She took them out of the window and put them carefully down in front of me on a black velvet card. They were beautiful; admiring them, I entirely forgot I was wearing some.
"I'm so surprised you have a pair. They only came into the store a week ago."
Thinking fast, I said, "My husband bought them for me. I like them so much I'm thinking of getting a pair for my sister. Tell me about the designer. What's his name? Dixie?"
"I don't know much, madam. Only the owner knows who Dixie is and where they come from. But whoever it is is a real genius. Apparently both Bulgari and people from the Memphis group have been in already, asking who he is and how they can get in touch with him."
"How do you know it's a man?" I put the earrings down and looked directly at her.
"Oh, I don't. It's just that the work is so masculine I assumed it. Maybe you're right; maybe it is a woman." She picked one up and held it to the light. "Did you notice how they don't really reflect light so much as enhance it? Golden light. You can own it any time you want. I've never seen that. I envy you."
They were real. I went to a jeweler on 47th Street to have them appraised, then to the only two other stores in the city that sold "Dixies." No one knew anything about the creator, or weren't talking if they did. Both dealers were very respectful and pleasant, but mum was the word when I asked about the jewelry's origin.
"The gentleman asked us not to give out information, madam. We must respect his wishes."
"But it is a man?"
A professional smile. "Yes."
"Could I contact him through you?"
"Yes, I'm sure that would be possible. May I help with anything else, madam?"
"What other pieces has he designed?"
"As far as I know, only the earrings, the fountain pen, and this key ring." He'd shown me the pen, which was nothing special. Now he brought out a small golden key ring shaped in a woman's profile: Lenna Rhodes's profile.
The doorbell tinkled when I walked into the store. Michael was with a customer and, smiling hello, gave me the sign he'd be over as soon as he was finished. He had started INK almost as soon as he got out of college, and from the beginning it was a success. Fountain pens are cranky, unforgiving things that demand full attention and patience. But they are also a handful of flash and Old World elegance: gratifying slowness that offers no reward other than the sight of shiny ink flowing wetly across a dry page. INK's customers were both rich and not so, but all of them had the same collector's fiery glint in the eye and the addict's desire for more. A couple of times a month I'd work there when Michael needed an extra hand. It taught me to be cheered by old pieces of Bakelite and gold plate, as well as another kind of passion.
"Juliet, hi! Roger Peyton was in this morning and bought that yellow Parker Duofold. The one he's been looking at for months."
"Finally. Did he pay full price?"
Michael grinned and looked away. "Rog can never afford full price. I let him do it in installments. What's up with you?"
"Did you ever hear of a Dixie pen? Looks a little like the Cartier Santos?"
"Dixie? No. It looks like the Santos?" The expression on his face said he was telling the truth.
I brought out the brochure from the jewelry store and, opening it to the pen photograph, handed it to him. His reaction was immediate.
"Why, that bastard! How much do I have to put up with this man?"
"You know him?"
Michael looked up from the photo, anger and confusion competing for first place on his face. "Do I know him? Sure, I know him. He lives in my goddamned house, I know him so well! Dixie, huh? Cute name. Cute man.
"Wait. I'll show you something, Juliet. Just stay there. Don't move. That shit!"
There's a mirror behind the front counter at INK. When Michael motored off to the back of the store, I looked at my reflection and said, "Now you did it."
He was back in no time. "Look at this. You want to see something beautiful? Look at this." He handed me something in a blue velvet case. I opened it and saw . . . the Dixie fountain pen.
"But you said you'd never heard of them."
His voice was hurt and loud. "This is not a Dixie fountain pen. It's a Sinbad. An original, solid-gold Sinbad made at the Benjamin Swire Fountain Pen Works in Konstanz, Germany, around 1915. There's a rumor the Italian Futurist Antonio Sant' Elia did the design, but that's never been proven. Nice, isn't it?"
It was nice, but he was so angry I wouldn't have dared say it wasn't. I nodded eagerly.
He took it back. "I've been selling pens twenty years, but I've only seen two of these in all that time. One was owned by Walt Disney, and I have the other. Collector's value? About seven thousand dollars. But as I said, you just don't find them."
"Won't the Dixie people get in trouble for copying it?"
"No, because I'm sure there are small differences between the original and this new one. Let me see that brochure again."
"But you have an original, Michael. It still holds its value."
"That's not the point. It's not the value that matters. I'd never sell this.
"You know the classic 'bathtub' Porsche? One of the strangest, greatest-looking cars of our time. Some smart, cynical person realized that and is now making fiberglass copies of the thing. They're very well done and full of all the latest features.
"But it's a lie car, Juliet: Sniff it and it smells only of today – little plastic things and cleverly cut corners you can't see. Not important to the car, but essential to the real object. The wonder of the thing was Porsche designed it so well and thoughtfully so long ago. That's art. But the art is in its original everything, not just the look or the convincing copy. I can guarantee you your Dixie pen has too much plastic inside where you can't see, and a gold point that probably has about a third as much gold on it as the original. Looks good, but they always miss the whole point with their cut corners.
"Look, you're going to find out sooner or later, so I think you'd better know now."
"What are you talking about?"
He brought a telephone up from beneath the counter and gestured for me to wait. He called Lenna and in a few words told her about the Dixies and my discovery of them.
He was looking at me when he asked, "Did he tell you he was doing that, Lenna?"
Whatever her long answer was, it left his expression deadpan. "Well, I'm going to bring Juliet home. I want her to meet him. . . . What? Because we've got to do something about it, Lenna! Maybe she'll have an idea of what to do. Do you think this is normal? . . . Oh, you do? That's interesting. Do you think it's normal for me?" A dab of saliva popped off his lip and flew across the store.
When Michael opened the door, Lenna stood right on the other side, arms crossed tight over her chest. Her soft face was squinched into a tight challenge.
"Whatever he told you probably isn't true, Juliet."
I put up both hands in surrender. "He didn't tell me anything, Lenna. I don't even want to be here. I just showed him a picture of a pen."
Which wasn't strictly true. I showed him a picture of a pen because I wanted to know more about Dixie and my five-thousand-dollar earrings. Yes, sometimes I am nosy. My ex-husband used to tell me I was.
Both Rhodeses were calm and sound people. I don't think I'd ever seen them really disagree on anything important or raise their voices at each other.
"Where is he?" Michael growled. "Eating again?"
"Maybe. So what? You don't like what he eats anyway."
He turned to me. "Our guest is a vegetarian. His favorite food is plum pits."
"Oh, that's mean, Michael. That's really mean." She turned and left the room.
"So he's in the kitchen? Good. Come on, Juliet." He took my hand and pulled me behind on his stalk of their visitor.
Before we got to him I heard music. Ragtime piano. Scott Joplin?
A man sat at the table with his back to us. He had long red hair down over the collar of his sport jacket. One freckled hand was fiddling with the dial on a
radio nearby.
"Mr. Fiddlehead? I'd like you to meet Lenna's best friend, Juliet Skotchdopole."
He turned, but even before he was all the way around I knew I was sunk. What a face! Ethereally thin, with high cheekbones and deep-set green eyes that were both merry and profound. Those storybook eyes, the carrotty hair, and freckles everywhere. How could freckles suddenly be so damned sexy? They were for children and cute advertisements. I wanted to touch every one of them.
"Hello, Juliet! Skotchdopole, is it? That's a good name. I wouldn't mind havin' it myself. It's a lot better than Fiddlehead, you know." His deep voice lay in the hammock of a very strong Irish accent.
I put out a hand and we shook. Looking down, I ran my thumb once, quickly, softly, across the top of his hand. I felt hot and dizzy, as if someone I wanted had put his hand gently between my legs for the first time.
He smiled. Maybe he sensed it. There was a yellow plate of something on the table next to the radio. To stop staring so embarrassingly at him, I focused on it and realized the plate was full of plum pits.
"Do you like them? They're delicious." He picked one off the shiny orange-brown pile and, slipping the stony thing in his mouth, bit down. Something cracked loudly, like breaking a tooth, but he kept his angel's smile as he crunched away.
I looked at Michael, who only shook his head. Lenna came into the kitchen and gave Mr. Fiddlehead a big hug and kiss. He only smiled and went on eating . . . pits.
"Juliet, the first thing you have to know is I lied about your birthday present. I didn't make those earrings, Mr. Fiddlehead did. But since he's me, I wasn't really lying." She smiled as if she was sure I understood what she was talking about. I looked at Michael for help, but he was poking around in the refrigerator. Beautiful Mr. Fiddlehead was still eating.
"What do you mean, Lenna, he's you?"
Michael took out a carton of milk and, at the same time, a plum, which he exaggeratedly offered his wife. She made a face at him and snatched it out of his hand.
Biting it, she said, "Remember I told you I was an only child? Like a lot of lonely kids, I solved my problem the best way I could – by making up an imaginary friend."
My eyes widened. I looked at the red-headed man. He winked at me.
Lenna went on. "I made up Mr. Fiddlehead. I read and dreamed so much that one day I put it all together into my idea of the perfect friend. First, his name would be Mr. Fiddlehead because I thought that was the funniest name in the world, a name that would always make me laugh when I was sad. Then he had to come from Ireland, because that was the home of all leprechauns and fairies. In fact, I wanted a kind of life-sized human leprechaun. He'd have red hair and green eyes and, whenever I wanted, the magical ability to make gold bracelets and jewelry for me out of thin air."
"Which explains the Dixie jewelry in the stores?"
Michael nodded. "He said he got bored just hanging around, so I suggested he do something useful! Everything was fine so long as it was just the earrings and key chain." He slammed the glass down on the counter. "I didn't know about the fountain pen until today. What's with that, Fiddlehead?"
"Because I wanted to try me hand at it. I loved the one you showed me, so I thought I'd use that as my model. Why not? You can't improve on perfection. The only thing I did was put some more gold in it here and there."
I put my hand up like a student with a question. "But who's Dixie?"
Lenna smiled and said, "I am. That was the secret name I made up for myself when I was little. The only other person who knew it was my secret friend." She stuck her thumb in the other's direction.
"Wonderful! So now Dixie fountain pens, which are lousy ripoffs of Sinbads, will be bought by every asshole in New York who can afford to buy a Piaget watch or Hermes briefcase. It makes me sick." Michael glared at the other man and waited belligerently for a reply.
Mr. Fiddlehead's reply was to laugh like Woody Woodpecker.
Which cracked Lenna and me up.
Which sent her husband storming out of the kitchen.
"Is it true?"
They both nodded.
"I had an imaginary friend too when I was little! The Bimbergooner. But I never saw him for real."
"Maybe you didn't make him real enough. Maybe you just cooked him up when you were sad or needed someone to talk to. In Lenna's case, the more she needed me, the more real I became. She needed me a lot. One day I was just there for good."
I looked at my friend. "You mean he's been around since you were little? Living with you?"
She laughed. "No. As I grew up I needed him less. I was happier and had more friends. My life got fuller. So he was around less." She reached over and touched his shoulder.
He smiled but it was a sad one, full of memories. "I can give her huge pots of gold and do great tricks. I've even been practicing ventriloquism and can throw my voice a little. But you'd be surprised how few women love ventriloquists.
"If you two'll excuse me, I think I'll go in the other room and watch TV with the boys. It's about time for the Three Stooges. Remember how much we loved that show, Lenna? I think we saw one episode ten times. The one where they open up the hairdressing salon in Mexico."
"I remember. You loved Moe and I loved Curly."
They beamed at each other through the shared memory.
"But wait, if he's . . . what you say, how come he came back now?"
"You didn't know it, but Michael and I went through a very bad period a little while ago. He even moved out for two weeks and we both thought that was it: no more marriage. One night I got into bed crying like a fool and wishing to hell Mr. Fiddlehead was around again to help me. And then suddenly there he was, standing in the bathroom door smiling at me." She squeezed his shoulder again. He covered her hand with his own.
"God, Lenna, what did you do?"
"Screamed! I didn't recognize him."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean he grew up! The Mr. Fiddlehead I imagined when I was a child was exactly my age. I guess as I got older so did he. It makes sense."
"I'm going to sit down now. I have to sit down because this has been the strangest afternoon of my life."
Fiddlehead jumped up and gave me his seat. I took it. He left the room for television with the boys. I watched him go. Without thinking, I picked up Michael's half-empty glass of milk and finished it.
"Everything you told me is true?"
She put up her right hand. "I swear on our friendship."
"That beautiful man out there is an old dream of yours?"
Her head recoiled. "Ooh, do you think he's beautiful? Really? I think he's kind of funny-looking, to tell the truth. I love him as a friend, but" – she looked guiltily at the door – "I'd never want to go out with him or anything."
But I did, so we did. After the first few dates I would have hunted rats with him in the South Bronx if that's what he liked. I was, as expected, completely gone on him. The line of a man's neck can change your life. The way he digs in his pockets for change can make the heart squawk and hands grow cold. How he touches your elbow or the button that is not closed on the cuff of his shirt are demons he's loosed without ever knowing it. They own us immediately. He was a thoroughly compelling man. I wanted to rise to the occasion of his presence in my life and become something more than I'd previously thought myself capable of.
I think he began to love me too, but he didn't say things like that. Only that he was happy, or that he wanted to share things he'd held in reserve all his life.
Because he knew sooner or later he'd have to go away (where he never said, and I stopped asking), he seemed to have thrown all caution to the wind. But before meeting him, I'd never thrown anything away, caution included. I'd been a careful reader of timetables, made the bed tight and straight first thing every morning, and hated dishes in the sink. My life at forty was comfortably narrow and ordered. Going haywire and off the deep end wasn't in my repertoire, and normally people who did made me squint.
I realized I w
as in love and haywire the day I taught him to play racquetball. After we'd batted around an hour, we were sitting in the gallery drinking Coke. He flicked sweat from his forehead with two fingers. A hot, intimate drop fell on my wrist. I put my hand over it quickly and rubbed it into my skin. He didn't see. I knew then I'd have to learn to put whatever expectations I had aside and just live purely in his jet stream, no matter where it took me. That day I realized I'd sacrifice anything for him, and for a few hours I went around feeling like some kind of holy person, a zealot, love made flesh.
"Why does Michael let you stay there?"
He took a cigarette from my pack. He'd begun smoking a week before and loved it. Almost as much as he liked to drink, he said. The perfect Irishman. "Don't forget he was the one who left Lenna, not vice versa. When he came back he was pretty much on his knees to her. He had to be. There wasn't a lot he could say about me being there. Especially after he found out who I was and why I'd come. Do you have any plum pits around?"
"Question two: Why in God's name do you eat those things?"
"That's easy: because plums are Lenna's favorite fruit. When she was a little girl, she'd have tea parties for just us two: Scott Joplin music, imaginary tea, and real plums. She'd eat the fruit, then put the pit on my plate to eat. Makes perfect sense."
I ran my hand through his red hair, loving the way my fingers got caught in all the thick curls. "That's disgusting. It's like slavery! Why am I getting to the point where I don't like my best friend so much anymore?"
"If you like me, you should like her, Juliet. She made me."
I took his hand. "That part I like. Would you ever consider moving in with me?"
He kissed my fingers. "I would love to consider that, but I have to tell you I don't think I'll be around very much longer. But if you'd like, I'll stay with you until I – uh – have to go."
"What are you talking about?" I sat up.
He put his hand close to my face. "Look hard and you'll see."
It took a moment, but then I gasped: From certain angles I could see right through the hand. It had become vaguely transparent.
A Child across the Sky Page 4