School?” Willow twirled her glass. “I'm not going back,” she said. “Let this be a formal announcement: I hereby renounce Stanford AND the privileges associated thereunto AND all obligation to write useless papers AND all requirements to be stuck in crowded rooms with people who are dumb, bored, or lying.”
“How sweet of you,” Amber said.
“Present company excepted, of course.”
“I would think long and hard on this one,” Amber said. “It's the privileges part. And your family will freak out. What are you going to do?”
Willow put Highway 61 Revisited on the stereo. “That's it,” she said. “That's the point. I don't know what I'm going to do. But I'm going to find out. I'm going to do what I want and not what someone else wants.”
“Is it Patrick? Has he caused you to lose your mind completely?” Amber smiled as she asked, and Willow saw that Amber had already accepted this new reality and was being a good friend, playing devil's advocate.
“It's about finding my mind.”
Amber came over and hugged her. “I'll make enough for both of us,” she said.
Willow felt a weight lift from her shoulders. She had been thinking about this all day, but it hadn't felt real until she told Amber. It was as though a door opened; a breeze blew around the back of her mind, and the light was brighter. She began to cry. “Hold that door,” she said.
“Hold the bottle—is what I'll hold,” Amber said, squeezing her. They each knew that they had come to a fork in the road, and that the distance between them would inevitably broaden. They talked late into the night. Amber volunteered to reassure Willow's parents when she returned to California, and Willow promised to write letters from the wild world.
Willow went to bed tired but feeling honest and sure of herself. “It's a new ball game, squirrelie,” she said, turning her head toward the woods.
In the morning, she waited anxiously for Patrick in the deli. She rehearsed various greetings, but when he came through the door she took one look and asked him what was the matter.
“Gert is in the hospital.”
“Oh no, your nice landlady?” Patrick nodded. “Is it serious?” Patrick raised his arms and let out a breath.
“Yes,” he said. “I called her niece in St. Louis. She's coming today. I think. I need a sandwich. Maybe we could meet later?”
“Sure. I'll be at the Depresso. If you don't show up, I'll figure you couldn't make it.”
“O.K.” He looked relieved. She made him an enormous sandwich and wished that she could hug him, but another customer was waiting. This was the first time she had seen Patrick sad. His expression was calm, resigned, almost delicate. The energy she was accustomed to seeing in his face seemed to have drawn back, turned inward, as though it were trained on maintaining his balance. “I hope I see you later,” she said. His answering smile included her in his balance, if that's what it was. She felt more certain than ever that she was moving in the right direction.
On her way home, she stopped to talk with AhnRee who was seated in a director's chair on his lawn. He was sketching an apple tree. “Nice day, huh, AhnRee?”
“Mmm, yes, Willow.”
“Pretty.” She pointed at the drawing. “I thought you only painted women.”
AhnRee looked up from his labor. “One must take a break occasionally. It is good for the eye.” He selected another colored pencil and rubbed a few darker patches into the ground beneath the tree. “Tone, Willow.”
“Yes, tone.” Normally, she would have continued on her way at this point. Hell, normally, she would have waved and not stopped in the first place. AhnRee put down his pencil carefully.
“And are you content here, Willow?” A bit surprising, sometimes, AhnRee.
“I am,” she said emphatically. “I love the flowers. It is a wonderful place.”
“Pour l'amour.” AhnRee smiled. God, this blushing had to stop.
“Right. L'amour,” she said. “Patrick,” she added.
“Ah, Patrick…Is he the one with the red hair?”
“Yes.”
“Marvelous,” AhnRee said, looking back at the apple tree.
“AhnRee?” He looked back at her. “Amber said that you said I might use your piano some time.”
“Of course, Willow, of course. Amber told me that you were musical.” He rubbed his stomach. “I am often out in the middle of the day. Just let yourself in.”
“Thanks, AhnRee. You are a sweetheart—no matter what they say about you at the Museum of Modern Art.”
His face darkened. “Those idiots…”
“Just kidding.” She skipped away. He was decent, really. She pedaled to the studio, ate a carrot that was getting old, cut up an apple and ate that with a piece of cheddar, and made a mug of tea which she balanced on her stomach as she lay on her bed. She didn't have a violin, and she wasn't sure what she'd be getting into if she started going over to Martin Merrill's. She played piano well enough to fool around, to maybe get at what she was feeling. Her eyes closed, and, without opening them, she lowered the half empty mug to the stone floor.
An hour later, she brushed her hair and put on a slinky black T-shirt. She folded a sweater, weighed it down with a book in the bike basket, and coasted down the mountain. Her favorite table was empty, a good sign. She ordered a beer and put the book on the table, but she did not read it, preferring to watch cars and people pass by, enjoying a feeling of community. I mean, I live here, she thought. I'm not going back. The words still thrilled her.
Patrick arrived 45 minutes later looking pretty much as he had in the morning. “How are ya?” she asked, not wanting to throw herself at him.
“Thirsty…Gert died.”
“Damn.”
“Yeah. This morning. I just called.” She pushed her bottle in his direction and watched him take two long swallows. “Thanks,” he said. “Ginger—that's her niece—is supposed to arrive tonight. She's staying at the house, so I said I'd be there.”
“I'm sorry, Patrick.”
“I am, too. I keep seeing Gert lying in that hospital bed all alone.” He paused. “Strange thing happened: she asked me not to let her niece have a chest that was in the attic. It was like her last wish. She said the chest was hers. `Mine, my love,' she said. She was whispering. I could barely hear her. When she said it, her face changed and she looked like a girl.”
“Oh, Patrick.”
“She seemed almost happy. I think she was happy.”
“Maybe she wasn't so alone,�
�� Willow said.
Patrick spread his hands, palms up. “Anyway—I promised, about the chest.”
“What are you going to do now?” she asked.
“Thanks, Eve.” Patrick took his beer and considered. “Go home, I guess. Wait.”
“What about the chest? Is it big?”
“Not very,” Patrick said.
“Could you hide it somewhere?”
“I guess I could put it under my bed and pretend that it was mine.”
“But, the niece may have seen it before.”
“You're right,” Patrick said.
“You could put it under the bed with a garbage bag around it—just to hide it. Then we could figure out how to move it later, bring it up to my house or take it to the dump.”
“I don't know about the dump,” Patrick said. “It would be like throwing her away.”
“No dump,” Willow said.
“The garbage bag is a good idea. That's what I'll do. So…” He stood. “I'll miss you. Love that T-shirt.” He meant what was underneath. She wiggled in her chair, pleased.
“I've got the day off tomorrow,” she told him. “I'd love to see you.”
“Good deal. Here, after work?” They agreed and she watched him leave, walking slowly. She wanted to tell him about her decision, but he had a lot on his mind. It could wait until tomorrow. Also, that would give her another day to make sure it was for real. She knew it was, but it wouldn't hurt to sleep on it one more night.
In the morning, she wrote to the Dean at Stanford, requesting a leave of absence. Willow (Clara) Brown, she signed it. It's my name, damn it, she said to herself. Every one has always called me `Willow.' I can't help it if Dad is a Brahms freak. I mean, there's nothing wrong with Clara, but Willow is my name. She was working herself up to call home. Writing the letter first made the decision more of a fait accompli, even though she hadn't mailed it.
She rode her bike into town and dropped the letter through the slot inside the post office. “That's that,” she said and felt better. She called collect from a pay phone and got her mother.
“Hi, Mom.”
“Willow, dear!”
“How are you?”
“Just fine. We're all fine. We're worried about you. Are you all right?”
“Never better. Did you get my last letter?”
“The one describing your house and your new friend?”
“Yup. Well—things have moved on. Patrick is more than a friend.”
Her mother sighed. “Oh, Willow, I hope you're being careful.”
“Mother! Of course. And I've requested a leave of absence from school.”
Silence. “I was afraid of this,” her mother said. Willow waited. “Your father will have a fit.”
“Don't tell him until after he's had his drink.”
Silence. Willow braced for where did we go wrong and what's the matter with Stanford. “Baby, are you sure?” The “sure” came from a deep place that resonated with a similar place in Willow.
“Yes,” she said instantly. “I'm sure.”
“All right, Dear. I'll break it to your father. But you're going to have to deal with him.”
“I will. I'll write and let you know my plans. I'm not sure where I'll be this winter. Probably here. I'll let you know.”
“Be careful, Dear. I love you.”
“I love you, too.” Willow put down the phone amazed.
“I mean,” she said later to Amber, “I couldn't believe it. She actually talked to me like a grownup, like a woman.”
“Far out,” Amber said. “I think we better send her some flowers.”
“What a good idea!” Willow jumped to her feet and paced the room. “But my father? I can't send flowers to her and not say anything to him. We haven't had it out, yet.”
“Your father's pretty cool, considering.” Amber meant—for a professor.
“I know,” Willow said. “I'll send him the new Dylan album. I'll put a note on it saying, `latest American masterpiece.' Make a joke out of it. He's going to be upset, though.”
“He'll get over it. It's not like you're running away with a drug dealer, for God's sake.”
“I'll do it this afternoon,” Willow said, “before I meet Patrick.”
She wrote a short note to go with the album. Her father would be relieved to know that she had requested a leave of absence and would be in good standing at the University. She told him that she needed time to find her own direction. He would think that she was making a mistake, but at least he would hear it from her directly and would recognize that she was serious. She added that there was a guy in town who played piano like Fats Waller. “Love, Willow.”
She rode back to the village and ordered flowers for her mother. The Book and Record Shop packaged the Dylan album for her. She slipped in the note and made her second trip of the day to the post office. Not bad, she thought, pedaling to the Depresso. Not bad at all.
“You look cheerful,” Patrick said when she arrived.
“It's Pluto,” she said, “hanging around Venus again.” She bent over and kissed him quickly. “Mercury and Jupiter. You're here early.”
“I took the day off.”
“So, what happened?” Willow pulled a chair out from the table and sat down.
“Ginger showed up late, around eleven. We talked.”
“What's she like?”
“Not bad. Solid. She's married to an accountant—in St. Louis, I told you. She has a couple of kids in college. She is Gert's only close relative. Anyway, she's taking care of things. The house goes to her; she's going to sell it right away. She asked me if I'd take care of the place until then, live for free. I said I would.”
“I bet it sells fast,” Willow said.
“It should. I guess Gert told her about me, so she trusts me.”
“It's a good deal for her,” Willow said. “Houses are more attractive when they are lived in, and summer is the perfect time to put it on the market.”
Patrick stretched. “I've been thinking,” he said.
“About what?”
“About what to do next.” He took a drink of beer. “I've been thinking about maybe spending some time on the west coast. Where did you say you were going to school?”
“Woodstock University,” she said, laughing. “Oh, Patrick, you are such a sweetie.”
“Not,” Patrick said.
“I have news, too,” Willow said. “I was going to invite you to Deanie's and tell you, but I can't wait.”
Patrick sat up straight.
“I quit! I'm not going back. I put in for a leave of absence.”
“No shit?”
“Truly.”
“Far out.” A grin spread slowly across Patrick's face. “What are you going to do?”
“Buy you dinner at Deanie's.”
Patrick was surprisingly formal at dinner. He ordered carefully and ate slowly, looking around the restaurant with pleasure. What a sweetie. Willow couldn't get over how comfortable she felt. This was like, life.
“This is my fourth dinner in Deanie's,” Patrick said.
“Impressive,” she said.
“I always order apple pie,” he said.
“Make that two.” She told him that she was going to find a way to stay in town. They agreed that it was a good place to be. “I mean, it might be fun here in the winter,” she said. “A lot fewer people, I bet.”
“Have to get warm coats,” Patrick said. They were agreeing, without actually discussing it, to spend the winter together. Patrick walked her all the way home and then walked back after a long hug which stayed with her as she slipped beneath her covers on the porch. How good is this? she asked herself. Very good. As she and Patrick passed through town, a voice had come out of a doorway.
“Patrick, old buddy.”
“Hey, Billy,” Patrick said, stopping.
“You got a buck for some cigarettes?”
“Yeah, man.” Patrick reached into his pocket. “They aren't doing you any good,
Billy.”
“There's worse.”
“I guess…This is Willow.”
Billy looked her up and down. “Willow, huh—now there's a pretty name. You take care of her, Patrick. She's a good one.”
“I'm rotten to the core, Billy,” she had said. That started him laughing and coughing.
“You're in trouble, Patrick,” he managed to get out.
“I know it,” Patrick said. “Well, we'll see you, Billy.”
“Obliged. Good night, Willow.”
“Good night, Billy.”
Tears came to her in bed as she remembered. She and Patrick had walked up the street leaving Billy behind. He had given them his blessing, from a doorway, alone. It was like being married. She felt accepted for the first time as part of a public couple. “Obliged, Billy,” she said and slept.
Every Story is a Love Story Page 8