by Dorien Grey
* * *
I’ve been thinking…
That’s a good sign. Thinking about what?
Just thinking. It’s as though I’m learning how all over again.
And have you come up with anything about your identity?
Not much. I feel we’re getting close, but…
But what?
But you’re still my only window to the world. I only know what you know.
That’s not quite true. You knew your name.
Yes, but that was…the beginning. It was all I knew. It still is, basically.
You recognized yourself in the photo.
You recognized me first. I merely confirmed it.
This is confusing as all hell.
If you think you’re confused, try it from this side.
So, what now?
Keep doing what we’ve been doing. We’re getting there…I feel it. We just don’t know where “there” is, yet.
* * *
Cessy called early Saturday morning to tell him that Brad’s mother was coming for a visit, though she couldn’t make it in time for Jenny’s recital. Elliott had met Marcella Priebe several times over the years, and really liked her. She was a native Italian who had married Brad’s father when he was stationed in Naples during his stint in the Navy. The family settled in New York, where Brad grew up, and his mother still lived there.
Though she still spoke with something of an Italian accent, she had refused, when Brad was younger, to teach him Italian. “You’re an American,” she told him. “You should speak American.”
When the grandchildren came along, though, his mother had relented a bit on the language issue, teaching BJ and Jenny a few common Italian words and phrases.
“Your grandma likes you better than she liked me,” Brad would tease her when the kids would repeat something she’d taught them. “I wasn’t smart enough to learn Italian.” And she would invariably, if close enough to him, slap him lovingly on the arm and say, “You’re so silly!”
“How long will she be here?” Elliott asked, hoping he’d be invited over for one of Mrs. Priebe’s lasagna or ravioli dinners.
“Just a week this time,” Cessy said. “So you’ll have to set aside some time for her. She likes you.”
“I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” he said.
* * *
He held off calling Steve until around noon for no particular reason other than that he really didn’t want, again, to give Steve the impression that he was too eager about the relationship. It registered at that moment that John’s entrance into his life had indeed changed him. Never much given to introspection, he’d always managed to view relationships with a certain detachment—whatever happened, happened. He neither had nor particularly wanted any specific control over them, which, he realized, may partly account for the fact that he had never really had one that lasted.
Partners came and went, as Rick had, and it was all the same to Elliott. Probably the same would be true with Steve, but for the first time he was behaving as though it might indeed matter where the relationship went, and at what speed.
Aside from the fact that he really liked Steve as a person, a lot of his attraction to him, oddly, had to do with Steve’s skin. Not only the color, but the feel, the exciting sensation of velvet over steel. Steve had—to Elliott, at any rate—the most beautiful chest he had ever seen—neither flat nor the Buttterball-turkey pecs of a muscle builder. Like Baby Bear’s porridge, it was “just right.”
And that he would associate a word like beautiful with a man’s chest was another first for him. Chests were sexy, or hot, but he’d never considered one beautiful until he met Steve.
With Steve, as with John, he concluded, he had no real idea of what was going on, and for someone as self-disciplined as he was, that realization was a source of considerable frustration. Reverie was not a place in which he felt comfortable, and he forced himself out of it and reached for the phone.
“Hi, this is Steve,” the answering machine dutifully announced. “I obviously didn’t hear the phone, but please leave your name and number so I can get right back to you.”
Mildly and again uncharacteristically angry with himself for not having called earlier, he hung up the phone and went into the kitchen to get something for lunch. He was just slicing the tomato for a BLT when the phone rang.
“Elliott, hi! Sorry I missed your call. I just ran down to the mailbox. What’s up?”
Obviously, Steve’s machine had caller I.D.
“Nothing much,” Elliot replied. “I just wanted to confirm where and when for tomorrow.”
“Great! Name it.”
“The recital starts at two, and there’s some sort of reception afterwards, but I wondered if you’d like to have brunch before we go.”
Cessy had suggested they all get together for lunch before the recital, but Elliott had made some excuse not to—he didn’t want to overdose Steve on togetherness with the family just yet.
“Sure, that’ll be fine. Oh, and what’s the dress code?”
Elliott laughed. “I don’t think there is one. I’ll check with Cessy just to make sure, but I assume it’s pretty casual. I’ll let you know if it isn’t. And why don’t I pick you up at eleven thirty…that should give us enough time.” Then, without thinking, and cursing himself immediately after for doing so, he heard himself saying: “So, what are you doing for the rest of today?”
“Laundry and chores this afternoon, then I’m going out with some of the other illustrators from work. A mostly straight crowd, but it should be okay.”
“I’m sure you’ll survive,” Elliott said.
“Yeah. I almost called you last night to see if you wanted to go for a drink, but then I thought better of it.”
“Better of it?” Elliott asked, puzzled.
“No, no,” Steve hastened to add; “I didn’t mean it that way. It’s just that I’ve been taking up a lot of your time lately, and I don’t want to wear out my welcome.”
Elliott felt his mood improve markedly. “No worry about that happening,” he said, not allowing himself to add that he’d resisted doing the same thing with Steve, for the same reason.
“Good,” Steve said. “So I’ll see you at eleven thirty tomorrow, then.”
“Okay, and have a good time tonight.”
“I’ll do my best. Later.”
* * *
I like him.
Steve?
Yes. I like him.
Do you know anything about him that I don’t?
No. But I like him.
What about G.J. Hill? And Rob Cole? Anything else on them?
No…, although…
Although?
There is something there. I have no idea what it is, but something. Just…feelings. Maybe it’s just part of being…where I am now.
But you feel some connection to them?
It’s so hard to explain. Everything is new to me. I don’t know anything, but I feel things. I wish I had a better way to explain. I know I’m not G.J. Hill, and I know I don’t like Rob Cole, but I have no idea why.
What do you feel about Hill…other than you’re not him?
Confused. Sorry. Sad. Rob was not nice to him. He wanted out of the relationship.
Rob did? Or Hill?
Hill.
Did Rob kill him?
I don’t know. I know he is dead, but I don’t know how I know. I’m…learning.
* * *
They arrived at Jenny’s school shortly before one forty-five. Elliott had carefully timed it to give him time to introduce Steve but with not time enough for Cessy to start asking too many questions. They had agreed to meet at the school’s front entrance and Cessy, Brad and BJ, were standing on the steps when they arrived.
Though Cessy had assured Elliott casual dress was fine, he noticed Brad was in a coat and tie, probably at Cessy’s insistence because Jenny was on the program. Cessy herself looked very nice in a yellow dress Elliott had not seen before, and had o
bviously just had her hair done. BJ, dressed a bit more casually in not-everyday sport shirt and slacks, was obviously not overjoyed at having to spend a Sunday afternoon at a school recital, sister or no.
The introductions went smoothly, with Brad shifting Sandy from one arm to the other in order to shake hands with Steve. They small-talked for a minute or two, Elliott vastly relieved to note Cessy’s restraint, though he did catch her glancing frequently from him to Steve. Steve gave no indication that he noticed, though Elliott was sure he had.
They made their way into the school auditorium and found seats, Cessy next to Elliott. Leaning slightly forward so she could address herself to Steve, she said, “What do you do for a living, Steve? Elliott has been very secretive about you, I’m afraid.”
Steve and Elliott exchanged a quick glance, and Steve smiled and said, “I’m a commercial artist.”
Suddenly embarrassed by realizing Steve might not fully understand the reason behind his secretiveness with his sister, Elliott felt obliged to step in. “Steve’s being modest,” he said. “He’s an exceptionally talented painter with a gallery showing coming up shortly.”
“How wonderful!” Cessy said, sincerely. “Will it be open to the public?”
“Of course,” Steve said, “and I’d be pleased if you might want to come and see it.”
“We’d love to!” Cessy replied.
At that point, the auditorium’s lights dimmed and a diminutive nun walked out in front of the closed curtain into the oval of a single, stationary spotlight.
“Welcome to St. Agnes’ annual student recital,” she said. “We’re delighted you could come, and we hope you’ll enjoy the performance.”
Cessy leaned toward Elliott: “That’s Sister Marie,” she whispered, “our neighbor from Lake Forest.”
Looking more closely, Elliott could make out a red winestain birthmark starting an inch or so above her left eye, and disappearing beneath her wimple. He remembered how mercilessly her brother Al had teased her about it. A real shit, that Al Collina, he decided again.
The program consisted of several pieces by the school’s orchestra and chorus, separately and together, interspersed with solos by a number of students with varying degrees of talent. When it was Jenny’s turn, after applauding enthusiastically as she walked across the stage to the piano, Cessy took both Elliott’s and Brad’s hands nervously.
Jenny, looking very much the young lady in a new yellow dress, her hair in a ponytail tied with a matching yellow ribbon, sat down and began a Chopin etude, which she executed flawlessly. Elliott glanced over at his sister and brother-in-law, whose pride clearly showed on their faces. BJ, sitting on the other side of his father, looked mildly bored, and Sandy slept through the whole thing.
* * *
At the end of the recital, Sister Marie came out again to thank the audience and praise the students, then announced that coffee and cake would be served in the gym across from the auditorium. Brad sent BJ out to the car for the camera, and they waited for Jenny to come out from backstage before going across the hall to the gym. Steve was gracious and sincere in his praise of Jenny’s playing, and Elliott could see he had won Cessy over totally—even Brad seemed pleased. Hearing praise from someone other than a family member obviously meant a lot to Jenny.
They’d just left the auditorium and were crossing the hall when BJ returned with the camera. The group paused while Brad took a couple of photos of Jenny, and Steve volunteered to take a picture of the whole family, thus endearing himself further to Cessy. She then insisted that she get a shot of Steve and Elliott together, and Steve deliberately put one arm over Elliott’s shoulder, pulling him close and grinning broadly as he did so. Elliott knew it was totally for Cessy’s benefit, but rather enjoyed it.
Most of the people from the recital were milling around noisily in the gym, at one end of which a number of tables and chairs had been set up. Coffee urns and cups, glasses of milk, Saran-wrapped pieces of cake on paper saucers, and paper plates piled with cookies were spread out on two buffet tables on the wall to the left of the doors, overseen by two nuns. Several of the school’s faculty, including three or four other nuns, formed the nucleus of little clusters of parents and students.
BJ split off from the main group and headed immediately for the food. As the rest moved to follow, Jenny said, “Oh, look! There’s Sister Marie. Don’t you want to go say hello?”
Before anyone could answer, Jenny caught the Sister’s eye, and waved, causing her to move in their direction.
“Mr. and Mrs. Priebe,” she said warmly, extending her hand as she approached. “You must be very proud of Jenny,” she said, taking Cessy’s hand as Jenny beamed and Brad put his free hand on the girl’s shoulder. “You did very well today,” she said to Jenny’s obvious delight.
“Sister, I’m sure you remember my brother, Elliott. And this is his friend, Steve.”
Shaking hands with both men, she smiled broadly. “Of course I remember Elliott!” she said. “You and John were the best of friends.”
“I can’t tell you how sorry I was to hear of his death,” he said. “We hadn’t seen one another in many years, but I always remember him fondly. And please accept my condolences on the death of your mother.”
Sister Marie’s smile dimmed a bit with sadness, but soon regained its full power. “Yes,” she said. “I miss her terribly, but she’s with the Lord.” She reached out and touched Elliott’s arm. “And do you know, she would never allow herself to admit that John was never coming home. She never removed him from her will, and despite Alphonso’s insistence that she do so, she even refused to sign the papers necessary to declare John legally dead. You remember Alphonso, and I’m sure you can judge his reaction.” She gave a small smile and said, “It may be uncharitable of me to say, but I’m glad she didn’t. She was the only one in the family, other than John, to ever stand up to him.” She sighed. “Well, they’re together now, in heaven.”
As though suddenly realizing she’d been talking of personal matters to relative strangers, she pulled herself up to her full five feet, six inches and said hastily, “Well, I must go say hello to some of the other parents. It’s been very nice talking with you. Nice seeing you again, Elliott, and nice to meet you, Steve. Jenny, I’ll see you in class.” And with a warm smile all around, she turned and left.
The fact that she’d referred to Al Collina as Alphonso—a name he detested but which his father insisted he be called—was not lost on Elliott and he felt it spoke volumes about Marie’s feelings toward her one surviving brother. It also struck him that with Sophia Collina now dead herself, she couldn’t block Al’s efforts to file the papers, which would undoubtedly bring him even more money than he already had, in the form of his half of John’s portion of the estate.
They moved to the refreshment tables, then joined BJ at an empty table. He’d already polished off most of his cake and a carton of milk. Looking up as his parents approached the table and attempting to ward off an expected rebuke, he said defensively, “Hey, I was hungry, all right?” As everyone else sat down, he got up to get another piece of cake.
“Leave some for everybody else,” his father said.
“I’ll just take a small one,” BJ replied, and hurried off before Brad could say anything else.
In the twenty minutes or so that they sat at the table with their cake and coffee, Cessy managed to get pretty much all of Steve’s life story. Her subtle interrogation was somewhat deflected when, upon Steve mentioning that he liked fishing, he and Brad got into a side discussion on the subject.
* * *
“Thanks for putting up with all this,” Elliott said as they pulled out of the parking lot. “You’re a brave man.”
Steve laughed. “No problem. I enjoyed it. You’ve got a really nice family. I’ve been feeling a little homesick lately, and being around a real family helped. Too bad about your friend.”
Elliott looked over at him. “Johnny? Yeah. We were really close. He died in Afri
ca some time ago, and I hadn’t seen him since we were teenagers. Still, I do think about him from time to time and think of what a waste it was for him to die so young.”
They rode in relative silence until they turned left on Peterson Avenue. Elliott’s building stood out on the horizon nearly two miles away.
“I don’t suppose recitals have the same effect on you as art galleries and pizza, do they?”
Steve grinned and put a hand on Elliott’s leg. “How ever did you know?”
Returning the grin, he put his free hand over Steve’s. “A wild guess,” he said.
CHAPTER 11
Cessy called Sunday night just after he’d returned from taking Steve home, to give her official stamp of approval.
“So,” she said, “are you two getting serious?”
“Cessy, I’ve only known the guy for a couple of weeks. It’s way too early to think in terms of ‘serious.’”
“But you like him.”
“Of course I like him. I wouldn’t have brought him to the recital if I didn’t like him.”
“And he likes you,” she said. “I could tell. You make a really nice couple.”
Even though she couldn’t see it from the other end of the phone, he shook his head. “Cessy, are we back in fifth grade again? ‘He likes you. I could tell.’ Come on!”
“Well you can joke about it all you want, but I think you’ve got a good thing going here, and I just want you to be happy.”
Recognizing her sincerity, he mellowed. “I know you do, Sis, and I do appreciate it. But let’s just take it slow, okay?”
He heard her sigh. “Okay. Well, Sandy is crying, and I’d better go see what the problem is. Talk to you later.”
* * *
Around noon on Monday, just as he was going out to his car for a tool, he heard a commotion out in front of the building. Curious, he walked down the narrow walkway between his building and the building being demolished next door. A tow truck was in front of his building, removing a car parked in front of the fireplug—Al Collina’s car. Al was in the street, yelling at the tow-truck driver, who ignored him and drove off.