by Lisa Samson
Hearing a tragedy like this, the only way to convey my feelings is through touch. There are no words, so I put my arms around her and squeeze her tight.
I pull back at the connections forming in my mind. I’m afraid to ask. Was the accident she walked away from really an accident? Or had Aunt Bel succumbed to despair too and plotted her own death?
“The funeral, of course, was to be held in Uralsk,” she continues. “I was on my way there when I realized it would have been difficult. I would have said things, I think, that would have been misunderstood. Anyway, God had done it. He had taken her. We weren’t on speaking terms at that point.”
“How about now?” I ask.
“Silence, you know, is a two-way street.”
“So did you make it to Uralsk?”
She holds up her injured arm and shakes her head.
“The river.” I remember what Sergei told me. “Did you purposefully … ?”
“No.” She shakes her head. “But there are days I wish I had, because then it would have all been over and done with.”
That settles it. “Aunt Bel, I want you to come back with me. You don’t belong here.”
“I don’t belong there,” she says.
“That’s not true. The house isn’t the same without you. Even the Microchurch misses you. You should have seen it: your painting on the wall. Rick had us all line up in front of it, told us to look at it, really look at it. I can’t speak for anyone else, but, Aunt Bel, it moved me. I should have realized before, but I didn’t. I’ve seen that thing dozens of times, but it never even dawned on me what you were trying to represent.”
“I’m not much of an artist.”
“You are,” I say. “You have an eye, Aunt Bel. It’s true. I knew it when I first saw those pictures you took of me. I hate myself in pictures, even self-portraits. I can never get the me on film that I see in the mirror. But you did. You have real talent.”
“Sara,” she says. “I appreciate your offer. Let me think about it. If I have to answer right now, then, I think I will stay here.”
“Then don’t answer now. Besides, I don’t know if you’ve picked up on this, but that man in there, he’s looking to unload you.”
She smiles.
“Aunt Bel, we want you. Think about that if you need to, but when you’re done thinking, then it’s time to come home. You call me, okay? Day or night. I’ll come and get you, or if I can’t Finn will. And here, I brought this.” Reaching into my shoulder bag, I hand her the box of checkbooks from the bank. “It’s a gift and you have to accept it.”
“I can’t.”
“You can write a big check and give it all to charity if you want, but the money is yours and there’s nothing you can do about that.”
She tucks the box under the book on her lap.
“By the way, you’re not going to believe this: Finn and Huey got the Iron Maiden running. Can you believe it?”
“Oh yes,” she says. “I never had any doubt.”
“They painted it green, though, you’ll be sorry to hear.”
She draws my hand to her lips and kisses it lightly. “That’s for the best. Now leave me here. I have some reading to do.”
“And some thinking?”
“Some thinking too.”
I cross the lawn in a pensive mood. My dad opens the sliding glass door, motioning me inside.
“No luck today, Daddy. But she’s coming home,” I tell him. “Just not yet.”
19.
The Limits of Beauty
We clean up all right, the Old Firehouse crew. In the studio, where we’ve gathered in advance of the gala so we can all drive to the hotel together, I line everybody up for inspection, impressed with what I see. Finn looks sharp in his new velvet blazer and dark jeans. He bucked my suggestion of renting a tux for the event, and he was right: this looks more natural on him. Then there’s Diana in a bright red vintage fifties number, sort of a Marilyn Monroe, Lady in Red look that bares her inked arms for all the world. I’m sure she’ll raise a few conservative rich-person eyebrows, but raising eyebrows is a good thing for creatives like us. We’re going there to get noticed.
“Huey, Huey, Huey,” I say. “You’re the belle of the ball.”
For Huey hasn’t followed through on his threat to show up in an ink-stained boiler suit. No, it turns out that somewhere in Huey’s walkup apartment, tucked behind all the zip-front jumpsuits with his name embroidered on them, there’s been a secret lurking all these years. Who would have thought that this sartorial blank slate of a man possessed an impeccable vintage tuxedo in midnight blue, nipped at the waist with shimmery round lapels?
“Secret Agent Man,” Finn says.
Huey pulls a pair of dark shades from inside his jacket and slips them on. “We don’t look half bad, do we?”
Diana struts over to me. “You look darling.” She turns to the others. “I’d buy good taste from this woman, wouldn’t you?”
“Hear, hear,” Huey says. “Now, if the fashion show is over, we better get on the road. I brought my truck so I’m driving.”
Huey’s “truck” is a big black Chevy SUV with blingy rims. He washes the thing every weekend and keeps vulture watch on the upholstery. Once Finn asked to borrow it to run some boxes across town, which earned him a full minute of incredulous stares. The fact that Huey’s brought it along for tonight speaks volumes. He is proud of how the whole project turned out. It’s some of the finest, most challenging presswork we have ever done. He opens the passenger door and helps me inside, motioning for Finn and Diana to hop in back.
“Watch your dress,” he says, snapping the door shut.
The Marriott Waterfront is only a short drive away, but it feels like it takes ages thanks to my nerves. This is a big night, after all. The first time I’ll meet Holly’s millionaire husband, not to mention all his millionaire friends who presumably have occasional need for design work and the money to actually have it done right.
“Last time we went to a hotel,” Diana says, “it was for the Wedding Expo. It’ll be nice to be a guest for a change—and have some fun!”
“Not too much fun,” Finn adds. “We’re still working, you know.”
She laughs. “I could work like this every night.”
Something else bothers me about tonight, something I haven’t spoken to anyone about, including Finn. The way Holly and I parted the day we went dress shopping put an idea in my head. Every time I’ve talked to her since, in person or on the phone, that idea has grown. She’s tense about tonight, on edge, and the thing I never appreciated about Holly until recently is that, when she wants to convince herself, she overpraises. From the beginning, I’ve loved this woman because she’s unstinting in her praise. I can do no wrong in her eyes. Only now, hitting rewind and reviewing those conversations, I begin to wonder what was actually going through her mind. Why would she need to convince herself the work I’ve done is good? Either she likes it or she doesn’t.
I think I know the answer. What she likes isn’t what matters. What matters is what her husband likes. This whole project has been Holly’s baby from the start. She’s been more invested in it than any client I’ve worked with, happy to see proofs day or night, willing to drive down and talk things over face-to-face, and always—always—approving of everything.
The others don’t feel it. Looking over my shoulder at them, I can see this. Diana sits dazzled by the waterfront lights. Finn taps his knee in rhythm, distracted but relaxed. Next to me Huey hangs his hand over the steering wheel, humming along with the music playing faintly in the background. I listen closer and recognize the guttural crooning of Tom Waits.
Well it’s got to be a chocolate Jesus,
Make me feel good inside,
Finn leans forward. “Chocolate Jesus? Is that a black thing?”
“A black thing?” Huey asks. “No, man, it’s what it sounds like. Chocolate candy. Shaped like Jesus, I guess—I don’t know.”
Leaning back, Finn resumes h
is tapping. Black Jesus must be worth talking about. Chocolate Jesus not so much.
“You know something,” I say to Huey. “This thing tonight isn’t a done deal.”
“What do you mean? She loves our work. Your work. There’s no question about that. This here is just to show us off. It’s a victory lap, and it makes a nice change from the way most of our jobs wrap up.”
“I think the jury’s still out until her husband gives his approval.”
“If they’re handing out the pieces tonight, I assume that’s already happened.”
“She doesn’t talk that way, though.”
“We’ll see.”
When we arrive at the hotel, an attendant opens my door. We all gather on the driver’s side while Huey decides whether to entrust the valet with his keys. He finally relents and we head inside. Several older couples in evening wear slip ahead of us. As the ladies walk, I catch a glimpse of red-soled feet.
“You might need these,” Huey says, holding out his shades. “Otherwise you’ll go blind staring directly at some of this jewelry.”
At the entrance to the ballroom, I find myself at the elbow of a very bejeweled lady with a frosty white up-do. There’s something sobering about standing next to someone whose accessories for the evening are probably worth more than my house. Finn loops his arm in mine, reading my thoughts.
“We are the youngest, poorest people in here,” he whispers, “and, let’s just be honest, probably the coolest too.”
We both look over at Huey. “He’s the coolest,” I say.
“Then the pressure’s off. So let’s have a good time.”
A string quartet off to one side plays, I kid you not, the theme song to Somewhere in Time, and a very busy bar off to the other side plays dueling bourbons. The room is packed already with people, but it doesn’t seem crowded so much as clustered. We have to weave our way through, circling the edge of one group, turning to miss another. Instead of walking side by side, the four of us lapse into a single file line in the style of a danse macabre, with Finn up front, me trailing by the hand, Diana at my heels, and Huey in back, checking people out as he walks by.
“See if you can spot Holly,” I call out.
Finn finds her at the opposite side of the ballroom, lovely in diaphanous pink silk, her high silver heels adding another half foot to her already towering height. Tonight’s wig, a blond, short New York bob, gleams under the lights of the chandeliers. Instead of mingling with the guests, she fusses over a table with all our printed pieces laid out, mother-henning a group of servers who are ready to start handing out the goods at her say-so. Up close, I can tell she’s frazzled.
“Take a deep breath,” I say.
“Oh, good, you’re here! What do you think?” She steps back so we can all admire the table. “I was going to have them given out at the door, but I thought it would make more sense to do it after Eric’s speech so they have a little context.”
“Everything looks wonderful,” I tell her. “And that sounds like a great idea.”
“Let me introduce you all …”
She takes me by the hand, guiding us back into the swirling crowd in search of her husband, who seems to be pressing flesh up ahead, always darting a little farther away before we can quite catch up. My first glimpse of him is in profile. Eric Ringwald is not as tall as his wife or as svelte, and at a glance I’d say he’s a decade or more her senior, but he glows with the natural charisma of a man in his element. The smile seems genuine everywhere he turns. Everyone he faces is someone he knows, someone he can share memories with and joke with and pat on the shoulder and leave them beaming. His tux fits impeccably, but has a rumpled, slouchy quality, almost as if he’d slept in it. Your idea of fancy is my idea of pajamas.
“Eric, wait up,” Holly says, catching him by the sleeve.
He turns toward us and the smile stays in place, the same light of recognition in his eyes, even though we’ve never met.
“Great to see you,” he says, pumping my hand. “How ’bout this crowd tonight, huh? And it’s for such a good cause.”
As he leans past me to clamp Finn’s hand in his fist, Holly frowns, pulling the sleeve once more. “No, Eric, listen to me a minute. This is somebody I want you to meet.”
He recovers nicely, now giving me an expectant though somewhat bewildered glance. “Sorry about that. Eric Ringwald. My pleasure.”
“This is Sara Drexel, her husband, Finn, and this is Huey and Diana. They’re the ones who designed the new logo and website, and the new brochures.”
“Designed and printed,” Huey mutters.
“That’s wonderful, wonderful,” Eric Ringwald says. “So happy you all could make it. There’s a bar over there, please avail yourselves … And enjoy the evening!”
He departs with a laugh, back-slapping Finn and Huey both as he makes his way to the next cluster of guests.
“He’s very busy with all this,” Holly says. “So caught up.”
“Hey, it’s all right.” I try to reassure her, putting on a braver front than I feel. That was a bit of a brush-off, after all.
Huey slips into the crowd, saying he’s going to take the man at his word and “avail himself,” and soon Diana follows. If I could signal Finn to disappear, I would, knowing Holly would rather not have an audience just now. But my husband all of a sudden seems incapable of taking hints.
“So this is a pretty good turn-out, huh?” he asks, motioning toward the crowd. “You think that’s because of the invitations or what?”
His joke falls flat and Holly, misunderstanding, starts to absolutely gush about those invitations, which are the best she’s ever seen, assuring us that, yes, it probably was the invitations that ensured such a strong turn-out, lavishing Finn and me with all the praise she feels we are due, the praise we ought to have gotten from the man himself but didn’t. Like a mother compensating for a father’s oversight, the exchange is both reassuring and too revealing. I appreciate the kind words, but what they tell me about Holly’s own insecurities, her standing in the marriage, even her perception of what we expect from her—well, all I can say is, my heart goes out to her. She’s doing what we all do, giving others what she needs herself, and in the process revealing what is missing in her life.
“You know what?” I say. “You’ve done a great job. I mean, look at all this. This is you. I’m impressed.”
“Way impressed,” Finn adds, giving me one more reason to love this guy. Even when he’s ripping apart my house, I have to remember, it comes from a good place.
Just to prove how right my instincts are, Holly blooms like a flower with just the faintest praise. The tightness in her brow lets go, her mouth unclenches, and she is momentarily (but truly) transformed. It’s an interesting shift too: She doesn’t giggle behind her hand and revert to a little girl. No, Holly grows. She stands up straighter and becomes radiant, as if all it takes to make this woman strong is a ray of sunlight, just a flash of acknowledgment. Give her that and you’ll see a new person, the one she’s meant to be.
In this place of opulence, I recall Bel’s troubling words about the calling in her life. Not to service, as she’d expected, but to suffering. If there can be such a thing as a calling to suffer, then please, please let me miss my calling. A calling is supposed to fulfill you. It’s what you’re meant for. In the middle of your calling, how can you be anything but content? Who can be content with a life of suffering? Not me, I know that—and not Bel either, or she wouldn’t have run away from it. No. The flat, stern Byzantine Christ calls us to suffer. Aunt Bel’s Jesus goes deeper than that, back to the molten fires that forged us in the loving hands of our Creator.
And now Holly stands here, a beautiful woman with every advantage you can name: the face, the body, the brain, the rich husband with what I can only assume is a heart of gold (the man raises money for charity!), style, and class. The woman has good taste. But as she strides away to fulfill her hostess duties, I recognize that Holly Ringwald has missed her calling
. This woman has been denied the one thing she needs in order to be who she ought to be. Praise? Respect? Simple acknowledgment? I’m not sure I have the right word. But I know this: it would be such an easy thing to give her, much easier to provide than the things she already has.
“That makes me sad,” Finn says.
“What does?”
He gives me a look. “I’m not the blunt instrument you take me for, woman. I have eyes. I can see what’s going on. She’s not happy, is she?”
I shake my head as Huey, bless him, sidles up and presses a glass of red wine into my hand, then heads back into the throng.
“You feel out of place around all this money?” Finn whispers. “I can’t help feeling like people are looking at us.”
“We’re not that different from them,” I say.
“We’re completely different.” The passion in his voice takes me by surprise. “We’re completely different,” he repeats. “What do they do? They make a profit. What do you do? You make things beautiful. You’re an artist, hon. You’re nothing like them.”
“Is making things beautiful all that different from making them profitable? Sometimes it’s the same exact thing, don’t you think?”
“No, I don’t,” he says.
“I think we agree, you just don’t realize it yet.”
At the back of the room, Eric Ringwald mounts a short flight of steps onto a platform. A spotlight comes on, picking out the wrinkles in his jacket. A moment later the chandeliers overhead begin to dim.
“Is this thing on?” Eric asks, tapping the mic with his finger, then laughing. “Seriously, people, I want to thank you all for coming out. Thanks to you, the world is a better place tonight than it would have been without you. Thanks to you, there are children with food who would have gone to bed hungry, children in school who would have grown up on the streets, and children in hospitals where just a year or two ago there was no medical care, children who wouldn’t be in the world tonight if there weren’t people like you in the world tonight. So tonight is about you. Give yourselves a big hand.”