The Fine Art of Truth or Dare
Page 21
“Oh, shut up, Edward,” I snapped. “Now I don’t know what to think of you.”
He sighed. “I’m a tad confused here. What is it that bothers you so much? That I might have had a deliberately clandestine relationship with this person who was socially beneath me, or that I didn’t spend the last seventeen years of my life alone in desperate mourning for my wife?”
“I . . . I . . .” I discovered that I didn’t have a quick answer. I didn’t have any answer.
“You need to figure that out, darling girl. You were counting on this passionate, extensively researched, impeccably written paper to be your entrée into NYU.”
I had. I was.
“And,” the voice went on,” you really need to take the photo and letters back to the museum.”
“Oh, great. Thank you. Tell me something I don’t already know!”
Edward looked at me sadly from his printed frame. “But I can’t do that, Ella. That’s the one thing I have never been able to do.”
And that little tidbit was the icing. Because I’d known from the beginning. Edward couldn’t tell me anything I didn’t already know. The real Edward Willing was dead. My Edward was a figment of my imagination. And while I have a very good imagination, I can’t conjure up the truth. It either is or it isn’t.
“You can count on me to always be here,” said the metal head in the postcard. “Beyond that . . . I’m not going to offer you much.”
“Yeah,” I said sadly. “I know that, too.”
24
THE COMMUNICATION
From: abainbr@thewillingschool.org
To: fmarino@thewillingschool.org
Date: November 17, 9:57 p.m.
Subject: Sorry
Can’t do French tomorrow.
—Alex
From: fmarino@thewillingschool.org
To: abainbr@thewillingschool.org
Date: November 18, 7:12 a.m.
Subject: Fine
Okay.
From: abainbr@thewillingschool.org
To: fmarino@thewillingschool.org
Date: November 21, 4:41 p.m.
Subject: Re: Fine
Ella,
Not fine, actually. Well, doing better now, but I spent a seriously hairy two days . . . let’s just say “ill.” My mother is convinced it was the tuna sandwich I had for dinner Thursday. Personally, I think it was just the bug that’s been doing the rounds at school, but I’m not telling her that. Guilt for being an absentee parent had her on the phone with Svichkar’s. Now I’m getting a different, three-course Ukrainian meal delivered every night. Chicken Kiev is not what the school kitchen thinks it is.
Anyway, I’m really sorry about Friday. I guess I’ll see you after Thanksgiving. We’re leaving tomorrow for the week. Going to Martha’s Vineyard with another political family. Lots of talking turkey.
—Alex
From: fmarino@thewillingschool.org
To: abainbr@thewillingschool.org
Date: November 21, 8:25 p.m.
Subject: Now I’m Sorry
Alex,
I feel badly.
You probably feel worse.
My grandmother thinks canned tuna is a disaster waiting to happen. She used to stand in the door of the fridge and make protective hand symbols over my mom’s leftover tuna casserole. We don’t keep Starkist in the house anymore.
Have a great TG.
—Ella
From: abainbr@thewillingschool.org
To: fmarino@thewillingschool.org
Date: November 22, 12:05a.m.
Subject: Here’s one for you
Knock knock.
From: fmarino@thewillingschool.org
To: abainbr@thewillingschool.org
Date: November 22, 10:34 a.m.
Subject: Um . . .
Who’s there?
From: abainbr@thewillingschool.org
To: fmarino@thewillingschool.org
Date: November 22, 10:56 a.m.
Subject: Re: Um . . .
Tuna.
From: fmarino@thewillingschool.org
To: abainbr@thewillingschool.org
Date: November 22, 10:34 a.m.
Subject: Re: Re: Um . . .
Tuna who?
From: abainbr@thewillingschool.org
To: fmarino@thewillingschool.org
Date: November 22, 9:02 p.m.
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Um . . .
Tuna down ya radio. I’m’a tryin’ to sleep here!
From: fmarino@thewillingschool.org
To: abainbr@thewillingschool.org
Date: November 22, 11:32 p.m.
Subject: Sigh.
Okay. Since we’re on the subject . . .
Q. What is the Tsar of Russia’s favorite fish?
A. Tsardines, of course.
Q. What does the son of a Ukrainian newscaster and a U.S. congressman eat for Thanksgiving dinner on an island off the coast of Massachusetts?
A.?
—Ella
From: abainbr@thewillingschool.org
To: fmarino@thewillingschool.org
Date: November 23, 9:59 a.m.
Subject: TG
A. Republicans.
Nah. I’m sure we’ll have all the traditional stuff: turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes. I’m hoping for apple pie. Our hosts have a cook who takes requests, but the island is kinda limited as far as shopping goes. The seven of us will probably spend the morning on a boat, then have a civilized chow-down. I predict Pictionary. I will win.
You?
—Alex
From: fmarino@thewillingschool.org
To: abainbr@thewillingschool.org
Date: November 23, 1:11 p.m.
Subject: Re: TG
Alex,
I will be having my turkey (there will be one, but it will be somewhat lost among the pumpkin fettuccine, sausage-stuffed artichokes, garlic with green beans, and at least four lasagnas, not to mention the sweet potato cannoli and chocolate ricotta pie) with at least forty members of my close family, most of whom will spend the entire meal screaming at each other. Some will actually be fighting, probably over football.
I am hoping to be seated with the adults. It’s not a sure thing.
What’s Martha’s Vineyard like? I hear it’s gorgeous. I hear it’s favored by presidential types, past and present.
—Ella
From: abainbr@thewillingschool.org
To: fmarino@thewillingschool.org
Date: November 23, 5:28 p.m.
Subject: Can I Have TG with You?
Please??? There’s a 6 a.m. flight off the island. I can be back in Philadelphia by noon. I’ve never had Thanksgiving with more than four or five other people. Only child of two only children. My grandmother usually hosts dinner at the Hunt Club. She doesn’t like turkey. Last year we had Scottish salmon. I like salmon, but . . .
The Vineyard is pretty great. The house we’re staying in is in Chilmark, which, if you weren’t so woefully ignorant of defunct television, is the birthplace of Fox Mulder. I can see the Menemsha fishing fleet out my window. Ever heard of Menemsha Blues? I should bring you a T-shirt. Everyone has Black Dogs; I prefer a good fish on the chest.
(Q. What do you call a fish with no eyes? A. Fsh.)
We went out on a boat this afternoon and actually saw a humpback whale. See pics below. That fuzzy gray lump in the bumpy gray water is a fin. A photographer I am not. Apparently, they’re usually gone by now, heading for the Caribbean. It’s way too cold to swim, but amazing in the summer. I swear I got bumped by a sea turtle here last July 4, but no one believes me.
Any chance of saving me a cannoli?
—A
From: fmarino@thewillingschool.org
To: abainbr@thewillingschool.org
Date: November 23, 8:43 p.m.
Subject: Some boat
Alex,
I know Fox Mulder. My mom watched The X-Files. She says it was because she liked the creepy story lines. I think she liked David Duchovny. She tried Cali
fornication, but I don’t think her heart was in it. I think she was just sticking it to my grandmother, who has decided it’s the work of the devil. She says that about most current music, too, but God help anyone who gets between her and American Idol.
The fuzzy whale was very nice, if a little hard to identify. The profile of the guy between you and the whale in the third pic was very familiar, if a little fuzzy. I won’t ask. No, no. I have to ask.
I won’t ask.
My mother loves his wife’s suits.
I Googled. There are sharks off the coast of the Vineyard. Great big white ones. I believe you about the turtle. Did I mention that there are sharks there? I go to Surf City for a week every summer with my cousins. I eat too much ice cream. I play miniature golf—badly. I don’t complain about sand in my hot dog buns or sheets. I even spend enough time on the beach to get sand in more uncomfortable places. I do not swim. I mean, I could if I wanted to, but I figure that if we were meant to share the water with sharks, we would have a few extra rows of teeth, too.
I’ll save you some cannoli.
—Ella
From: abainbr@thewillingschool.org
To: fmarino@thewillingschool.org
Date: November 24, 12:44 a.m.
Subject: Shh
.Fiorella,
Yes, Fiorella. I looked it up. It means Flower. Which, when paired with MArino, means Flower of the Sea. What shark would dare to touch you?
I won’t touch the uncomfrotable sand mention, hard as it is to resist. I also will not think of you in a bikini (Note to self: Do not think of Ellla in a bikini under any circumstances. Note from self: Are you f-ing kidding me?).
Okay.
Two pieces of info for you. One: Our host has an excellent wine cellar and my mother is Europaen. Meaning she doesn’t begrudge me the occasionsl glass. Or four.
Two: Our hostess says to thank yur mother very much. Most people say nasty things about her suits.
Three: We have a house kinda near Surf City. Maybe I’ll be there when your there.
You’d better burn this after reading.
—Alexei
From: fmarino@thewillingschool.org
To: abainbr@thewillingschool.org
Date: November 24, 8:09 p.m.
Subject: Happy Thanksgiving
Alexei,
Consider it burned. Don’t worry. I’m not showing your e-mails to anybody. Matter of national security, of course.
Well, I got to sit at the adult table. In between my great-great-aunt Jo, who is ninety-three and deaf, and her daughter, JoJo, who had to repeat everyone’s conversations across me. Loudly. The food was great, even my uncle Ricky’s cranberry lasagna. In fact, it would have been a perfectly good TG if the Eagles hadn’t been playing the Jets. My cousin Joey (other side of the family) lives in Hoboken. His sister married a Philly guy. It started out as a lively across-the-table debate: Jets v. Iggles. It ended up with Joey flinging himself across the table at his brother-in-law and my grandmother saying loud prayers to Saint Bridget. At least I think it was Saint Bridget. Hard to tell. She was speaking Italian.
She caught me trying to freeze a half-dozen cannoli. She yelled at me. Apparently, the shells get really soggy when they defrost. I guess you’ll have to come have a fresh one when you get back.
—F/E
From: fmarino@thewillingschool.org
To: abainbr@thewillingschool.org
Date: November 26
Subject: Hey.
Just thought I would check and make sure you weren’t felled by a rogue turkey bacteria.
From: fmarino@thewillingschool.org
To: abainbr@thewillingschool.org
Date: November 27
Subject:
A,
I really hope I didn’t
From: fmarino@thewillingschool.org
To: abainbr@thewillingschool.org
Date: November 27
Subject:
Alex,
25
THE MESSAGE
1.
“Ahem. I know you hate Mondays, madam, but you picked the absolutely wrong one to play hooky. Or be sick. Yes, I suppose it’s vaguely possible that you are actually sick. Anyway, here we are at lunch, Sadie and I, witnessing total social disorder. Your friend Alexander Bainbridge is sitting at the usual table, but facing the room. Amanda Alstead is sitting at Table One. Or, should I say, sitting more or less on a Phillite senior boy, whose name is unimportant, at Table One. A very nice young lady at the next table over—you know, the one who writes about Mr. Darcy—has just informed us that Amanda dumped Alex over the break. On Thanksgiving Day, no less. By e-mail. No telling how much truth is there, but a lot more than a kernel, I would say. We have a large, seven-dollar bag o’ movie popcorn here. Thought you’d like to know. Call me.”
2.
“Ella?” My dad appeared in my doorway, holding a tray with a napkin draped over the top of it. “How’re you doing, hon?”
I covered my phone with a Kleenex. Not that it mattered. Against all the black designs on the quilt, it pretty much blended in. “Okay.”
“You still don’t look too good.” He set the tray down on my desk. “Beautiful, but not too good. I brought you soup.”
It was minestrone, and it smelled really, really good. He and my mother hadn’t suspected a thing when I’d told them I was sick. (“She barely stepped over the threshold all weekend,” Mom lamented. “It’s no wonder she’s looking like an empty shell.”) She left for work, trailing vague threats involving Macy’s. Dad had tried to feed me. I was hungry, but figured he might catch on if I ate more than half a piece of toast. My stomach grumbled now. I was definitely feeling like an empty shell. Only part of it had to do with food.
“You wanna tell me about it, sweetheart?”
Dad was holding out a bowl and spoon, and looking at me like he used to when I ran into the restaurant kitchen, crying because I’d crashed my bike into the Grecos’ front steps. Again.
“I don’t think so,” I answered, taking the soup. “It’s no big deal.”
“And I have a bridge to sell you.” He sighed. “How ’bout I ask questions and you can answer the ones you want?”
“Okay.” I couldn’t say no, not when his face and the smell of warm tomatoes reminded me how I’d never cried for more than a minute once I got into the kitchen and to him.
“Okay.” He flipped the desk chair around to face the bed and sat, hands over his knees. There were two long, green stains on the front of his apron, one on each side where he’d rubbed basil residue off his hands. I could smell it, behind the minestrone. “School?”
“No.”
“Boy?”
“Yeah, partly.”
“Boyfriend?” His heavy eyebrows drew together at that one.
I quickly assured him, “No.”
“Ah. But you want him to be.”
“Kinda.”
“And he—blind, stupid, and probably nutty as a squirrel—doesn’t feel the same way.”
I smiled a little at the paternal outrage. “No. Maybe. I don’t know. That’s the problem. I . . . can’t trust what I think I know anymore.”
Dad didn’t say anything for a few seconds, just rocked a little in his seat. Then, “You remember when you used to want me to take you to the museum every single Sunday?”
I smiled again. “You always wanted to look at the Dutch still-life paintings.”
“What can I say? I like a good plate of food.”
“I hated the ones with the dead rabbits.”
“Not my favorites, either, hon. But you really loved that room with all the kooky stuff. The bicycle wheel stuck in a stool, the urinal.”
“The Marcel Duchamp room. Wow. I haven’t been in there in ages.” I took a sip of the minestrone. It was perfect.
“Yeah, and that really famous painting. You know, the one you used to stand in front of for the longest time.”
“Nude Descending a Staircase.”
> “That’s the one. I never saw it, the nude. Or the staircase, either. I saw a bunch of brown shapes in a row. But you . . . You looked and looked, every time we were there, and made me read the title out loud. Then, one day, you grabbed my hand. I dunno, you were maybe six. Like this—’” He placed his own palm flat in the air at waist level. “Tiny, but man, you had a grip on you. ‘I see it, Daddy! I see the nude depending on the stairs!” He grinned. “Took you another few months to learn that nude didn’t mean every person in a painting. You shocked the girdles off some old gals in the portrait rooms. God, you were a fantastic little thing.”
I’d almost finished the soup. I still felt pretty hollow, but I was a lot warmer.
“Anyway, here’s the point . . .” He reached up and tugged at one earlobe. His fingertips were purple. Pesto and beets on the menu, I guessed. “I had a point . . . Oh, right. You, my fantastic little shrimp, knew what was in front of you. Maybe it wasn’t obvious, but you hung in there until it all got clear in your mind and in front of your eyes.”