“What do you mean, the way I’ve been acting?” I could hear the edge in my voice.
“You hardly say a word to him, and when he walks up to you, your whole body seems to shrink back, like last night, or at the wedding reception before you and I danced.”
I didn’t know Dewey had noticed. I didn’t know anyone had. I wanted to be angry. I wanted to feel like he was accusing me of something, but I knew he wasn’t accusing me.
“It wasn’t any big deal,” I finally said.
Dewey just kept sitting there like he was, searching my face with those blue eyes of his.
“He kissed me,” I said. “That was it.”
Then Dewey’s thumb did that thing he’d done at the beach. He started stroking my hand ever so gently, making all that queasiness in my stomach go away.
“Hey, Lucy?”
I didn’t say anything.
“You didn’t do anything wrong.”
I still didn’t say anything.
“He shouldn’t have been kissing you.”
“That’s what Evie says.”
I sat quiet for a moment, my mind wandering. “You think that’s all he did with that other student?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Why do you say that?”
“You know how people are always talking about a woman’s intuition? Well, guys have a certain intuition, too. I think Mr. Banks goes just about as far as a person will let him, student or no student. He couldn’t take advantage of you because you wouldn’t let him.”
Dewey was still looking at me. I was still staring at the carpet, my eyes watering bad. I think guilt is about as bad a feeling as anyone can have toward oneself. I didn’t tell Dewey that part of me had enjoyed Mr. Banks’s lips on mine. Ever since Mr. Banks had kissed me, I’d tried to disown the memory of my own physical pleasure, no matter how subtle it was, but it was still there.
“What if Mr. Banks convinces the school otherwise?” I said.
“What do you mean?”
“It would be his word against that student’s. What if they believe him?”
Dewey finally looked away. “I’ve been thinking about that.”
“And just what, exactly, have you been thinking?” I said.
“I was thinking that if anything happened between you and Mr. Banks, maybe you ought to go talk to the principal.”
“I can’t,” I said, maybe too quickly.
A few solid minutes passed between us. “Just think about it,” Dewey said.
He let go of my hand and pushed himself off the stage.
“Where are you going?” I asked.
“I didn’t think you wanted to talk anymore.”
“I don’t.” I walked with Dewey up the aisle. “You think there’s a chance he won’t get fired?” I asked.
“I don’t know.”
“You really don’t like him, do you?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Why did you try out for the play, then?”
Dewey stopped walking. He tilted his head back and raised his eyes to the ceiling. “I like Shakespeare,” he said.
“Oh.”
Slowly Dewey lowered his head and looked straight at me. “And I like you.”
My eyes looked off at nothing in particular. “When did you decide you liked me?” I asked.
“When you sang ‘Happy Birthday’ to Mrs. Forez at the Walbridge Wing.”
“That was the first time you saw me.”
“Not the first,” Dewey said.
“Oh?” I looked at him inquisitively.
“I’d seen you on your bike riding around town.”
“So you’d had your eye on me, huh?”
“I guess you could say that.” Dewey stepped closer to me. “You don’t have to mention anything to the school if you don’t want to.”
“I know I don’t have to.”
“Okay, then,” he said, his face moving toward mine, his voice softening.
“Okay,” I said, our words mingling together as our lips touched.
Car Doors and French Quarters
By that Friday, I still hadn’t talked to the principal, Mrs. Leigh. I hadn’t seen Mr. Banks or Savannah, either. The school board was to meet on Tuesday. I had less than four days to decide what to do.
While I was deliberating things over in my head, Papa and Sissy arrived at their forty-first wedding anniversary. That night Mama and Daddy and Tante Pearl and I met them for dinner at Tujague’s in New Orleans’ French Quarter. After we were all seated, Daddy ordered the wine. Everyone’s glasses were filled, except for mine.
Papa said, “I want to make a toast.” He reached for Sissy’s hand and held it against his cheek. “For the love of my life,” he said. “For my heart and soul and body. For the one who rescued me and taught me to love. I am yours.” With her hand still held to his face, he kissed her, long and slow and meaningfully. Tante Pearl and I cheered, then we all clinked glasses and drank, even me with my water goblet.
Somewhere toward the end of the dinner, Mama excused herself from the table. By the time the bill was brought and paid for, she still hadn’t returned. We decided we’d wait for her outside.
“Oh, what a beautiful evening,” Sissy said as we stepped out onto the sidewalk. Thick striations of muddy rose and deep lavender colored the sky. Suddenly I felt as if I were in a sort of vacuum, and everything else around me, other than the beautiful sky, was many light-years away. For a few seconds, maybe more, I was on my own planet in this peaceful space of silence. And then it crashed, loud and hard, like a glass ball dropping to earth as I heard Mama’s voice from just around the building. “Okay, Victor. That will be perfect. I’ll see you tomorrow night.”
I could feel Daddy’s body stiffen as if it were my own. Mama turned the corner, her cell phone in her hand. She stopped abruptly when she saw us. “Oh,” she said. She slid her phone into her purse.
Papa said he was feeling mighty ready for his bed and hoped we would understand if he and Sissy made for an early departure. Mama gave them each a hug before they left. Daddy started off down the sidewalk toward Mama’s van, not saying a word to anyone.
He wasn’t any more of a conversationalist once we got to the car, and the way he slammed his door shut, you would have thought we were climbing into an eighteen-wheeler instead of Mama’s Dodge minivan.
“It’s not good to slam the door so hard,” Mama said.
Daddy didn’t say anything.
“It puts extra strain and wear on the bumpers,” Mama told him.
Tante Pearl and I looked at each other, both of us raising our eyebrows to the heavens, with a big “uh-oh” written all over our faces.
“You know, Papa always said slamming a door can break the window brackets, too,” Mama said.
I hoped there wasn’t a policeman around, because I was certain Daddy’s driving didn’t fall within the legal speed limit. From where I was sitting I couldn’t see the speedometer, and with my daddy’s emotional state, I didn’t think it such a good idea to make an obvious effort to look.
“I’ve always liked to look at the houses when I go for a drive,” Tante Pearl said, her knees squared out in front of her as if bracing herself for the ride.
The way Daddy was driving, we might have missed entire towns.
Daddy stayed as quiet as a stone. We dropped off Tante Pearl at her house first. “Have a pleasant evening,” she said before getting out.
“Don’t leave me,” I mouthed to her.
“Sorry,” she mouthed back. Mama and Daddy didn’t say anything.
It wasn’t until Daddy parked the van in the driveway that he spoke. “I’m going down to the shop.” After he got out of the van, he slammed the door again.
Mama pinned her chin to her collarbone and gave him a long, slow look, which didn’t do a bit of good, because he was already halfway to the garage, where he parked his motorcycle.
I didn’t want my daddy riding anywhere on his motorcycle in that particular frame of m
ind, even if it was only five blocks away. I wanted to throw an all-out temper tantrum right then and there. I wanted to tell Mama I was tired of Mr. Savoi and all their cooking lessons and painting sessions. I wanted to tell Daddy to stop slamming his door and hiding all his thoughts. I wanted him and Mama to go take a walk or a trip to Hawaii, or make love on the back porch under a full moon. But I didn’t throw a temper tantrum. I didn’t say a word. Instead I watched my mama walk into the house and my daddy drive away, leaving me fairly certain they hadn’t built any fires lately. I wondered how it was my granddaddy and grandmama could make it forty-one years, and as of lately my parents couldn’t go a day with twenty-four good hours between them.
Faraway Places
As far as Mama and Daddy’s relations were concerned, the rest of the weekend didn’t fare any better. They avoided each other like the plague. Mr. Savoi’s art classes were scheduled to begin that Monday afternoon, which I was fairly certain wouldn’t help the state of my parents’ affairs.
From all the commotion around town, it seemed to me every woman in Sweetbay considered herself an artist, or at least a potential one. I’d just returned to Daddy’s shop after making a delivery when Miss Balfa walked in.
“I don’t know why everyone wants to pay their good money to take some class so they can draw naked people. Seems to me it’d be a whole lot cheaper just to strip down in front of a mirror.”
“It’s the instruction,” Ethel Lee told her.
“Lord be with us. You’ve signed up, too, haven’t you?”
“I’m not even going to answer that,” Ethel Lee said.
“You don’t have to. It’s written all over your face.”
I was watering Daddy’s potted plants. Daddy was processing a new shipment of day lilies and chrysanthemums. I knew Mama was going to Mr. Savoi’s class. I had a feeling Daddy knew she was going, too.
“What time does it start?” Miss Balfa asked.
“Why? Are you interested in participating?” Ethel Lee said.
“No, I’m not interested in participating. I just thought I might go over there and see who it is he’s got modeling for him.”
“Ima Jean, he isn’t going to let you in,” Ethel Lee informed her.
“Well then I’ll hang out on the sidewalk bench and see who comes out.”
Ethel Lee rolled her eyes.
Daddy still hadn’t said a word.
“What’s with you today?” Miss Balfa asked him.
Daddy looked at her like he didn’t know what she was talking about.
“You haven’t even asked me how my day is going, much less said hello.”
“Ima Jean, how are you?” Daddy said.
“I’m hot, and thank you very much for asking.”
“So why aren’t you taking Mr. Savoi’s class?” he asked her.
Miss Balfa said, “If I was to spend two whole hours of my time painting, it’d be with a roller and a gallon of Sherwin-Williams. That garage of mine’s been needing painting for two years now.”
Daddy laughed. It was the first time I’d heard him laugh in days.
Dewey picked me up from work that afternoon in his father’s Karman Gia. We drove out to the Dairy Freeze. On the way over we talked about rehearsals and how everyone was doing. The performance was scheduled for the night of Sweetbay’s Founders’ Day, which was a little over three weeks away.
“Do you think we can pull it off?” I asked.
“We’ll pull it off,” he said.
He didn’t ask me if I had talked to the principal or if I was going to. I knew sooner or later the subject would come up, but at the moment, I was grateful he hadn’t mentioned it.
When we got to the Dairy Freeze I ordered a vanilla cone dipped in chocolate. Dewey didn’t order anything.
“Aren’t you hungry?”
“No.” He stood behind me and rubbed his hands along my bare arms.
A song came on the radio. I’m not even sure what the song was, but for some reason it made me think of Dewey and his music.
I leaned back against his chest. “When did you learn to play the piano?” I asked.
He thought a minute before answering. “I think I was in kindergarten. I could play the Minuet in G before I could write a complete sentence.”
“I don’t know a lot about music, but I love the way you play. I love how it makes me feel.”
“How does it make you feel?” he asked.
“It makes me feel high,” I said. “Like I’m flying. And it makes me feel like crying, because…”
“Because…”
“When I listen to you play, it’s as if all the things I’m feeling overwhelm me. Everything good and beautiful and sad all comes together. I feel like I can’t breathe.”
“And that’s a good thing?”
A big smile settled onto my face. “Yes, silly. That’s a very good thing.”
I looked at his hands, his palms square, his fingers long, and I wondered if his mother had had hands like his. “Did she play?” I asked.
“My mother?”
“Yeah.”
“A little.”
“Did she want you to be a pianist?”
“She wanted me to be happy.”
“Are you happy?” I asked.
“I think so.”
He reached for my free hand. “Let’s go for a walk,” he said.
The heat was draining slowly out of the day. Dewey led us down a side street behind the Dairy Freeze.
No matter how quickly I ate my cone, the ice cream continued to melt into little rivulets beneath the chocolate. As I was licking the side of the cone, Dewey leaned over and took a bite off the top.
“Hey,” I said. “I thought you weren’t hungry.”
“I’m not. I just want you to hurry up and finish so I can kiss you.”
I laughed. Dewey laughed, too. Then we both began eating, our heads bumping into each other and our noses touching.
After we finished, I wiped our faces with the napkin and slipped it into my back pocket. Dewey reached for my hands. Slowly, he traced the length of my arms, up to my shoulders, until his hands glided over the contour of my neck and along my jaw line.
“You are very beautiful,” he said.
I didn’t wait for Dewey to kiss me. Instead, I slid my arms around his waist and pressed my mouth against his. As we released each other, he kissed my face, my forehead, my neck. Then he hugged me so tight.
“I need to talk to you about something,” he said.
We were still holding each other as I waited for him to go on.
“Before we moved here, I applied at a music camp up in Montreal. It’s a type of conservatory for young musicians.”
“And you got in,” I said, understanding what he was about to tell me.
“Yeah. It’s competitive, so that’s a good thing. It runs for four weeks. I’ll have to leave after the play.”
I felt myself already missing him. “Why didn’t you mention it before?” I asked.
“I don’t know. It never seemed like the right time. And I wasn’t sure about us, I mean…”
I rubbed his back, drawing circles with my fingers. “You weren’t sure we’d like each other,” I said. “Or that we’d be standing here like this.”
“Yeah, something like that.”
I thought about all the distant and exciting places I’d read about, places I’d only dreamed of visiting. Dewey was living his dreams. Part of me was jealous. He had done something with his life. He was getting to go to one of those faraway places and do what he loved.
“But you’ll be coming back?” I said.
“I’m coming back.” He nuzzled his chin into my hair.
“Dewey, you should feel honored, getting accepted into a place like that.”
It was then that he loosened his grip. His face stared straight back at me. “I’m honored to be standing here with you.”
We stood there for a few more seconds, just looking at each other. He sees me, I thought. He
really sees who I am.
“Dewey?”
“Hmm?”
“Have you ever loved anyone before? I mean, I know you loved your mom, but…”
“No,” he said. “Not before…”
“I think I’m falling in love,” I said.
He traced my mouth with his fingertip, then lightly kissed me. “I think we’re falling in love with each other.”
As we held on to each other, I wondered if it was his music that had made me fall in love with him, and yet I knew there was more to Dewey than just his music. He was kind and funny and thoughtful in bigger ways than any boy I’d ever known. And he was honored to be with me. That meant more to me than anything.
“Dewey?”
“Yeah?”
“Be real?” I said.
“I’m real,” he said, and he kissed me again.
One Breath
As soon as I walked into the house, I smelled Mama’s shrimp and okra gumbo simmering in the Crock-Pot on the counter. A loaf of herbed bread was wrapped up in one of her dish linens. Mama still wasn’t home. I set the table and put one of her Diana Krall CDs in the stereo. Then I stirred the gumbo and waited. Mr. Savoi’s art class was supposed to be over at five. At quarter till six, Mama’s van finally pulled into the driveway. When she entered the house, she was carrying one of Bessie Faye’s pecan cream pies. A canvas bag with her art supplies was slung over her shoulder.
“I thought I’d pick up dessert,” she said, as if explaining why she was late.
I was sitting in one of the oven chairs reading a book.
Mama dropped her things on the counter, poured herself a glass of chardonnay, and joined me, sitting in the chair beside me. She slipped off her sandals and pulled her legs up underneath her.
“How did it go?” I asked.
She looked tired. Something was different.
“Fine,” she said.
I’d never known Mama to be so monosyllabic. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” She leaned her head back against the chair, ran her fingers through her hair, and slowly closed her eyes.
“Savannah was there,” she said.
Love, Cajun Style Page 17