Seth brought a bottle of wine, something no doubt recommended by the clerk at the liquor store, since Henry knew his friend steered towards domestic beers and mixed drinks on average. On his other arm leaned a familiar figure in a paisley business suit. Gwenique’s smile was as dazzlingly porcelain as the first time they met.
“Hey, brought something special,” said Seth, waving the bottle. “Do you have a corkscrew?”
“Very funny,” said Henry. “Set it on the bar, please.” He directed a pleasant expression towards Seth’s companion.
“Gwenique,” he said. “Nice to see you again.”
“And to see you, Henry,” she answered. “Your cosmic aura is brighter since we last met. A definite improvement I think.” She offered him a knowing smile.
“Actually, it’s just the lighting,” he answered. “Too dim in the jazz club.” He extended the appetizer platter towards her, the mini peppers stuffed with lime rice.
At dinner, he sneaked a glance towards Seth as he ate, watching his behavior. Despite the close proximity of Gwenique, he spent most of the evening chatting with Dolores and Mr. Olifes from Henry’s artist circle. No sign of interest in his dinner date whatsoever.
Gwenique, seated across from Henry, showed interest in a different subject. Her polished nails cradled a glass of Seth’s dry vintage, her eyes studying Henry’s face contemplatively in their post-dinner conversation.
“Have you been honest with yourself?” she asked him. “I feel a difference in your personal outreach. You must have reached a crossroad in your psyche with regards to the past.”
“What do you mean?” he said. “You mean, my relationship with Lois, I take it.”
“Of course,” she said. “Seth told me you were open to experiencing a new harmony. I was pleasantly surprised by that change of heart. Given your resistance to my advice initially, that is.”
He toyed with his wine glass. “Everyone encouraged me to let go,” he answered. “I’m afraid it gets a little old, being told how to cut past ties.”
“Then you are ... still interested in moving on,” concluded Gwenique. Raising her eyes to meet his as her fork languidly shoved a half-eaten pepper around her plate.
He raised his eyebrows. So this was Seth’s object–a connection between the two of them. And to think he had actually feared Dolores bringing a potential setup tonight.
Gwenique continued to stare at him with a placid smile, a hint of perfume drifting from the wrists crossed so elegantly above her glass. Chin propped high, rose lips twitching suggestively as she watched him.
He paused. Around him the sounds of the dinner party, the rise and fall of Dolores’s rich voice, Seth’s infectious laughter. A glimpse of metal from Gloria’s earrings as she passed the bread bowl towards Mr. Olifes.
“As the host, I had better do my duty,” he said, lifting the plate before him. “Time for dessert.” He stacked her plate, along with the others, careful to keep his eyes anywhere but on her form.
In the kitchen, he scraped the plates before stacking them for later. A row of lime ices waited in the refrigerator, wafers of cinnamon and chocolate in a glass candy dish. As he placed them on the tray, he was aware of Seth hovering behind him, breathing down his neck.
“So what do you think?” he asked. “I mean, I ran into Gwenique last week, she asked about you ... I just thought maybe–”
“I think you thought wrong,” he answered. “Not interested, Seth. Not now, not ever. Being fixed up with people has never made me happy.” He kept his voice lowered, glancing towards the dining table only a few feet away. Where Gwenique appeared to be reading Mr. Olifes’s palm as Dolores and Gloria looked on with interest.
“But you guys clicked at the jazz club,” Seth whispered. “Dude, come on–she’s hot, she’s single, she’s into you...”
“She’s your ex,” Henry whispered back. “That’s reason enough for me to say no. I don’t like awkward relationships where there’s a past history. I would only make an exception for a major attraction. We’re talking one-of-a-kind, once-in-a-lifetime kind of attraction, not just a pretty face.”
“But she has a brain, too,” Seth pleaded. Without saying anything else, Henry lifted the tray and skirted around the kitchen island.
“Lime and chocolate,” he said, placing the tray in the middle of the table. Passing out serving dishes as he deftly avoided Gwenique’s eye.
“No chocolate for me,” said Gloria. “I’m like, allergic or something.” She stuck her spoon in her dish of lime ice, tested it against the tip of her tongue before taking a mouthful.
“Delicious, Henry,” said Dolores. “Perfect from beginning to end.” She raised a spoonful as if toasting him with these words.
“I agree,” said Gwenique, still watching Henry as he moved around the table. “Absolutely perfect.”
Chapter Sixteen
Crack! The sound was imagined, more than real as Henry’s knee made impact with the rocky mountain trail. His bike tumbled past him, sliding down the path until it made impact with a sapling on one side.
“Henry, man! You okay?” Joel, the rider behind him, slid to a stop, sending a spray of gravel to one side. Groaning, Henry inspected his knee, a scrape dotted with red flecks of blood.
“I think I’ll live,” he answered, squinting up at his friend. The rest of the group had caught up with them, slowing at the sight of Henry’s bike on the path.
“Everything all right?” asked one of them, raising his sunglasses. By now, Henry had climbed to his feet and hoisted his bike upright. He pulled the water bottle from its carrier and took a long drink as he sat down on a log along the trail. The leaf ground and moss-covered rocks sloped downwards, disappearing off a steep hill that made his stomach churn at the thought of tumbling off it on two wheels.
Joel sat down beside him, popping open a packet of trail mix. “Have some?” he offered. One of the other riders pulled to the side, a couple of others now leaning their bikes against the rails.
“Thanks,” said Henry. He popped a few nuts and offered a friendly smile. Conversation with Joel the last few months had been more limited, given the fact they double-dated when Henry and Lois were still together. Their friendship had assumed an awkward suspension since the breakup.
“Did you hear about Matt and Lois?” Joel’s words were spoken cautiously, a sideways glance at Henry accompanying them.
“Matt,” said Henry. “Matt Blake. From Proebles and Hewell’s law firm, right?”
“Yup,” said Joel. “About a month now, maybe a little longer. It could be serious.” He zipped the trail mix bag closed and shoved it in his pocket. “Just so you know.” He kicked the stand up on his bike and rolled it further down the trail, where the rest of their group was gradually drifting.
Henry sat in silence, thinking about those words. Balancing the water bottle on his knee, he contemplated a future of Lois engaged to another man. Of Lois getting married, having a different last name–one that wasn’t his own. They had talked about marriage more than once; he had begun ring shopping only a few weeks before she changed her mind about their future.
He took a long sip from the water bottle, as if to wash it away.
*****
Daniel Deronda the novel flew by in Henry’s reading time. He had expected it to be long and tedious, to be sappy. He expected to be bored by a parade of characters unable to speak without fainting.
Instead, he was intrigued. Turning the pages in deep interest with regards to the fate of Gwendolen Harleth and the hero, the oppression of the Jews in society and the cruelty behind the marriage of privilege for villain Grandcourt.
Perhaps he was merely growing used to the language and long paragraphs; or perhaps he was simply growing to love books. Then again, perhaps he was grateful for any distractions which presented themselves these days.
Sipping a cup of green tea, he turned a page in the volume, a new softcover he purchased in place of the student paperback edition. In his biographical diggin
g on George Eliot, he learned that her writing style was considered masculine enough to fool even some of the leading authors of her day–except for Charles Dickens. He studied the author’s photo in the back, a plain face with a hint of witticism deep within her eyes. He could imagine her in a bonnet and shawl, exploring the coarse and gritty streets of London unnoticed by passing men who preferred a pretty face.
The herbal tea, unlike Daniel Deronda and Captains Courageous, had not grown on him. Even now, the taste of chamomile in the warmth of August failed to conjure memories of cool fall evenings and fresh pumpkin tarts from the bakery. He tasted the watery, drab contents of his cup, noting the greenish caste and the flecks of something floating to the bottom. Soothing lavender leaves and shaved rose hips, according to the paper box.
He gave in to the temptation for a weak cup of coffee late one night as he poured over the galleys for a new supernatural thriller. The catalog of Dali-esque art open on his table needed counteracting with something that steeled his nerves against pictures of bulging eyeballs on twisted flower stems and buildings that appeared to be fashioned from pipe cleaners.
Savoring the first sip, he tasted the dark liquid rolling across his tongue. No sugar, no cream–pure, unadulterated coffee to the brim.
George Eliot is like coffee; simple and straightforward on the surface, rich in the hidden depths beneath. Meandering paragraphs are meant to ask questions about the human psyche, not just an opportunity for tedious internal dialogue that tends to compound in literature.
The white background of his blog flickered as the overlying template appeared, a series of mini coffee cups and scattered beans. He indented his new paragraph in the post box and continued on.
Her characters are grappling with issues that seem almost real. She paints a world in light touches and bold strokes, adding cream and sugar to the basic questions of whether prejudice can be erased by love, whether a mistake in love is forever.
Take it from me, having been exposed to every kind of book on the market. Before plunging into the pool of literature with Moby Dick or sentimental gothic literature, give Eliot’s books a chance.
As he hit the enter key to post, Henry drained the last of his coffee mug, then gazed at the bottom where dark flecks of grounds settled. Feeling a sense of satisfaction and regret, of forbidden happiness and guilt over the now-vanished contents.
*****
“Deeper breaths, George,” Abby coaxed. Beside her, the student puffed out his cheeks in frustration, a tarnished trumpet dangling towards the floor.
The toes of Abby’s saddle shoes were pressed into worn pile carpeting as she perched on the edge of a drab corduroy armchair turned to patchy nap, springs, and lumps from years of service. The sofa supporting her student had mismatched cushions in a variety of floral patterns, a few re-sewn where the seams had split.
Behind him, George’s mother Kimberly moved to and fro in the kitchen, stirring something in a series of stove pots. Despite the heat, the apartment had no air conditioning; the kitchen window was propped open with a brick, Kimberly’s face coated in a layer of sweat as steam from the boiling pans immersed her every few minutes. Abby’s college t-shirt clung to her shoulders, George’s hair plastered close to his face.
“What if I can’t play it?” he said. “Could we learn something easier, Miss Abby? Maybe that ‘Twinkle Star’ song by Beethoven?”
“Mozart, George,” she corrected him. “And this isn’t so hard. You just haven’t practiced lately.” She turned the page in the music book, a highlighted section from Vivaldi’s “Four Seasons”.
“What are the other kids practicing?” asked George, suspicious. “Are we all learning to play the same things?” More than once, George had complained that his songs were “harder” than the rest of the students combined.
“George, do what your teachers says,” called Kimberly, who must have been listening from her station at the kitchen table, slicing fruit. “She’s not trying to trick you into anything.” In response, George scowled.
“Of course you’re all learning the same things,” said Abby. “How else would we perform together this school year if we didn’t? You want to be part of the concert, don’t you?”
Maybe talking about the concert would make it come true. That was Abby’s latest angle in her campaign to persuade the school to give them a night in the auditorium this fall. Along with her other drives to persuade them, evidence of support for her plan.
George’s fingers fumbled for their place on the trumpet keys again. A sharp blast followed, then a series of fumbling, halting notes representing summer. Abby listened, her hand patting time on her knee, resisting the urge to cover her ears. Her student plugged away obediently, his eyes trained on the music propped open by her free hand.
Again, then once more; each time, she heard a slight improvement in place, a note that emerged unscathed, a pattern of rhythm in time to the composer’s score. The song died away again with a huff of breath. Lowering the trumpet, George watched her face, hopefully.
“George, that was great,” said Abby. “I’m so proud of you for sticking with it.” With a smile, she squeezed his shoulder. The faint traces of a grin lurking at the corner of his mouth emerged broadly with these words.
“You think so?” he said. “Really? I thought it sounded bad.” Already, his scowl was beginning to form on the horizon. Sensing an opportunity for diversion, Abby closed the songbook.
“I think that you’ve earned a break from today’s lesson,” she said. “Now, practice this at least once a day every day until school starts again. That’s important, since you won’t see me again until then.”
“Okay,” he sighed. Sliding the trumpet into its case, he closed it. She refrained from reminding him to empty his spit valves and clean the mouthpiece–she knew George well enough to know this would have to wait until after his gloomy mood lifted.
“Wanna see my robot collection?” he asked. “I got three more since the last time you came.” He collected small plastic robots that wound up in the back, bright shades of color and small stickers for buttons and lights. Every time Abby came by, he showed her the latest addition to his collection.
“So is this thing really gonna happen?” asked Kimberly. “This concert, I mean.” She scribbled her signature at the bottom of Abby’s petition, shoving aside a pile of strawberry tops to make room.
“I hope so,” Abby answered. “There’s a music shop and a couple of performance clubs who have offered to sponsor it. That should help cover any expenses–new strings and reeds, printing programs, making posters.” She mentally factored in the cost of providing black dresses or slacks to students too poor to afford their own.
Kimberly brushed aside her sweaty bangs and rested her weight against the table as she faced Abby. “This means a lot to him, you know,” she said. “He talks about it all the time. Tries to pretend it’s no big deal, but you know how it is. He plays that thing for hours sometimes, gets mad at himself when he messes up...” She trailed off, reaching for a sponge and wiping down the counters where strawberry juice and seeds stained the surface.
“I know,” said Abby, softly. In the heat of the kitchen, the lines on the petition swam before her eyes, the applications for the concert sticking out behind them like a blank white mirage in the waves of steam driven back by an oscillating fan on the windowsill.
“Most of the parents and guardians are behind this,” she said after a moment, swallowing to clear her throat. “We will make this happen, Kimberly, somehow–don’t worry.” Her smile looked more genuine than forced, she hoped, as she slid the papers into her shoulder bag again.
George was jumping on his bed, as evidenced by the loud thumps from the next room. His mood swings were sudden, traversing from a happy-go-lucky smile to tears and frowns in a matter of seconds. Teacher complaints recorded about George included temper tantrums in the hallways, extreme defensiveness, and a tendency to roughhouse with other students.
Kimberly sighed.
“I had better go stop him before he breaks something,” she muttered, setting aside her sponge and making her way towards the sound of wall pictures rattling in the next room.
Jacqi’s lesson was smooth by comparison to George. Eager to please, Jacqi tended to practice the violin at least once a week. Patiently sawing away, she produced a recognizable melody from her instrument as she propped open her music on a makeshift stand made from a napkin holder.
“Good job,” said Abby, clapping at the conclusion. “Your timing is much better this time. A little practice goes a long ways, doesn’t it?“
“I practice every day, Miss Abby,“ said Jacqi. “Honest–Fern writes it down to make sure I do.” Fern was Jacqi’s guardian, a sad-faced woman who was quiet whenever Abby came by. Her house was plain; a dry, bare look created by sun-faded furniture and Reader’s Digest books meticulously dusted.
She had a more difficult time persuading Fern to sign the petition. The woman’s fingers held the pen with difficulty due to arthritis as she gazed at the forms with a slight frown.
“I don’t know,” she faltered. “I just don’t know. Jacqi’s awful hard to handle sometimes. And onstage with all those lights...”
“I’ll be right there,” said Abby, “along with yourself and most of the teachers. It won’t be a large concert–just something to give them a taste of what their peers already have. A chance to shine onstage and enjoy themselves.”
The passion in her voice was persuasive, possessing more confidence at the moment than she actually felt.
“All you have to do is sign the petition to show your support,” said Abby. “I’ll be the one who submits the request to the principle and provides the funding. And if–” she hesitated, then continued, “–if Jacqi or any of the kids feel they can’t perform that night, they don’t have to play. At least, not until they’re ready to join the performance. Any song, any time.”
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