Wild Roses

by Deb Caletti

  “Fly down here,” I said. It was so freezing out there that when I spoke I felt like a member of those African tribes you see in National Geographic, with the discs in their lips. I sounded the way you do when you get back from the dentist.

  “You can see this whole area from the bedrooms upstairs,” Ian said.

  “Wow.”

  “It makes up for the fact that the rooms are midgetsize. I heard you came by.”

  “I just … I don’t know. Something possessed me.”

  “Hey, I’m glad. I’m glad you didn’t go in too.”

  “Why? Your mom seemed great.”

  “She is great. The house, you know, we’re still moving in.”

  “Trés Zen. Feng shui.”

  “We might’ve had that for dinner last night,” he said. God, I liked him.

  “My lips are so cold I can barely talk,” I said.

  Ian reached out his fingertips, set them on my mouth, the way you would shush someone you loved. That gentle. Then he moved his hand to the tip of my nose. “Your nose is cold, too.”

  I took hold of his fingers, held them in my hand. We were just standing there on the dock, me holding Ian’s hand, and Rocket looking on to see what might happen next. We were both smiling away at each other.

  “I haven’t seen you in a while,” I said. I hadn’t really seen him since we kissed. Except for when he was at my house last, when he left in a rush after that horrible, humiliating lesson.

  “I’m quitting.”

  “What? What do you mean? Don’t let him do that to you. If this is what you want, don’t give in because he’s an asshole. …”

  “He’s an amazing player. Amazing, God,” Ian shook his head. He settled his hand more comfortably in mine. “Amazing doesn’t even touch how he plays.”

  “But he sucks as a human being.”

  “I don’t know how you take it. I don’t think I can. Is he always like that?”

  “Domineering?” I asked. “Critical? Mean?” I didn’t say crazy. The other things were bad enough. “Yeah, pretty much. He’s got a few really likeable moments, and that’s about it. I don’t know how I take it. I’ve been thinking about moving in with my Dad.” I didn’t know I’d been thinking that—it just came out. One of those times the subconscious is clicking along doing its own thing, like when you’re walking home and realize you’re there but don’t even remember the trip.

  “What about your mom? She needs you.”

  “Maybe.” I thought about the lesson I’d overheard. You must save your mama, Ian…. What had Dino meant? There was something about this comment that seemed unapproachable, but I wanted to approach it anyway. I decided to tread carefully, to give Ian an open door in case he wanted to go in. “My mom can take care of herself, though. I mean, doesn’t yours?”

  “Sure, she does,” he said. He ignored my open door. Maybe the comment was more of Dino’s usual craziness. “I just thought you’d worry about hurting your mom’s feelings by moving out.”

  “You’re right. It’s the only thing that’s keeping me from getting out of there.” I cared about Mom. Too much to let her think she failed me.

  “Rocket!” Ian yelled. The dog had trotted off and was smelling a net that a fisherman had thrown onto the dock. “Come on, girl.”

  Rocket looked up to see if Ian was sure, and when he clapped his hands, letting mine go, Rocket came reluctantly back. Ian sat down on the bench, and I sat beside him. He told me about Thanksgiving, how Chuck and Bunny made lasagna and garlic bread. Bunny had brought over some incense and it stank so bad Ian’s mom had to open the windows and they all had to wear their coats as they ate. I told him about mine, but left off everything about Dino’s behavior. I only told him about the food, and the guests, and the two waiters on the brink of a passionate affair.

  “See everything you’ll miss if you quit?” I said. I don’t know why I was encouraging him. His continuing meant one thing—that Dino would do whatever he could to help get him into Curtis. That Ian would move a zillion miles away. Still, I’d rather have him go away than quit what he loved because of Dino.

  “Everything I’ll miss? Everything I’ll be free of, is more like it,” Ian said. “Pretentious people.”

  “Endless practicing?” I offered.

  “Nothing but music. I’m so goddamned sick of it. I want other things in my life.” He looked at me then, and a jolt passed between us. At least, I felt it. He took a strand of my hair, wound it around one finger. My hair had never been so happy.

  “Free of Dino’s nastiness,” I said.

  “That accent.” Ian shook his head. “I hear it in my sleep.”

  “And all of the endless stories about Italy. God, I get sick of that.”

  “He tells me them too.”

  “His mother teaching him to play the piano, which he couldn’t do, but when they brought out his father’s old violin …”

  “He played some song like he learned it in the womb,” Ian interrupted.

  “I hate when he gets to the ‘in the womb’ part. Womb is a creepy word anyway, but when he says it …”

  “Wuuum,” Ian tried out an Italian accent.

  “And the bicycles,” I said.

  “In the canals,” Ian said.

  “I’ve heard it five thousand times.”

  “I never understood why they threw them in,” Ian said.

  ‘“We were hooligans.’” I tried out my Italian accent. Mine was better.

  At that moment, that very second, we both looked at Dino’s bike, lying on its side there on the dock.

  “That’s his bike, isn’t it?” Ian asked.

  “Mmm hmmm.”

  “It had to be.”

  I turned to Ian. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

  “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

  “Let’s do it.”

  “Ve are zuch hooligans,” Ian said. He sounded kind of German.

  I picked up my end of the bike by the handlebars; Ian lifted the back tire. I was giggling away like mad. “Ze bicycles in ze canal,” Ian said. “Is ze serious matter.” He was more German by the second.

  We lugged the bike to the end of the dock. Rocket was looking on, giving us the Those wacky humans dog look.

  “Hold ze bicycle in ze air,” Ian said. His hair was in his eyes.

  “A moment of victory,” I said.

  I tried my best, but it was heavy. My end was drooping during that part of the ceremony.

  We counted. One, two, three. We heaved it as far as we could, which was maybe a few feet. It landed in the water with a splat more than a splash, and lay on the top for a minute before the back wheel started heading down.

  We started to clap. I was filled with a surge of joy. Water rushed through the wire basket.

  “We are ze king and ze queen of bicycle tossing,” Ian said.

  “Conquerors and champions,” I said.

  Ian took a pinch of my sleeve, brought me in to him in a hug. I could smell his coat, nylon left outside; his hair, some kind of clean vanilla.

  “I’m quitting lessons, Cassie,” Ian said.

  “Don’t do it if it’s just because of Dino. Don’t let him have that kind of power.”

  “It’s not just Dino. Cassie? I don’t want the violin running my life. I want more.”

  “Okay, then. All right,” I said.

  “And I don’t want to go away to Curtis,” he said. I set my cheek against him, let the hope fill me. I could hear his heart, even through his puffy coat. It was beating pretty wildly in there.

  “Then you won’t go,” I said.

  We pulled apart. Here’s what I felt—our eyes, they made a pact. To be away from the music, the all-encompassing enemy, to be safe with each other. It was settled. No more violin, no more frenzied, singular visions. Ian would be the place where everything was okay.

  Ian leaned in, kissed me. Warm, so warm, soft. A long, slow kiss. I didn’t pull away, and I didn’t run. He swallowed me up and brough
t me in.

  When we pulled apart again, we just looked at each other. Because of course, everything had changed.

  I started seeing Ian every day after school. He hadn’t told his mom that he’d stopped going to lessons, so he’d pretend to leave at the same time each day and we’d meet somewhere. Sometimes we’d go to the ferry dock, and sometimes we’d go to the planetarium, because Dave, the guy that works there, always lets me in for free. We’d sit in the plush seats, and I’d point things out to Ian and he’d interrupt me with questions. Every now and then Ian would have Bunny’s car, and we’d park somewhere and kiss and steam up the windows and go to the edge of want. Or we’d sit in the chairs in the back part of the library and talk, and once we listened to classical music on the big, puffy library headphones, those old kind from when headphones were first invented. He explained to me the difference between legato and staccato, and for the first time in my life I actually cared. About the music, about someone else. Cared—love. My God, love. Here it was, and it was fantastic. Everything felt larger. I felt like things made sense. I was myself, and more than I ever knew I could be. I wanted to be so close to him that I was of him. I wanted to be in his mind, in his arms. I loved the way his hair fell in his eyes, his gangly limbs, the way I had to stand on my toes to reach him. I loved his sudden laugh, the way he thought about things, his intelligence. I started wearing his coat around when we were together. I would have worn it when we were apart, if I could. And Ian was a harbor. A place to hide from what was happening at home. A gazebo to run to and take shelter in during a thunderstorm. If you think that all of this is corny, tough shit. That’s the way it was.

  I explained away my absences with my handy Honduras project. It was the biggest project in the history of projects. It was the longest, too, even though we’d given the oral report on it weeks ago, Nicole holding and gesturing to the visual aids like a game show hostess, and Jason sulking and not saying anything because we’d rejected his idea of playing music in the background while we spoke. He’d brought in a tape recorder and a compilation of Hawaiian favorites. He perked up when we let him pass out the information sheets to the class, though. Of course, all three of us got an A, even though the only thing those two really contributed to was my understanding of homicidal behavior.

  I kept different pieces of my life in different places. I was overcome with this bizarre need to talk about Ian, to bring him to me with words, but I only gave in and did this with my bonded twin, Zach Rogers, the talented duct taped snake impersonator. I chose Zach to mention Ian to because one, he had every class with me, and two, because he had the memory of a goldfish. I didn’t tell any of my friends about Ian, even Zebe.

  “What is with you?” she asked me at lunch one day. “You aren’t yourself. I feel like I’m talking to my Coke can. No, wait. It’s more responsive.” She held the can up to her ear. “Yeah, uh huh, I know,” she said to the can. “God, Cassie. You’ve been acting weird for over a week now.”

  “No, I haven’t. I’m fine.”

  “Shit, you know? I thought I was your friend.”

  “I’m sorry. There’s really nothing …” I thought quickly. “Things are messed up at home. More than usual. I’m thinking of moving in with my dad. It’s just really been on my mind a lot.”

  “You can’t talk to me about that?” Zebe said. “Man, oh, man, you gotta share this stuff or it kills you. I was going to tell the counselor you had an eating disorder just so she’d call you into her office.”

  I still got together with everyone on most weekends, but inside I was rushing through those times and others. I had an ever-present inner hurry up! until I could be with Ian again. So that I could be free in the afternoons with the ease of one all-encompassing lie, I told my friends and even Siang that Mom got me a job helping with symphony correspondence.

  I’m not sure why it felt so necessary to keep Ian a secret. I guess I wanted what we had all for myself, to protect it. I didn’t want what was happening between Ian and me to become the usual thing, where you date for a few weeks and everyone talks about it like it’s a ridiculously moronic soap opera, and your friends call his friends and his friends call you and it all becomes stupid and shallow. It was too special to have as the news of the day. It was too deep to be about other people.

  I also didn’t tell my parents about Ian for obvious reasons, and though I did tell Ian about my parents, I didn’t talk about Dino. I didn’t tell him that since Thanksgiving, Dino was up and down and paranoid and rational. I was sure it was too bizarre for him to handle. It was too bizarre for me to handle. Let’s face it. Mental illness is embarrassing. In a perfect world, we wouldn’t look down on people too ill to hold it together, who cry while looking out the window and don’t bother getting fully dressed before going out. We’d be patient and understanding, instead of letting out our fear and uneasiness with the same kind of jokes we make about funeral directors. But it does make you uneasy. You do want to hold it away from you by saying his tie would match his straitjacket, even if that’s not nice. This is not me, this is not mine. My mom makes cookies, too.

  I couldn’t show Ian that part of my life. It was something I wanted to run from, so why wouldn’t he? And there was another thing, too. Ian was a part of the situation in a way a stranger wouldn’t be. I can honestly say that I lost track of who I was protecting, and why.

  “He didn’t show up for his lesson again,” Dino said one night as we were all in the car going out for dinner. “Two times, now. Two times!”

  “I told you, just let him sort it out on his own. He’s obviously struggling with the music just now.”

  “I’m going to call his mother. You want me to wait until it happens a third time?”

  “Third, fourth. Let him have a rest. You know how the pressure can get to you,” Mom said. “Let him decide he wants this. Be calm, Dino.”

  “We’re losing precious time, Daniella,” Dino said. “Don’t you see? We’ve only got three and a half months before his tape must be in.”

  “Why is this so important to you anyway?” I asked. I never did get that. I mean, why not let Ian be?

  “How can you understand? I can make a difference in his life. I can save him the struggle I had,” Dino said. His eyes in the rearview mirror looked disgusted at my question.

  “You see yourself in him,” Mom said.

  “Youth, need, talent …” Dino said. “But how can I help him if he doesn’t help himself? It’s a waste, and I detest waste. He will lose his chance if he doesn’t stop these foolish games.”

  “Maybe he quit,” I said. I couldn’t help myself. I was a little smug at having the inside information. I also wanted to help Ian out. He was so happy about not playing anymore that the sooner Dino got it through his head, the better. Dino’s pride at not having succeeded with his first student would just have to hurt a little. Or a lot. The Curtis School a zillion miles away would just have to do without Ian. If you’re thinking here that my motivations were selfish, you’re right about that too. Sure, I was glad he quit. If it meant he wouldn’t leave, I’d have been happy if he decided to become a ferryboat driver and live here forever.

  “Ha,” Dino said. “He’ll never quit.”

  A little flame of anger rose up. “What makes you so sure?”

  “I know. He will never quit. He’ll be back.”

  “You can’t know,” I said. “You can’t know for sure what someone will or won’t do.” I hated the look of the back of his neck, that curly hair he was so proud of. What I’d have given for a pair of scissors.

  “Don’t be ridiculous. He’ll be back. I’ll call his mother in the morning,” Dino said.

  “No, Dino. It will be better if he comes back here on his own,” my mother said. “You know how it gets sometimes. You think you never want to see a sheet of music again.”

  We pulled up to the restaurant. I didn’t feel like eating. I didn’t want to sit across from Dino and see him get salad dressing in the corners of his mouth. Hatr
ed and nourishment didn’t go together.

  “His mother will do what I tell her to do. They always do. That idiot Andrew Wilkowski would jump off a bridge if I told him to,” Dino said.

  “Wearing his music-note tie,” my mother said.

  “Tacky man. William Tiero, that prick. He was the only one who wouldn’t. He told me what to do, and I hated it. How many years, I followed like a lamb.”

  “All right, love. Let’s not think about that now,” Mom said. She opened her car door.

  “They would all jump off a bridge if I told them to.” Dino snapped his fingers in the air. Just like that, those fingers said.

  Christmas came. A big tree was brought into the house, delivered already decorated, a present from Andrew Wilkowski, who probably had just gotten his first commission check for the deal he set up for Dino, the CD currently titled, Then and Now, a mix of his old stuff and the new pieces, a way of putting out a new album without a full set of fresh material. You should have seen this tree—it was the kind of thing that you see in department stores, with miniature packages wrapped in gold paper and gaudy, huge ornaments and sparkly pears and doves. It was either gorgeous or horrid. Either way it didn’t exactly give you what you would call a warm, Chestnuts Over the Open Fire kind of feeling. More, Nordstrom’s Holiday Home Sale. When it was being delivered, Courtney and her media-monster brothers practically wet themselves with excitement. They stood in the street and watched the tree—and the two delivery guys it took to carry it—disappear into the house. Mom said Courtney actually brought her parents by later to gawk. This wasn’t hard to do. You could be three miles away from the front window and still see it. Thank God there were no lights on it, or the Coast Guard would think there was a ship in distress.

  In spite of the tree, there were bits of evidence of the way Christmas used to be too, when it was just Mom and Dad and me. There was this decrepit gingerbread house we’d made years ago, the candy so ancient that it was pale and drippy and would kill you if you ate it, and our old Nativity scene. Mom and I still liked to have fun with it by moving the figures around in what you could politely call “nontraditional positions.” Mom’s not very religious in any regular way. She called the Nativity “Christmas Town,” as in What’s happening in Christmas Town today? I’d wake up to find the camel in the manger, say, with Joseph chipping in with parenting duties out front, and then I’d move them around to surprise her the next day with everyone standing in a circle around the donkey. Several years ago, the scene acquired a large plastic dinosaur, and later, a miniature replica of the Statue of Liberty that Mom got when she played a festival in New York. The poor folks of Christmas Town ran from Godzilla one day, and the Statue of Liberty got to be a fourth wise man. I remember that my dad used to get a little ticked at us for this, as Christmas Town had been a gift from Nannie, and he disapproved of our sacrilege. I remember Mom sticking out her tongue at him, and him swatting her butt. I don’t think Dino even noticed Christmas Town. I’m not sure Dino even noticed the Christmas tree that had invaded the living room.