by Louise Hawes
“And who would I say that to?” My poet grinned at me, then at the way Wanda had persisted in holding his hands. “I’m assuming you’re a friend of Sarah’s?”
Yes, redheads do blush brighter than the rest of us. “Oh, golly, I’m sorry.” Wanda took one of her hands away to put it over her mouth. “I completely forgot.” She looked down at Rufus with adoring-groupie eyes. “It’s just that, well, I know who you are, of course. But it never occurred to me you don’t know me, I mean . . . you know . . .” She stopped chattering to giggle. “How dumb can you be?”
“A lot dumber than you, I’ll bet.” Rufus outsmiled her, rescuing one of his hands to sip his tea. “I’m pleased to meet you, . . .”
“Wanda, sir.” My friend sat down in the chair I brought over, but managed to keep hold of my poet’s other hand. “Wanda Slater.” The hand pumping had stopped, but the worshipful gaze had not. “Wanda Elizabeth Slater.”
As if she had radar, an internal warning device that allowed her to sense when someone else was the center of attention, my mother hurried in from the kitchen. “Rufus!” She practically sang his name, as if he were her dearest friend, as if they hadn’t seen each other in years, instead of minutes. “Why didn’t you ring? Your tea glass is empty!”
“I’m afraid our captive”—my poet nodded toward the bedroom in which we’d locked Carmen—“responds rather badly to bells.” Rufus adjusted the sea of cushions behind him. “Besides, I’m saving room. Whatever you and your sister are concocting in that kitchen, Katherine, smells like paradise.”
“It’s Kate, Rufus.” My mother was smiling as if her face didn’t know how to do anything else. “And I hope your appetite is up to the task. I won’t allow you to eat less than everything, you know!” Her drawl got longer and more flirtatious with each step she took toward the couch. And yes, she perched beside my poet there, like a preschooler, the cocktail plates she’d been carrying nested in her lap.
Finally, she turned to Wanda and me. “I see you’ve brought a friend, Sarah.” As though I hadn’t told her Wanda was coming. As though I hadn’t assured her my friend had the smallest appetite on the planet, and promised I’d take extra-tiny portions myself.
Mom smiled the briefest of smiles at Wanda, before turning back to the guest of honor. “We’re ready when you are, Rufus. I told Jocelyn to tuck those crab rolls right back in the oven until you give us the high sign.” She laughed as if she’d said something incredibly amusing, then placed one of the dainty plates in front of each of us. Which meant she wanted us to linger over what did, indeed, smell like heaven in the kitchen.
Rufus took my mother’s hands in his. “Well, let the crabs roll,” he told her. “I’m not sure how much more torture our olfactory nerves can be expected to endure.”
When Aunt Jocelyn joined us, she had a tray in her hands. It was piled high with flattened hot dog buns rolled into pancakes and wrapped around crab salad. Like a cartoon, Rufus raised his head, his nose leading. “Ambrosia!” he said. “Pure ambrosia.”
We waited, holding our breath, watching my poet take his first taste. “This has to be stone crab,” he said, after he’d nearly devoured a whole roll in one bite. “Wherever did you find stone crab?”
“How did you know?” Jocelyn’s smile matched my poet’s, and we all took bites of our own.
“I can always tell stone crab from blue.” Rufus shook his head, licked his fingers. “It tastes like lobster—soft and sweet and beyond compare.”
“I have a little place I go,” Jocelyn confided. “It’s a bit of a drive, but I think it’s worth it.” She smiled at Rufus, at my mother, even at me and Wanda.
I’d watched Rufus during morning pages, seen how expert he’d become at moving around on his crutches. Adjourning to the dining room, then, so Mom could show off the table she’d set, was no problem. And neither was finishing the four courses Aunt J. had cooked. It was over the second, a consommé with sherry and shrimp, that Mom asked Rufus the question she hadn’t asked me in the whole month I’d been taking classes with him. “So,” she said, putting the tips of her fingers together, a church roof over her jellied soup, “what have you and your budding poets been working on?”
Even though she’d looked at Rufus when she asked, I answered. “We wrote to music last class,” I reported. “Remember? I told you how Mr. Bay—I mean, Rufus and I picked the CDs out?”
Rufus nodded, but Mom laughed right out loud. “Oh, my,” she said, patting our poet’s arm in sympathy. “I guess with inexperienced writers, you really need bells and whistles.” She stopped, heard what she’d said. “As it were,” she added, smiling at her own accidental joke.
“You should have been there, Kate.” Had our poet missed my mother’s mean-spirited point? Or was he just ignoring it? “Thanks to Sarah’s high-tech lessons for this low-tech learner”—he winked at me—“our words danced.”
By the time dinner was finished, Rufus had deflected at least two more of Mom’s not-so-subtle suggestions that he was working with a bunch of juvenile illiterates. It must have required considerable energy to cut her off at the pass, because he fueled himself with extra helpings of everything, including Jocelyn’s Temptation Torte, a dessert of her own invention that involved more chocolate than should be legal in any one recipe.
It wasn’t until we were back in the living room that Rufus got the chance to talk to Wanda. While my mother and aunt were in the kitchen, pouring coffee into the tiny cups Mom had insisted on bringing with her for the occasion, Rufus turned to my friend. “So, Miss Slater,” he said, “I’m curious to know what sort of poetry you write.”
“Well, sir.” Wanda lowered her voice, as if she were telling a dirty joke. “I’ve written thirty-six poems about my bed.” She looked amused and embarrassed at the same time. “And twenty-seven about the cove.”
“The cove?”
“Yes, sir.” Wanda held her fingers in a circle. “It’s a little piece of ocean that gets caught behind some rocks off Dingman’s Island. The water there is a whole different color.”
“It sounds like a poemworthy spot,” Rufus told her. “And now that two poets have joined us tonight, perhaps I should include you both in an invitation to see a play by one of the greatest poets who ever lived.”
Wanda and I looked at each other. Thrilled. Curious.
“It seems your local theater company is staging my favorite Shakespeare play next week,” Rufus explained. “I’ve probably seen The Tempest thirty times,” he told us. “But I’d love to make it thirty-one.” He propped himself up with one of his crutches, reached into his pocket, and took out a white envelope. “It seems they’ve sent me three tickets for Wednesday night,” he said, holding them up for us to see. “It’s fate, ladies. What do you say?”
Wanda lit up, her hands clasped in an unconscious imitation of Miss Kinney. And me? The perennial auditioner? The stagestruck wannabe? Why wouldn’t I kill (or at least, maim) to watch Shakespeare with Rufus and my best friend? A tiny shoot of happiness started to sprout, but then I pushed it down. My mother and Jocelyn arrived with the coffee, and that’s when I knew how much one person in the room would be disappointed by Rufus’s invitation, would feel cheated, left out.
Wanda was bubbling, chattering about the play. Suddenly, Mom was plunking down our coffee cups, clinking and clanking too loudly, too fiercely. There was hurt in every move she made, and I could feel it across the room. So, apparently, could Rufus, who put one hand on my mother’s arm when she brought him his cup. “Kate,” he said, “I’ve asked these two young ladies to accompany me to the theater for a midweek performance. I’d be honored if you and your sister would join us.”
My mother stopped clanking and sat down. She put on her coy, flirty face, a demure look that said she’d have to think about it, would have to sort through the countless other offers she’d received. And then, before she could answer, a minor miracle occurred.
“We can’t.” Jocelyn looked blankly, matter-of-factly at the rest of u
s. “Kendall and I are taking Kate to the Bluegrass Ramblers.”
“What?” Mom, who had obviously been on the verge of graciously accepting Rufus’s invitation, looked stunned.
“Don’t you remember, Kate? That’s the night the Ramblers are playing at the Steakhouse.” My aunt paused, her face suddenly earnest. “Kendall says it isn’t every day you get to see a group like the Ramblers live.” And it isn’t every day, her spoiled-baby-sister voice told my mother, that you’ll have a chance to get to know my boyfriend, and if you don’t do this, I’ll pout and possibly hate you forever.
“There are other plays in the season,” Rufus told Mom. “Perhaps we can find a time later.”
My mother looked uncertain. She took a survey of the room: Rufus, easygoing, conciliatory in his pillow nest; Jocelyn, threatening a tantrum; Wanda, on the verge of euphoria; me, holding my breath. Then, perhaps because changing the subject was the only way to wrest control of her soirée from its guests, she turned to my poet. “Now, Rufus,” she said, apropos of absolutely nothing. “Why don’t you tell us what it was like to read at the president’s inauguration? I know Jocelyn is dying to hear what they served at the White House dinner.”
The Play’s the Thing
Slowly but surely, I was adding to my stock of Edward (which was Fry’s actual name, the one I was sure he’d publish under someday) Reynolds’s poetry. Each time I asked for a new poem, he sighed and shook his head as if I’d asked him to swim the Channel or give up beer. He always told me that I was a poem, that he could never write one that came close. But each time, a few hours later, I’d find another text on my phone. One that made me wonder how Rufus could have used the word “talent” about someone like me, when people like Fry inhabited the planet. People who could write, “your body’s silent music,” or, “sweet rain of whispered words.”
But the more I thought about it, the more convinced I was the world would love Fry’s poetry as much as I did. That maybe I was being selfish and small, treating his poems like my own personal property, like a signature scent I didn’t want anyone else to wear. Which was why, two days after my mother’s dinner for Rufus, on our walk home from the beach, with no ride but plenty of privacy, I told him how I felt. “You should really and truly publish these.” I pressed my cell phone to my chest, like a heroine in an old-fashioned romance, hugging a bundle of love letters. “Don’t you dare laugh,” I added. I put a finger over his mouth. “I want you to show them to Rufus. I’m positive he’d help, you know, get them out there.”
“I didn’t write those poems for Rufus Baylor.” Fry wasn’t laughing anymore. He took my phone away, as if it were a toy I didn’t deserve. “I wrote them for you.” He aimed dark, dead-serious eyes at mine. “Only for you.” And now he grabbed the finger I’d placed on his lips and turned it back on me like a trigger. “Understand?”
I nodded, took my phone back. But I didn’t get it at all, not really. How could someone, especially someone who wrote such flat-out gorgeous poems, not want to reach other people with them? How could an artist who made such heavenly word music settle for playing it to an audience of one?
“Got to give props to the fossil, though,” Fry told me. “Teaching class with a broken leg.” H and I, careful to avoid the topic of morning pages, had talked up my poet’s quick recovery after the accident. If we couldn’t praise the poetry, we could praise the man.
“He’s pretty tough,” I said, trying to find an adjective Fry would approve. I considered and rejected “brave,” “heroic,” and “amazing.”
H was relieving Shepherd at Rufus’s, so it was just the two of us when we got to Fry’s. Correction: just the two of us and Mrs. Reynolds, who was watching TV upstairs. Which meant hugs. And kisses. But no more.
Right after we’d turned up the volume on our set to drown out hers, Fry’s cell beeped and he checked a text message. His whole face lit up. “Guess where we’re going tomorrow?” he asked, as soon as he’d read it. He was too excited even to wait for an answer. “I’ll give you a hint”—bursting to get the good news out—“H got passes to the school bus races at the speedway!”
Honestly, you should have seen that boy’s face. He looked as if he were surprising me with a trip to Disneyland. Europe. Cancún. But truth be told? A three-hour ride in the Taurus with no air-conditioning and one window permanently shut since the crank handle had fallen off was not something I was anxious to experience. All to watch lumbering, decades-old school buses race each other around a quarter-mile track. And if you think a bus is way too large to make the turns on such a small course, you’re right.
Apparently, though, that was the whole point. “Motorized mayhem,” Fry called it, and he and H couldn’t get enough of the smashing and splintering, the spilled radiators, the slides, the rear-wheeling, and of course, the crashes. But no matter how differently I felt, no matter how hard I’d have to try to share their enthusiasm, this princess would have hiked up her ball gown and gone with them; she would have been a good sport and laughed at the upended buses with her prince . . . if she didn’t have a date already.
“I’m sorry,” I told Fry, as gently, as casually, as I could. “I’m busy tomorrow.” But when he asked what I was doing and I told him about going to the theater with Rufus and Wanda, the casual, gentle thing kind of went out the window:
“You’ve got to be kidding!” Fry didn’t seem to care that his mother was home. He was practically shouting. “You just had dinner with Wilma, right? And what is it with you and Baylor, anyway?”
“It’s Wanda,” I told him.
Dueling TVs or not, his mom couldn’t have missed what he yelled next. “Don’t you get it, Sarah? That old perv is putting the moves on you.”
It was as if I’d just closed the door on summer and opened it to find bare branches and snow everywhere. I sat, stunned, trying to get used to the chill. “You’re wrong, Fry.”
Fosdick, roused from his dog siesta by the noise, sniffed first at Fry, then at me. I threw his dog toy as far as I could, but it bounced off Fry’s weight bench and came right back to us. “You don’t know what Rufus is like,” I told Fry. What more was there to say? Rufus wasn’t on trial. “You don’t even go to class.” Why did I need to defend the dearest, kindest person I knew?
ME
(Hurt, fuming)
FRY
So? What? Did he tell you your work needs special attention?
OUR TV
Now for more about this story, here’s our reporter in L.A. Lauren, what’s . . .
ME
Not that it matters. But he says I’ve got talent.
FRY
I’ll bet. And he wants to develop it, right?
FRY’S MOM’S TV
. . . stressed once again that he will not be seeking a second . . .
ME
(Angry, standing)
I’ve got to go.
FOSDICK
(Looking for his toy under the couch)
RHWRooooom?
OUR TV
. . . by someone who knew the victim well, that there was no . . .
FRY
(Yelling again)
Under the sheets, Sarah. That’s where he wants to develop your talent. Under the goddamn—
FRY’S MOM
(At the door)
Is everything all right in here?
* * * *
I don’t know if he realized how ridiculous, how like a child throwing a fit, he’d sounded. Or if he just decided that he trusted me more than he trusted Rufus. But Fry made up with a poem. He texted it first thing the next morning, and I read it over and over. Each time, it got better. Like all Fry’s poems, this one amazed me with how deep he could go, how his writing voice turned everything he said softer, more tender:
You—you—
Your shadow is sunlight on a plate of silver.
How would you feel if you went to bed angry and woke up to that? Did I hear you say confused? Crazy? Sad?
Morning pages, beach afternoons.
They were two separate worlds, and I was learning to make sure I kept them apart. But that afternoon at the beach, Fry almost crossed the border: He was funny and warm and said he hoped I wouldn’t come back from my “date” expecting him and H to spout Shakespeare. “Methinks thou shouldst think again,” he joked. “And tights? By my butt, we will never don that gay apparel.”
He even offered, at the last minute, to give up the bus races and drive all three of us to the theater that night. He would borrow H’s Taurus, he texted me. Twice. But my newly zealous father put his foot down as soon as I got to Rufus’s. “He just got his permit,” Shepherd reminded me. “And besides, have you seen the tires on that heap?”
It wasn’t just the car, though. “I’m not trying to lead your life for you, Sarah,” Shepherd told me once he’d set out clothes for Rufus. (My poet was practicing dressing on his own now, so my father and I were waiting for him in the kitchen.) “But frankly? I think you deserve a lot more in the boyfriend department.”
I told him he sounded like Mom, and he told me that, sometimes, my mother had a point. “Just because he’s crazy about you,” he said, all deep-voiced and stern, “doesn’t make him a contender, you know.” He slowed, looked at me long and hard. “There will be lots of boys who are crazy about you.”
I didn’t show him Fry’s poem. I wasn’t even sure he’d know how good it was. So I just slipped my cell into my pocket and listened to him drone on. He’d just come to the part about the importance of “common interests,” which seemed like a phrase he’d picked up from my mother, when my ringtone interrupted.
It was Wanda. She was crying. And sick. “I was hoping I’d get better,” she told me. “My mother promised if my temperature got within two degrees of normal, I could still go.
“Oh, Sarah! This is the most hideous day of my life.” She sniffed and reined in a sob. Or tried to. “And it was supposed to be the best.”