Shattered Echoes
Page 19
On the way home we talked about Shakespeare and Romeo arid Juliet and about prejudice and star-crossed lovers. I was sorry he was going to Chicago the next day. It was too bad he wasn’t my type.
Being born at the tail end of the baby boom generation means that it’s all been done before you get there: the peace movement of the sixties, the drugs of the seventies, the capitalism and fitness of the eighties—I was always behind schedule. Here it was the nineties and I was standing in my suit and heels, my new workout bag over my shoulder, at the steps of the first health club I’d ever joined.
I didn’t want to go in. I’d seen it all the other day. The mirrored aerobic studios with their shiny floors and Surround-Sound, the multitiered sauna (“room for forty-three,” the membership director had proudly told me), the steam room with its paper seat dispenser (“to insure our clients the highest in hygienic standards”), and the cardiovascular chamber of horrors filled with metal and leather machines that looked more like instruments of torture than anything a person would willingly place her body within. I didn’t want to go in. But I did.
I kept my appointment with the trainer, who showed me the proper seat height and method of maximizing the gain from each machine. He introduced me to abductors and adductors, Lifecycles and computerized rowing machines, recumbent stationary bicycles and the Stairmaster—a masochistic device so popular, you could only sign up for half-hour segments. Sprucing myself up was not going to be a simple proposition.
I even took an aerobics class—or tried to take one anyway. It was supposed to be for beginners, but these beginners looked more like Rockettes. They heel-kicked and four-side-stepped and elbow-to-kneed in perfect synchronization. I stood as far to the rear as I could, but they kept turning around in circles and making the back row the front row and then kicking and stepping and making the side row the front row. I slipped out after fifteen minutes. I hated to think what the advanced class kicked like.
When I got down to the locker room, it was crowded with lunch time fitness freaks in various stages of undress. I knew I needed to get back to work, but I figured I deserved a bit of steam and sauna for my efforts. I wrapped myself in the extralarge towel I’d bought for just this purpose (I wouldn’t be caught dead sitting on those ridiculous paper seats) and went into the sauna.
The sauna was even more crowded than the locker room. Room for forty-three was either an exaggeration or I couldn’t count. I squeezed into the last available spot. This was not what I had imagined. This was not relaxing amidst the smell of hot cedar, my tired muscles softening from the dry heat. This was being cramped between two women with cellulite thighs who smelled of old sneakers and sweat. This was ridiculous.
I stood up to leave and then noticed the scent of lavender floating over the stronger scents of exercise. I sat back down, waiting to see what Isabel had in mind. The lavender got heavier and heavier, although no one else seemed to notice. Except that people began to leave. First one, and then two, and within a few minutes, the sauna was almost empty. I swung my legs up on the bench and lay down to sweat in comfort and peace. I smiled. Isabel was clearly no ordinary ghost; for, although it was possible everyone had left because their lunch breaks were over, I doubted it.
When I got back to work, Hilary called to remind me I hadn’t taken her skiing. I was well aware of this fact, but skiing was Clay’s sport. No one looked better than Clay in his Nevica one-piece, barreling down Screamin’ Demon in his perfect racing form. I smiled. Always the moguls and the north face and the double diamonds—and always fast.
“If we don’t go this weekend, we might never get to go,” she whined. “It could all melt!”
“I’ve never known the snow to melt in Vermont in mid-February.”
“Could too!”
I sighed. “We’ll go, Hilary. I promise. But not this weekend.”
“Why not?” she demanded. “The weather’s going to be awesome.”
“To be perfectly honest, I was hoping I’d have a date.”
“The guy you went to the movies with? You told me you weren’t interested in guys.”
“I’m not.”
“You told me he wasn’t your type.”
“He’s not.”
“So forget it. You promised me first!”
“How about next weekend?”
“It’s going to be sunny and in the twenties this weekend!” she begged. “Or how about he comes too? I wouldn’t care—I’d kind of like to meet him.”
“He’s from Georgia. We’ll go next Saturday. I promise.”
“What if he doesn’t call?”
“He’ll call.”
“But what if he doesn’t?”
“I’ll call him.”
“Yeah, right. Like I’ll believe that one when I see it.” Fourteen-year-olds can be the most obnoxious creatures.
“I’ll talk to you later, Hilary. We’ll go to Okemo next Saturday.”
“Killington.”
“Don’t push your luck, pal.”
“Okay, Okemo’s cool. But you better call him—right now!”
“Good-bye, Mom.” I hung up the phone and shook my head. Poor Joel. They really did have their hands full with that kid.
I turned back to my computer and looked at the spreadsheet I was creating to simplify my life by simplifying my billing. Why was it that everything that was supposed to make things simpler was so damn complicated? It seemed to me that I needed the RECALCCOL rather than the RECALC macro, but the “user-friendly” 123 Quick Reference Guide said I needed to input location,
I was surprised I hadn’t heard from him. He said he was going to Chicago for only a few days—and it had been over a week since West Side Story. I checked the paper; Gone With the Wind was showing until Saturday afternoon.
“It’s a well-known fact that you can’t see Gone With the Wind too many times,” I said when he answered the phone.
“How do you know I’ve seen it?” He sounded tired.
“Isn’t it mandatory for children in the Georgia school system?”
He chuckled softly. “For girls anyway. My sister Serena must have seen it twenty times.”
“I hope she’s young. She better get busy if she’s going to beat that old lady from Atlanta.”
“Not a chance,” he said, sounding even more tired—almost depressed.
“Did, uh, did I get you at a bad time?”
“Yeah, I guess you did. I’m really under the gun here for the next few days, and the Chicago trip was longer—and more complicated—than I’d thought.”
“Time for a quick movie Friday night? Gone With the Wind is only playing till Saturday.” What the hell was I doing? Why was I making an ass out of myself for someone who wasn’t even my type?
“Can’t. Got a command-performance dinner party.”
“Okay. Call me when you get some free time.” I hung up, tears pricking at the back of my eyes. So this was why men agonized about asking women for dates. I’d be a bit less flip with my rejections in the future.
I turned back to the computer screen. What the hell did I need all this fancy formula-recalculation shit for anyway? Businesses had run for hundreds of years without the benefit of electronic spreadsheets. The phone rang.
“How about I pick you up and we catch the noon show on Saturday?”
“Sounds good to me.” I put the phone down and opened the user’s guide. Location was column-row address. Condition must be related to whether a particular column was skipped or included. And iteration? Could it be the specific formula variation?
We ate two buckets of popcorn—Gone With the Wind is a very long movie. I cried when Scarlett clutched a mud-covered radish and vowed never to be hungry again. I cried after her mother died and her father became old and confused. And I cried when Rhett walked out, leaving her alone with the kn
owledge that she’d screwed up the great love of her life. Richard sat stone-faced and silent.
We walked out into the bright sunlight. Hilary had been right—it was an awesome day. Mostly sunny and cool, but not cold, the kind of day that made spring a not-quite-so-remote possibility. I chattered about the weather and the movie. Richard remained stone-faced and silent. So I stopped.
We climbed into his car. We buckled our seat belts and sat quietly. He didn’t put the key in the ignition, he just stared out the windshield. A tall, gawky teenage girl stood on the corner, watching a pack of her contemporaries—each one looking like a variation of Hilary—as they giggled and whispered and ran across the parking lot. An elderly man clutching a greasy bag shuffled past the girl, his head bent toward his feet.
I touched Richard’s arm. “What is it?”
He continued to stare out the window. “Gone With the Wind was Serena’s favorite movie.” He put the key in the ignition and started the car. “It’s been two years. I thought I could handle it.” He didn’t turn toward Boston; instead he headed into Cambridge, over the Harvard Bridge and west along the Charles River. We drove in silence.
Massive trees grow along the Cambridge side of the river. In the summer they form a graceful canopy of green over Memorial Drive, but that day they stood barren and militaristic, the wind barely moving their leafless branches. As we passed the last buildings of Harvard, I had a black premonition. Thin clouds began to stream in front of the sun, the wind increased, and the people walking along the river held their coats more closely to them. No. If Serena was dead, she’d be buried in Georgia. Not in Cambridge. Not in Mount Auburn Cemetery.
His mouth set and his eyes staring straight ahead, Richard turned at the first break in the wrought-iron gate. “Mount Auburn Cemetery,” read the brass sign. The road through the cemetery was long and winding; Richard took the turns and the forks without hesitation. I shivered.
He pulled up in front of a small marker; he turned the car off but didn’t get out. Once again he just stared out the windshield.
I touched his arm. “Serena?”
He turned and looked at me with such raw grief that I wanted to reach out and hold him and rock him like a small child. But I didn’t dare. “We were Irish twins.” His voice was hoarse. “Born eleven months apart.”
I nodded but said nothing.
“She looked up to me. Depended on me.” He dropped his head to the steering wheel.
I watched the clouds gathering; they were thick and gray and looked like snow. The wind picked up. It was cold inside the car. I buttoned my coat around my neck and put my hands in my pockets. The thin branches of the bare trees swayed erratically, and the setting sun elongated and darkened their shadows. The gravestones stood stark and indifferent against the winter-yellowed grass. I shivered again.
Finally he looked up. He smiled sadly and reached out and cupped my chin in his hand. “Serena means untroubled, at peace. It never fit her.”
I leaned over and kissed him. His lips were soft and giving. I felt as if I were falling into them, melting into them and falling with him. We pulled apart and looked at each other. He leaned over and kissed me again.
I thought I smelled lavender, but I chose to ignore it.
16
“Breakfast’s my favorite meal,” Richard said late the next morning. We were at my apartment, where we had been all night. He was whipping up his Aunt Amy’s “speciality,” a French toast-cream cheese sandwich. He flipped it from the pan, sprinkled it liberally with powdered sugar, and placed it in front of me.
“Thanks.” I took a bite. “You know, it’s been years since I’ve had anything hot before noon—aside from coffee.”
“You should. You like to eat. You don’t nibble at your food as if it were poison.”
“Oh, was your last girlfriend one of those bony ones with the hollow faces and perfect posture?”
He burst out laughing. “Exactly!”
“And a health nut too, I bet. You’d never have gotten her to eat this—it’s too full of both the C-word and the F-word.”
He leaned over and kissed the spot where the collar of my robe fell away. He reached inside the robe with both hands, and it opened as he pulled me toward him. “I can think of much more interesting C- and F-words,” he mumbled into my breast.
I laughed, unbuttoning his shirt. “A nice southern boy like you thinking about naughty words like those?”
“It’s not just the words I’m thinking of.” He lifted me and carried me to the couch. Within seconds we were naked and making love again—for about the fourth time since yesterday.
Richard was a wonderful lover—and a great kisser. He had these thick, soft lips that got all lost and mixed up with mine until there wasn’t anything else in the world. My lips were bruised and sensitive, but I wanted more. We’d been kissing all night. Kissing since that first kiss at the cemetery. Kissing like I haven’t kissed since I was in the back seat of Jimmy Lenker’s father’s Oldsmobile in twelfth grade. But Richard knew how to do things with his lips that Jimmy Lenker hadn’t even dreamed of.
A huge orgasm rolled through me and I pulled him inside me. I must have cried out, because he stopped moving for a moment and smiled at me, then he went back to his kissing and moving and moving and kissing and kissing and moving …
“I just don’t know what I’m going to do with you,” I said when I could finally catch my breath. We were sprawled on top of my bathrobe on the floor, having slipped from the narrow couch. “I just took a shower, and now you’ve gotten me all sweaty and sticky again—not to mention that my breakfast is cold.”
“I like my women sweaty and sticky.” He kissed a sticky spot on my thigh and pushed himself up. “As for your breakfast, I’ll just whip up another batch to fill your sweaty, sticky bod.”
I felt a rush of warmth spreading outward from the place where his lips had been. “Just as long as you don’t touch my sweaty, sticky bod.” This was unbelievable. I couldn’t believe that I, distant, cool Lindsey Kern, that I was coming down with a raging case of nymphomania. That I was actually—Suddenly there was a spot of pressure on the side of my head. I could sense Isabel pouting. I could sense her fear, her loneliness.
“What is it?” Richard asked.
“Nothing. Nothing.” I sat up and put my robe back on. She was afraid of losing me. It was as if I were her mother, her anchor in the world. She was afraid the same way I had been afraid when my mother brought Paul home from the hospital and fussed and cooed over him. I shivered.
Richard pulled on his pants and put his arms around me. “Cold?” He nuzzled my neck and rubbed my arms.
I shook my head and he kissed me; he covered my mouth with his, the soft underpart of his lips sliding over mine. So what if my lips were sore and swollen to twice their normal size? Puffy lips were a small price to pay. And Isabel was wrong, her fears completely misplaced. She was my soul mate, my sister; she and I shared things no man could ever understand or come between.
The pressure receded and Richard made another batch of “speciality”; we sat down for breakfast once again. I reached out and touched the spot where his jawbone met his neck. I felt like kissing it, but controlled myself. “Do you want to talk about Serena?”
“Do you want to hear?”
I nodded.
He finished his French toast before he spoke. “She was always different—troubled—right from the start. She never had many friends.” He shrugged. “Her intensity scared them off, I guess. Maybe that’s why she was so attached to me.”
“And you to her.”
He smiled that incredibly sexy chipped-tooth grin. “She was so exciting and unpredictable. She’d do these crazy things like jumping off the garage roof or keeping a family of frogs in the basement or turning the attic into Nilrem—her magic land of wizards and ghosts and evil sorcerers. Nilrem was where she lived a lot of the time. Sometimes she’d take me up there and we’d play with the Nilremians. She knew their history, she had
maps—she even knew how to speak their language. It was fun … She made life special.”
He looked out the window. Two boys were rough-housing; they laughed as they pushed the new-fallen snow inside each other’s jackets and rubbed it in each other’s hair. Richard frowned, the laugh lines around his eyes disappearing. “But sometimes she was desperately unhappy. ‘Black cloud days,’ she called them.” A window in the building across the street opened and the boys looked up. A woman’s head appeared. They scowled, dropped their snowballs, and walked down the street.
“Black cloud days,” I repeated. “I know just what they feel like.”
“But for Serena it was an understatement. She saw things and heard things—she smelled horrible things.” He sighed. “The diagnoses varied from schizo-adaptive personality disorder to manic depression, and I think once they even decided she had some strange form of epilepsy.”
“Do you have any other brothers or sisters?”
He shook his head. “She was in and out of hospitals all of her life.”
“In Boston?”
“Not at first. They tried just about every place in the South: in-patient, out-patient, halfway houses, hospitals … But nothing ever worked. Then they heard about this place here—on the North Shore.” He shrugged. “My parents just couldn’t handle it anymore—my father especially. My father couldn’t even bring her home to be buried.” Richard stared out the window again, his jaw set, a vein in his temple pulsing. “So when I got into Harvard, it seemed like a good idea for me to come here too. To be with her. To watch out for her.” He took a deep breath. “But I didn’t do such a great job—she managed to get a bunch of pills …”
“Oh, Richard.” I went over and sat by his feet; I put my head in his lap and wrapped my arms around his waist.
He twirled a piece of my hair around his finger. “I blame myself for not being able to make her happier, for not being able to deal with her illness. Instead of helping her, I ran from it. It scared me. In the end I was no better than my father.”