Numerous unlit candles lined the simple wooden altar rail. To the left was a trio of two guitar players and a singer who also led the service, assuring everyone they could either participate in the chanting or simply meditate. Ryan had to admit it was a bit intoxicating, or maybe it had just been the proximity of Jason. Still, the strumming of the guitars, the flickering candles people had begun to light, the chanting from Exodus was transporting and so different than a Mass, where you were preached to, asked for money, commanded to stand up, sit down, kneel, form a line for Communion. Here you were free to speak, to walk up and light a candle wherever you wanted, to remain silent. The young woman in front of her, like several others, had her arms outstretched, palms up, thumb and forefinger touching; she didn’t utter a syllable throughout the service. Ryan tried not to let her mind drift, to be in the moment just the way her mother had urged her to when she had given her Be Here Now by Ram Dass for her thirteenth birthday or taken her to yoga class.
After the last reading, the singer began to extinguish the candles, which by then numbered at least forty or fifty. One by one the flames went out until the entire chapel grew dark again. Slowly, students gathered their backpacks and made their way out into the balmy spring evening. Some ran off, others lingered to talk. Jason was the last to awaken from a contemplative state. But when he did, he emerged refreshed, as though he had just showered, had a cup of coffee, and was ready to begin a new day. Smiling, he spotted her on the bench, where she was pretending to be searching for something in her book bag.
“Ryan! I didn’t know you went to Taizé Prayer.”
“Occasionally,” she said. Nothing like coming out of a religious experience and lying right off the bat.
“I got the things you put in my box,” he said, referring to the cross of palm fronds and the Hebrew calendar she had had the mail service place in his mailbox after the seder she had invited him to. “I’ve been meaning to thank you, but I’ve had these midterms to get through.”
“No problem. I just wanted you to have them.” She was feeling stupid. Why would he want them? What kind of a fool had she taken him for? She was as transparent as plastic wrap. But he surprised her by saying he was glad; he was not as naïve as other women imagined him to be. She stood up and was about to walk with him toward the upper campus when another student approached them. She was petite and much shorter than five-feet-four Ryan, with long wavy jet-black hair that fell down around her upper arms and heavily shadowed deep-set eyes that sucked you in. Her straight nose widened at the tip. Her lips were on the thin side, thank God, or else she would have been perfect. No matter how long Ryan walked around with whitening strips on her teeth, they would never dazzle the way this woman’s smile did against her dark complexion.
“Wasn’t that amazing?” the woman said to Jason.
“You two know each other?” he asked.
The two women nodded as if to say: somewhat. Ryan Toscano and Rutvi Thapar had met three and a half years before in a freshman orientation group that had been arranged alphabetically. They’d had little or no contact with one another since.
“I’m going to Espresso Royale. Want to come?” Rutvi asked.
Ryan was quite sure she was inviting Jason alone, because those searing midnight eyes were fixed on his face. Jason turned to Ryan, who didn’t know if he was asking her permission to go with Rutvi to the off-campus coffee shop or asking her if she’d like to join them. Ryan answered them both with one gamble of a reply. Should he have opted to go with Rutvi, it would have been too late for Ryan to join them.
“I’m off to the library. Got a midterm tomorrow,” Ryan said.
“Me too,” he told Rutvi, apologetically. “Got a paper due.”
“Well. Okay. See you at the dorm meeting later, Jason.”
“Right. See you there,” he said with genuine enthusiasm.
That was what made Jason one of the most sought-after guys on campus by men as well as women. He was not only smart and hot, with his curly black hair, milk-white skin dotted with brown speckles, and blue eyes (black Irish, cream of the crop is how her roommate Jenny Sullivan described him), he was genuine and humble, and seemingly unaware of his physical attributes. Now, having come faceto-face with one of his pursuers, any qualms Ryan might have had about getting more involved with Jason vanished. Rutvi was the nail in the coffin: There was no way he was going to belong to a woman who was probably Hindu and not taken with the Old Testament any more than Ryan was.
“She lives in Holden?” Ryan asked, referring to the modern highrise where Jason was a resident assistant.
“Rutvi? Yeah. Two doors down from me.”
Ryan had her work cut out for her with only six more weeks until graduation.
They continued over to the old Gothic library that was lined with long oak tables and high-backed, elaborately carved mahogany chairs. Two rows of chandeliers and tall stained-glass windows depicting biblical images gave it a solemn atmosphere like that of a church. This was where students went when they really wanted to study and not run into everyone they knew, the way they did in the modern library. And if someone was craving greater solitude, they went downstairs to the stacks, a dungeon of dusty volumes, where they entombed themselves in one of the carrels that lined the walls.
They found two adjacent empty seats: She took out a paperback and a pocket English/Spanish dictionary; he opened his laptop and set a pile of printed-out articles next to it. He typed from time to time while he attempted to interpret highlighted paragraphs. She read a page of the first story in Julio Cortázar’s Final del Juego (End of the Game) over and over. If she was going to pass this midterm in Survey of Latin American Literature, she was going to have to stay up all night, because although she had come to the serious library, she had brought the biggest distraction with her. She was not alone. After half an hour, the cover of his laptop came down with the finality of a theater curtain.
“Let’s grab a cup of coffee,” he said. “It’s going to be a long night.”
“At that new Hillside Cafe under the parking garage,” she said, making certain they would not wind up where Rutvi had gone. And she closed the book on Cortázar. End of the game? This was only the beginning.
* * *
A crystal chandelier and an enormous lily arrangement grace the spacious wainscoted lobby of Laurel Manor, where a pianist at a shiny black baby grand turns out show tunes like Everything’s Coming Up Roses and Mame from five to seven in the evening. It’s as though they were hosting a bar mitzvah or a gala fundraiser; Ryan anticipates being passed a bacon-wrapped scallop and her glass of champagne. Then her eyes fall on several wheelchairs parked next to the wall. Hollowed-out bodies of indecipherable gender slumped to one side. Sunken eyes with whites yellowed like ancient parchment staring up at her or at nothing at all, waiting for visitors who may or may not come, give her the shivers. It’s a premortem ball, she concludes. Luckily, Faye, her grandmother, is at the nursing home only to recover from a fractured hip she received from falling off a bicycle.
At the entrance to the rehab unit called Golden Meadow, Ryan passes a round table with a blue cloth hanging to the floor. Its only purpose is to display a gilded, framed copy of today’s dinner menu: herb-encrusted salmon, pork tenderloin with cherry glaze, garlic roasted potatoes, asparagus spears, mesclun greens with bits of poached pear salad, fresh baked popovers, and fruit and assorted pastries for dessert. All that’s missing is neat rows of table-seating cards.
She finds her grandmother in the activity room, already digesting the 5 p.m. dinner, and she knows Faye will try to entice her to visit more often by offering her things she’s saved all week from the dining hall: small containers of rice pudding, decorative place mats, or even centerpieces she’s persuaded the staff to let her take away. There aren’t many people Faye can’t persuade. Ryan enjoys being with Faye; a degree away from the parental unit, she is the perfect person off of whom to bounce things. While Faye is opinionated, Ryan can tolerate her in a way she ca
n’t her own mother, who is either indifferent to Ryan’s dilemmas or attacks them head-on, devising strategies she thinks are innovative and foolproof. Her mother is mysterious and, not unlike Jason, cautious with her love. Ryan’s father, on the other hand, is the emotional one who has one reaction to most things that involve change—a rise in the pitch of his voice, a nervous twitch of his left eye, and the question: What for?
At six fifteen in the evening Faye is still made up with rouge, lipstick, and penciled eyebrows. Her hazel eyes nearly obscured by heavy-handed clumps of black mascara and green shadow that weigh down her lids, she has difficulty peering up at Ryan as her granddaughter approaches the group of gamblers. Faye deals the last of seven cards face down and calls for the man with a pair of aces showing to make the final bet.
“A royal flush and that’s it for me. My beautiful granddaughter is here,” she tells her poker buddies, throwing down her colorful hand of cards, scooping up the stacks of nickels and dimes in front of her, and dumping them into a large red leather pocketbook the size of a small duffle bag. “This is Ryan,” Faye says with pride.
The two women and one man smile and nod with satisfaction as they take in the girl.
“She has her grandmother’s eyes,” the woman Faye has introduced as Sylvia says, as though Ryan and Faye weren’t there.
“She has her grandmother’s good looks,” the man named Harold points out with slightly slurred speech.
“A shana madela,” Esther extols her beauty in Yiddish.
Okay, this is the Jewish table. No Kennedys here. It’s also the younger table, because despite their wheelchairs, these seniors are healthier looking than others in this short-term unit. Ryan finds the man attractive. Too weird; he’s so old. Yet he is handsome: clean shaven with high cheekbones, a sexy smile and mop of silken silver hair, fine features, erect posture, firm muscles covering these bones, except for the slight droop of the right side of his mouth that could be mistaken for a subtle smile. She even likes his aftershave. God, she must be desperate!
Ryan tries to avoid the stares from envious residents as she wheels Faye away. The plush hunter-green-and-beige geometric carpeting is reminiscent of a four-star hotel, but Ryan can’t decide if the heavy floral scent is a by-product of genuine cleanliness or an attempt to mask urine and decay. When they get to Faye’s room, Faye gestures for Ryan to take a leather-upholstered chair from the corner, where the wheelchair can’t fit, and sit opposite her. The heavy institutional chair, so hard to push, confirms that this is not the Ritz-Carlton.
“So, darling. What’s cooking?”
“What’s with the garbage bag?” Ryan points to an oversized green plastic one in the corner. “Don’t tell me you have to take out your own trash.”
“That’s not trash! That’s what I bought from the Home Shopping Network. Bags, sweaters, shoes, jewelry. You should see my bargains. Look, I can’t get to Filene’s basement in my condition. What else am I going to do in here with all this deadwood? It passes the time.”
“Faye, you know Filene’s closed, don’t you?” She frequently tests Faye’s memory.
“Of course. But I can dream, can’t I? And I don’t dare say the word ‘Macy’s’. It’s like the Empire State invasion of Massachusetts. Isn’t it enough they took the Babe, the Globe, and now that cute outfielder Ellsbury? Didn’t you just love him?”
“I’m a Yankees fan.”
“Your father’s bad influence again. I just can’t stand the thought that Filene’s is gone, that building standing empty. Now that was a department store. Talk about elegant. Stepping into that place was like diving into a plate of molten chocolate cake. Today I watch these women on TV play show and tell, and I call a number. But, hey, it serves its purpose. Where could I go for these, in my situation? Did I tell you I dated the grandson of William Filene? I could have been rich, if his mother hadn’t matched him up with that socialite. He had no balls. Did I ever tell you that story?”
“Yes.”
“He was a milquetoast. But his store—ooh la la! Boy do I miss the Bargain Basement. That’s where I bought your mother’s wedding gown. Stood on a line that went all the way up Washington Street for three hours. I bought her a Priscilla of Boston for next to nothing. She looked like a million dollars in it, but with the puss she put on, you’d think it was a consolation prize I forced on her. And what does she do? She goes to Goodwill and buys a yellow floral cotton dress for ten bucks that made her look like Little Bo Beep and gets married at Jones Beach—not even the Cape, or the North Shore, mind you—we had to go to New York. I can go along with a lot, bubeleh, but the dress—that was like pouring a bottle of milk of magnesia down my throat.”
“What’d you do with the gown?”
“My friend Pearl’s daughter wore it. But it didn’t bring her luck; she got divorced in a year.”
“So let’s see what you’ve got here.” Ryan undoes the twist tie on the bag.
“Stop stalling. What are you up to, bubeleh?”
When Ryan tells her about winning the Brackton Is for Brides Contest, Faye raises her penciled eyebrows and lets out “Well, ain’t that a hoot.” Words like that often come as a surprise, because Faye’s vocabulary is usually eloquent, as though she hailed from the best finishing school or Ivy League college and not an inner-city Boston public high school. She loves to dance and has never been able to sit still when she hears music. Right now she taps the foot of her good side on the pedal of the wheelchair to the beat of a swing number that can faintly be heard coming from the room next door: Faye’s hearing is excellent.
“You know when your grandfather and I were courting, he used to take me dancing every night to the Bradford Hotel on Tremont Street. They had a nightclub on the top floor—The Cascades—with an open sky roof so you could dance under the stars. Glenn Miller, Benny Goodman, Harry James; we danced to them all. After we got married, he never danced again. I could have had the marriage annulled for misrepresentation. After fifty years of marriage he didn’t know how I took my coffee or that I hated milk chocolate.”
“You’re not making a good case for marriage here, Faye.”
“My Sidney did do the wet wash every Saturday before we could afford a washing machine,” she reassures Ryan. “That’s what we used to call going to the laundromat. Must have been some expression your grandfather got from the old country. Just make sure your husband dances with you after you get married. Get it in writing beforehand.”
“That’s the issue here, Faye. I’m not getting married.”
“Why not? You just won this contest.”
“Get serious, Faye.”
“No, you get serious. If there were a doubt in your mind, you wouldn’t be here today to discuss anything. You need to find a husband.”
“I can’t find someone and fall in love in five months.” Ryan uncrosses her legs then recrosses them.
“Don’t say can’t, Ryan. Never say can’t. You can do anything you want.” She’s getting excited and talking faster.
“What drugs do they have you on here?”
She waves the question away. “Where’s your moxie?”
“My what?”
“Your creativity. Your nerve. Your balls.”
“I carry them in my purse.”
Faye laughs. “That’s a good one, Ryan. You should use that in one of your stories.”
“Is that why you tried to ride a bike at eighty-seven? Because you have so much moxie?”
“Well, it wasn’t because I was on the drug of youth, was it? I used to love to ride my bike through the Public Garden every Sunday morning when all the gentiles were in church.”
“How long ago was that?”
‘“About seventy years.”
“What were you thinking two weeks ago, Faye, when you landed in the hospital?”
“I was thinking I wanted to ride a bike. What did you think I was thinking?”
“That you’d give yourself a bone-density test. In the middle of winter, no less.”
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br /> “It was a warm day. No snow.”
“Whose bike did you steal, anyway?”
“The little girl next door; she always leaves it in the front yard. It’s a small bike, a pink bike. I just borrowed it. They say you can always get back on, no matter after how long. It’s like riding a bike. Isn’t that what they say?”
“Oh, Faye.”
“Look, I was trying to reinvent myself. Do you know the only magazine that talks about women improving themselves over sixty is AARP? The fashion magazines don’t even mention women past fifty. It’s as though the second half of your life doesn’t exist. But let’s not get off the subject. In my day, the women were the scheming, clever, conniving ones and men were the dummies. But it was the men who ran the world with those gutsy women behind them. I Love Lucy. My Little Margie. Our Miss Brooks. Burns and Allen. I can name a million of those TV shows.”
“What’s your point? Men are still running the world.”
“But young women like you are moving up. They’re all over the television now, not just giving the weather and in sitcoms. They’re on the talk shows; they’re giving the news. Trust me, Ryan, you can do anything you want. But it’s all about knowing what you want. Your grandfather and I met in the movie theater and got married a month later, before he shipped out overseas. Of course that was wartime, emotions ran high; but where love is concerned, it’s always wartime.”
“You crack me up, Faye.”
“I know. I’m a pisser. That’s what your mother used to say. Your grandfather used to say, ‘Faye, you’re hot stuff.’ But that was when I embarrassed him; it wasn’t a compliment. Listen, Ryan, it’s not fun being alone. Even now. It’s not the sex you miss. It’s the hugs. The closeness.”
A Day in June Page 4