The Color of Home: A Novel

by Rich Marcello

  Her eyes narrowed and she touched the base of her neck. “Didn’t we talk about this with Persona? I hope you’re not a one-trick pony.” She sat up a little straighter, pulled a quarter out of her purse, and slid it across the table. The quarter hung over the edge. “Touchdown. 1–0.” Leaning in, she waited for the return shot.

  On the return trip, the quarter flew off the end of the table into her hand. He’d played quarter-football as a boy, with his friends, with his dad. In absence, he’d lost his touch in the last decade. Did she somehow know the game had been one of his favorites?

  “Better go back to stuff you’re good at,” she said.

  “Right. . . . So they loved each other for sure, but they folded each time.”

  “Stuff gets in the way.”

  “If they had interrupted the story, spoken openly to one another, or to anyone around them for that matter, they would have been okay.”

  “I can’t believe you’re rewriting Shakespeare. Some things are better left alone.”

  A homeless person, with long matted hair, and layered in ragged clothing all dusted the same dirt color, walked into the diner. Stopping in front of Nick, she asked for spare change. He reached in his pocket, pulled out a five-dollar bill, and handed it to her. She continued on to the next booth until the owner chased her out.

  “Do you always do that?” Sassa asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “There’s a lot of suffering in the world.”

  Her hand carved through her hair, and holding it back for a second, she gathered it into a temporary ponytail. Then, reaching across the table, palms up, she took his hands and gently shook her head from side to side.

  “Okay to keep going?” he asked.

  “It’s a small price.”

  “If Romeo told Tybalt about their secret, that would’ve interrupted the story. Or Mercutio could’ve reached Romeo in time. Or Juliet could’ve waited for confirmation from Mercutio before she swallowed the elixir.”

  “That would have made it a boring story.”

  “A different story, for sure.”

  “You’re better on suffering. There’s no conflict or action in your version.”

  “Sometimes ideas are the action.”

  “Not in the real world.”

  A reflection of the ceiling fan spun in his coffee. As the light danced on the top of the black surface, forming constantly morphing images, he couldn’t help but smile. So far, the conversation had gone well. In unexpected directions, but well. He raised his head, looked right at her with probing eyes, and said, “Let’s say none of the tragic events occurred, and instead the story focused on Romeo and Juliet’s true love, a love that brings together two warring sides.”

  “Do you believe in happy endings?”

  “Doesn’t the world need stories that break down barriers?”

  “Do you always answer a question with a question?”

  “Nice.”

  She yawned and stretched her arms up into a touchdown position, as if she’d scored the game-winner, as if words, one-liners, tie-backs to earlier conversations had replaced the quarter and table edge. “We should call it a night soon.”

  “Ten more minutes.”

  “Five.”

  “Okay, five. . . . So there are many tragic stories, but few about ways to be truly happy. We need more of the latter.”

  Her eyes went wide. Picking the quarter up off the table, she spun it, studied it as is sphered across the table until it slowed, dropped back into a circle. Frowning, she said, “Whatever. The story is more about what happens to good people in a series of bad circumstances.”

  “Not really. It’s about a violent world where everyone lies and keeps secrets.”

  “Which is our world, don’t you think?”

  “Yes, but we need to change it.”

  “And on that note, I’ll be right back.” Placing her hand on his shoulder, she bent down and whispered in his ear, “Get out of your head.”

  As he waited, he took stock of the diner and gleaned things, apparently always there, that he hadn’t noticed before. A Mario Batali cookbook. A Japanese cast-iron teapot. A poster of the Swedish women’s national soccer team. He did need to get out of his head more. She was right about that. And she was also the one person who had ever called him on his habit, his pattern, to over think, over intellectualize everything. So far, she’d navigated the R&J conversation well. More than well.

  Sassa glided back to the table with a slight bounce in her step, somehow different. Brighter. Like the short break had given her a shot of adrenaline. Or like she’d constructed the perfect winning argument. “Okay, I’ll play more.”

  “What happened?”

  “I want to see if you took my advice.”

  “Oh.”

  She waved the waiter over to the table and ordered another piece of German chocolate cake and a chocolate milkshake.

  Nick’s eyes widened. “Sugar for thought?”

  “The first piece was so good.”

  They drifted in small talk for a few moments until the waiter returned with the cake and milkshake. Sassa placed a chunk of the cake on her fork, ate it, and washed it down with a swig of milkshake. She cut off a piece of cake and guided the cake-filled fork into Nick’s mouth.

  “Really good,” he said.

  “Milkshake?”

  “No thanks. So where was I? Sugar makes me forget.”

  “That’s the most profound thing you’ve said all night.”

  “Stop.”

  “Sorry.” Sassa cut off another piece of cake, but instead of eating it, pushed it around on her plate for a time, until it broke into two smaller pieces. Finally, after eating both, she said, “So, back to your earlier point, you can wax poetic about an idealistic world if you want, but with that much honesty, people would probably get hurt or lost, just like in Persona.”

  “To not get hurt or lost, we’d need to let go of the idea that you can get everything you need from one person.”

  “One person isn’t possible,” she said.

  “Probably. Still, there’s something about the idea of one person.”

  “Did you have any boundaries as a kid?”

  “On sugar?”

  She slowly grinned, reached for the milkshake, took another sip. “Nice.”

  He did agree with her about one person. That wasn’t the crux of the issue. Instead it had more to do with radical honesty no matter what, with accepting that your partner could have many deep, meaningful relationships at once, and that those relationships might take her in an unknown direction away from him for a time. And with that crux in mind, he caught up to the fact that he had never gotten so far in the R&J conversation before. It was more than good. “Here’s my point: we probably do need more than our primary partner to live a full life. That’s not the problem. The problem is more about partners not telling each other what they need to grow, to thrive. We each have our own process. Relationships work best when the partners not only respect but encourage each other to run their process, wherever it may take them.”

  “Most of the time, openness like that tears people apart.”

  “It doesn’t have to if truth is built in from the start.”

  “That depends on what you do with the fear.” Her face softened and she smiled with widened, rounded eyes.

  He went breathless for a time, then followed it with a slow, deep breath.

  “Okay, okay . . . I’ll meet you in the middle. If two people can manage their fears, they might be able to walk in truth,” she said.

  “Have you ever been in a relationship close to what I’m describing?”

  “There are no real relationships close to what you’re describing.”

  They finished at the diner shortly after midnight, and walked back to her apartment. The city, quarter-lit at that hour, impersonated moonl
ight. Occasionally, a manhole spouted steam from the subway below. A few homeless people had settled in for the night in office building entranceways, guarded by shopping carts long past their prime and full of survival. Nick kept his eyes open for the homeless woman he met in the diner.

  When they reached Sassa’s building, they stopped at the front steps. The night, still warm and breezy, encouraged him. As he inched closer to her, he tingled all over. They had reached a fork-in-the-road moment, one that might link them together for a long time. Or not. He held back as long as possible, even though he was sure, even though he believed she was sure. Finally, with the breeze urging him on, he closed the gap.

  A long kiss later, she whispered, “That was something.”

  “Hell, yeah. I had no idea arguing about Romeo and Juliet could be such a turn on.”

  “Yes you did.”

  “Should I come up?”

  “No, not tonight, Nick. Before we go any further, I want to make sure I’m prepared.”

  “Prepared? What do you mean?”

  “I guess you’ll have to wait and see.” And with that, she gave him one last smile and disappeared behind her large oak door.

  • • •

  “Hey. Want to come over for dinner Friday night?” Sassa asked.

  “Sure. What can I bring?”

  “A good bottle of wine.”

  “Anything else?

  “Surprise me.”

  Directly after hanging up, Nick sank into his sofa, picked up his guitar, and strummed a few chords to brainstorm surprises. Had to be something unique. Had to be something he’d never done before. Had to reflect the strength of his feelings. After playing for a few minutes, he re-tuned his guitar to open D. He stilled until few thoughts remained. A rare sensation possessed him—fluttering and shivering in his arms and legs, coupled with warmth. He was close. With his guitar balanced across his hips, he waited. Sweet and sad interlaced like DNA, forming a pool right below his heart. Something preverbal, unbridled, bubbled. He began randomly fingerpicking.

  A riff took shape, centered on a number of unusual chords around the tenth fret of the guitar. Humming a melody over the riff, he shaped the chorus of the song, then improvised off it countless times until the bridge and verses unfolded. Satisfied with the music, he flipped his guitar over on his lap, placed his guitar pick between his teeth, and reached for a pen and paper. Just a few lyrics. Had to match the syllable count of the chorus melody. Had to say something about home. A short time later, he’d written enough to share the partial song with Sassa.

  He laid his guitar on the floor and stretched out on the sofa. Right before he napped, he glanced over at a family photo on the wall and said, “Thank you.”

  • • •

  When Sassa opened the door to her apartment Friday night, she was barefoot, clad in a black sleeveless pullover top and jeans, and even more stunning than usual. Nick stepped inside the apartment, one hand in his pocket, the other holding the handle of his guitar case. The living room shimmered with candlelight, and he made out Leonard Cohen’s “Dance Me to the End of Love” playing in the background. Sage scented the air. Old pictures of what had to be her family covered the near wall.

  “You look beautiful, Sassa.”

  “How do you like me in red?”

  “You aren’t wearing red.”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Oh.” A wide grin spread across his face. “I may not be able to concentrate during dinner.”

  “Yes, you will. Breathe.”

  “Here’s the wine, a Barbaresco.” Nick shifted his attention to the kitchen, where incredible smells melded not only with each other, but with red. Desire and food. Was there a better combination? “What’s that aroma?”

  “My own stuff. You get to be the guinea pig.”

  “Cool. I’ve been called worse.”

  “I bet. You brought your guitar.”

  “That’s part of the surprise.”

  “After dinner. Let’s open the wine.”

  They made their way across the tiny living room to the much smaller kitchen. Wine glass full, Sassa continued to prepare the meal as Nick leaned against the counter, a couple of feet away, and sipped his Barbaresco. Dozens of large shrimp, peeled and deveined, sat on a cutting board right next to a cast iron skillet warming on the stove. Oil infused with garlic and crushed red pepper smoked and snapped.

  “Nothing like cast iron.” Humming along to Leonard Cohen, there was a lightness in her step as she added the shrimp to the skillet to finish the appetizer. “Two minutes.” She switched her attention to the cioppino simmering in a stockpot, dropping in a variety of fish she’d purchased that morning. “Wild Edibles Seafood has the freshest seafood in the city.”

  Where exactly was the red?

  A short time later, dinner was ready. They settled down at a beautifully set, reclaimed wood table with barely enough room for two. The table, painted red and stenciled with words like Batali and Flay, matched the black chairs stenciled with words like rear, back, and shoulder. Two lit candles, in abstract cone-like holders, warmed the center of the table. The Beatles White Album played in the background. “Dear Prudence.”

  “Nice table.”

  “I liked to stencil as a kid.”

  He smiled and poured more wine. Toasting, “Thank you for this,” he tapped his glass against hers.

  Throughout dinner, they jumped from topic to topic effortlessly. The garlic and heat on the shrimp. The spectacular melded flavor in the cioppino. How dark reds really did work well with fish. The staying power of Leonard Cohen, the Beatles, Nirvana, and her favorite, Fiona Apple. An occasional unconfirmed guess at the exact location of red. A debate on the possibility of living honestly. Halfway through dinner, she excused herself to pop a chocolate soufflé into the oven. Had any woman ever cooked for him before in such a thoughtful, skilled, romantic way? Had he ever had a chocolate soufflé before? Though reluctant to admit that his mother had been right years ago when she counseled him to find a girl with culinary skills, he loved the fact that Sassa was a serious chef.

  Later, over Batali, she spoon-carved the center of the hot soufflé, drizzled it with milk chocolate, and poured the rest of the chocolate into the opening she’d just created. Plating a large portion of the dessert, she garnished the dish with fresh figs, and slid the plate in front of him. She took a small piece for herself.

  “I love figs,” he said.

  “Let me feed you.” She dipped a fig slice into the chocolate before slowly guiding it onto his tongue.

  After a few slices, he said, “Stop.”

  “I’m just starting.”

  “I need to go slow.”

  “That’s one approach.” She held up another fig, let it hover close to his face, then pulled it back and popped it in her mouth.

  For the rest of the soufflé, Nick hardly spoke, savoring every moment, accepting of the fact that the gift, the power of food and desire had left him speechless. Food and desire—his new mantra. Who would have thought? Eventually, he said, “That was the best dessert I’ve ever had.”

  “Nice smile. Thank you. I’ll put the coffee and tea on.” Standing up, she blew him a kiss and made her way into the kitchen.

  At first he watched her walk, boil water, prepare the espresso maker. But soon after, he had to act himself, had to prepare. Making his way over to his guitar case, he lifted out his Martin. On the sofa, his guitar on his knee, he jittered his foot against the floor. After what must have been hundreds of taps, he strummed a few chords and retuned the slightly flat A string. The tuning had to be perfect. In his mind, he rehearsed the song, mouthing the chorus as he silently changed chord positions on the guitar. Adrenaline raced, like he was about to go on stage in front of a large, live audience.

  Sassa joined him in the living room with their drinks, and they rearranged furniture to make the room more laid-back. Perched on the coffee
table right across from him, she tucked her legs in under his guitar, between his legs. She handed him his espresso, brushing the top side of his guitar on the way back. “Nice finish.”

  He gulped down the shot and gently placed the cup on the end table. Bouncing his guitar on his knees, eyes glued to the fretboard, he said, “I wrote you a song.”

  “Wow. No one has ever done that for me before.”

  “I only wrote lyrics for the chorus, but I figured out most of the music.”

  He glanced up in time to see her look off into nothing and angle her body slightly to the left. Scraping the guitar pick through his hair right above his ear with one hand, he doodled up and down the fretboard with the other for a time. Someone had written her a song in the past. What was that about? Why did she just lie? A false song start and apology later, he launched into the chorus, “When love passes through / It will take us home / It will take us home / And these dreams will become real / There I can see you / I can see you / And we can just feel.” As the last chord rang out, he held the fingering much longer than necessary while continuing to stare at the fretboard.

  Reaching over, she lifted his hands off the guitar and joined them with her own. She kissed one hand. “Thank you. I can’t wait to hear the final version.”

  “Soon,” he said.

  “Let’s finish the wine. I have something I want to show you.”

  Pulling his strumming hand back, he tapped the soundboard with his finger. He had a bunch of ideas on how to finish the song, but he’d convinced himself they were way ahead of their relationship. Had falling deeper, faster, than his girlfriend ever happened before? Had he ever experienced anyone like Sassa before?