by Iris Chacon
“—that we can just forget about it. Of course, Jean had to be punished for hitting—”
“Hitting?”
“—so he had to run laps. And that started the nosebleed again. But everything’s all right now. Here he is.”
Jean limped out of the back room, his clothing torn, filthy and bloody, leaning on a junior nun for support and holding a bloodied washcloth against his nose.
Sister Elizabeth sighed. “It’s been an exciting day.”
Mitchell studied Jean from head to toe, incredulous. She pointed at his swollen left knee.
“You ran on concrete? And hitting? You were hitting! The children?”
“Oh, dear, no!” said Sister Elizabeth. “He was hitting Mister Kavanaugh.”
Mitchell stared at Sister Elizabeth. She looked at Jean. She looked at Sister Elizabeth.
She looked at Jean, saying, “You ran on concrete and you hit Mister Kavanaugh? Who is Mister Kavanaugh?”
“Debbie’s father,” answered Sister Elizabeth.
Mitchell was still looking at Jean. “Excuse me, Sister, but unless Kavanaugh cut his tongue out, I’d like to hear Johnny answer something.” She took a deep breath and asked Jean, “Why did you hit Debbie’s father?”
Jean pulled the washcloth away from his face long enough to say, “He hits Debbie.”
Mitchell was at a loss. There must be something she should say to this, but what did she really know about disciplining a, sort of, child?
Mitchell looked at the two nuns.
The sisters looked at Mitchell.
Mitchell looked at Jean. Quietly she said, “I told you never to run on the concrete. We need to get home and put ice on that knee. C’mon. G’night, Sisters.”
“Goodnight, Doctor Oberon,” both nuns said in unison.
The junior nun yielded Jean’s elbow to Mitchell, and Mitchell helped him limp out to the car.
Mitchell stopped at the nearest convenience store and purchased a bag of ice. When she pulled away from the store, Jean sat in the passenger seat with his left knee and the ice bag wrapped up together in his ruined shirt.
She kept her eyes on the road ahead. On one hand she was angry, but on the other hand she didn’t know with whom to be angry. Also, Jean was sitting half naked next to her, and he looked like Rocky Balboa after losing the title bout. Frankly, she feared that if she looked at him, she might start salivating. And how unprofessional was that?
Tense silence lasted for several minutes.
“I’m sorry I wrecked your knee,” Jean said softly.
“Oh, thank you. Thanks a lot. That’s like me setting fire to the Sistine Chapel. ‘Oops. Sorry I burned your masterpiece, Mister Michelangelo.’”
Silence descended again. Mitchell now squirmed with guilt for being sarcastic.
“Are you going to explode and hit me?” said Jean.
Mitchell looked at him: four times her size and fifty times her strength. “Me hit you? Are you nuts?” She looked back at the road, renewing her determination to keep her eyes on the pavement ahead.
Jean seemed to relax in his seat, as if he had actually believed she might resort to physical punishment.
Mitchell felt that after this evening’s events, nothing would ever shock or surprise her again. She was wrong.
“Michel,” said Jean, “are you my mother?”
“What?” She almost took her eyes off the road, but the image of Rocky Balboa flashed through her mind and she jerked her head forward after only a quarter turn in his direction. “Why would you think an absurd thing like that? What are you learning at this school?”
“When a lady comes to pick up the children at school, it’s usually their mother.”
“Well, I’m not old enough to be your mother. Regardless of what you may have heard.”
“How old are you?” he asked.
“Twenty-nine,” she lied.
“How old am I?”
“Uh, twenty-nine,” she guessed.
“When’s my birthday?”
“Why? You want a party at Dave & Buster’s like the other kids?”
“No, just to know. Other people have birthdays. When is mine?”
Mitchell thought a moment. “Okay. Okay, November first. Your birthday is November first. You’re a Scorpio.”
“But, how do you know that?” he pressed.
“Because Scorpios drive me crazy, now give it a rest!”
They rode on in silence for several seconds.
Then Jean reached out in naive fascination and touched the hair at the nape of Mitchell’s neck. She wore it in a plain, tight chignon as always, but after a long day like today, wispy hairs slid from the bun to curl softly down the back of her neck.
She flinched at his gentle touch and nearly wrecked the car. “What are you doing?”
“I like your hair,” he said, all innocence.
Mitchell brushed his hand away. “Don’t do that. Did Hector teach you that? Don’t do that. Especially in a moving vehicle. ...Or a parked vehicle. ...Any vehicle. Don’t do that.”
Jean’s brow wrinkled in confusion. “Is it a rule?”
“Yes. Yes, it’s a rule. I’m not angry, because you didn’t know, but now you know. It’s a rule. Don’t do that.”
They rode in silence a moment longer, then she said, “Thank you, Johnny. I like your hair, too.”
“You’re welcome, Michel.”
That night Carinne Averell sat staring into her makeup mirror. Coming to a decision, she picked up the telephone that lay on the vanity table before her. Quickly she punched in a number. She waited. Someone answered on the other end.
“Uncle Francis?” she whispered. “It’s me, Carinne. I need to talk to you.”
“I can’t find it!” Trish shouted from the depths of a walk-in closet elsewhere in Carinne’s suite.
Carinne shouted back, “Second drawer, left-hand side! Way in the back!” Into the phone, she whispered, “I have to get out of here, but they watch me every minute. Please help me.”
From the other room came the sound of drawers closing, opening, closing.
“I gotta go!” Carinne whispered. She hung up the phone and resumed her posture as if the call had never taken place.
Trish appeared in the dressing room doorway with a lacy camisole in one hand. “Voilá! Thanks. I’ll get it back to you before you know it.”
“Keep it,” Carinne said. “I hardly ever wear it.”
Trish approached the vanity table. “Can I keep this, too?” she said, and she slid a folded slip of paper across the table at Carinne.
Carinne unfolded the paper slowly, even reverently, knowing what she would see. When the drawing lay flat before her, she touched it. “I had forgotten this.”
“That’s him, isn’t it,” said Trish. “The chauffeur. The one with the boat. Your knight in shining armor. That’s what the Captain America costume means, right? It’s a caricature in a hero suit, but it’s him, isn’t it.”
Carinne crumpled the picture into a tiny wad and dropped it into the wastebasket on the floor. “It’s an imaginary character out of a cartoon. Can you help me get into my dress?”
“Sure,” Trish said, moving to pick up the dress lying across Carinne’s bed. Clearly the topic of Captain America was off limits. “You’re going to look mah-velous, dahling.”
~o~ ~o~ ~o~
“You look mah-velous, dahling,” Mitchell said to the handsome man reflected in a full-length mirror on Jean’s bedroom door. “Here, let me help you with that.”
She crossed the room to take his tie from him before he damaged his collar, the tie, or his fingers with his struggling. She stood in front of him and attempted a Windsor knot but immediately realized that would not work. She stepped around behind him.
Standing on tiptoe, Mitchell draped the tie around Jean’s neck. She dragged a chair close enough to stand on it and, looking over his shoulder into the mirror, began tying his tie.
“We need to take some pictures of you in your f
irst suit. Maybe. I guess. Okay, it’s probably not your first suit ever, but you look good.”
His eyes met hers in the mirror.
“Nervous?” she said.
He almost nodded then held himself carefully still while she adjusted the knot in his tie. “I think the last day of school is even worst than the first,” he said.
Mitchell gave the tie a final pat, deemed it perfect, and stepped away from Jean’s broad back with relief. Her muscles ached from avoiding touching him while reaching around him.
She stepped to his side and looked at the pair of them reflected in the mirror. Her dress was simple and sleek, showing off her curvy parts to advantage, but no one would call it sexy.
Her outfit was the same pastel color as Jean’s silk tie. After seeing the dress she had bought, he had chosen his tie with an artist’s eye for symmetry in composition. She was pleasantly surprised to note that his choice made them look elegant; she had feared they would seem ridiculously cutesy.
Mitchell reined in the corner of her soul that did the happy dance, thinking that the color duplication made it plain to the world that she and Jean were “together” in a way that, in fact, they were not. Stop it, she told herself. This isn’t the prom, and we’re not kids advertising that we’re going steady.
She nearly jumped out of her skin when, in the mirror, she saw Jean take and hold her hand. She took a few seconds to return his innocent smile and secretly enjoy his warm grip. Then, she excused herself and left the room to collect her purse and car keys.
Golden streams of light striped the dark, crowded parking lot outside St. Luke’s Daycare. Inside, bulletin boards and walls were decorated in a Graduation Night theme. Rows of chairs faced a small dais where the ceremony had taken place. Tiny caps and gowns were strewn on chair backs, and more than a dozen five-year-old graduates surrounded cookie-laden refreshment tables.
Parents and faculty mingled near their own canapés table nearby. Mitchell met a massive, burly man at the punch bowl.
“Nice ceremony,” the man said, saluting her with his upraised punch cup.
Mitchell returned his salute with a smile. “I truly have never seen anything like it. I didn’t know they made caps and gowns so small!”
“Boy, the time goes, doesn’t it?” said the man. “Seems like just yesterday they were learning how to walk, saying their first words, making a mess with their food, learning to go to the bathroom.”
“Ain’t it the truth!” Mitchell chuckled. “He still forgets to flush – unless somebody dies.”
“Yeah, they all do, I guess.” The man extended a hand to shake. “Dan Kavanaugh. Debbie’s dad. I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name. Which one’s your kid?”
Mitchell was stunned. This behemoth was the child abuser Jean had confronted? How was Jean still alive? Did this gorilla hold a grudge? “Judas H. Priest,” she whispered, in awe.
“Priest, huh?” said Kavanaugh. “Your kid must take a lot of ribbing about that! Especially bein’ in a Catholic school!” He chuckled.
Mitchell forced a smile. “Well, he, ah, he can take care of himself. Nice talkin’ to ya.” She eased away into the crowd.
Across the room, Sister Elizabeth had taken Jean aside to present him a small gift.
“You’ve come a long way with us, Jean. We’re very proud of you.”
“Merci beaucoup.”
“We want you to remember us, and when you’re a famous artist, we will attend all your exhibitions and brag shamelessly that we knew you when.”
“When what?”
“It’s a figure of speech,” said Sister Elizabeth. “It means we will say we are old friends of yours.”
“Oui,” said Jean. “Bee-eff-effs. Best friends.”
“Yes, best friends.” Sister Elizabeth gestured toward the wrapped gift. “Now, open it.”
Jean unwrapped a Bible with the name Jean Deaux embossed in gold on the leather cover. He lifted the cover and found something handwritten on the flyleaf.
“Read it,” Sister Elizabeth said.
In his halting way, Jean read the hand printed words. “He is be...be-come a new cree...creation. Old things are passed away. Be...hold, all things are be-come new.”
Sister Elizabeth hugged him. “That’s you. You’re a new person starting a new life. Goodbye, Jean. God bless you.”
CHAPTER 11 – MEMORY
Hector lounged across Jean’s Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle® bedspread and watched Jean work at a painting on his easel.
“Dinner!” came Mitchell’s voice from the kitchen. “You guys wash your hands!”
As Jean began to clean his brushes and wash up for dinner, Hector rose and walked closer to the new canvas. Hector wiped his face, hairline to chin, with both hands.
“Why? Why do you do this to me?”
“What?” said Jean.
“I want this woman!” Hector growled.
“Take her,” said Jean, gesturing to the painting. “I have others.” He made a circle with one hand, indicating the many portraits on the floor, all around the room, leaning against the walls.
Hector leered. “Dude, I would love to take her!” he said, but Jean did not understand the double entendre.
Mitchell stood in the doorway of Jean’s room, absently wiping a serving spoon on her apron. “I believe you’ll have to explain your meaning, Hector. And I, for one, can’t wait to hear it.”
Hector looked at Jean then shook his head and told Mitchell, “Last year I explained to my brother-in-law how to complete his income tax forms. The year before that I explained to a very scary teacher how a Weimaraner ate my research paper. And, the year before that I explained to my Jewish abuela how I came to believe in Jesus. I’m pretty good at explaining things...”
“But?” said Mitchell.
“But,” said Hector, “I can’t explain the dating process to Jean. First of all, he don’t talk. I can’t teach him how to woo the ladies with golden words if he don’t wanna talk.”
“I agree he’s mostly non-verbal. But someone as accomplished with the ladies as you are must have, uh, techniques that you use when talking is, uh, inappropriate.”
“Nope. No, no, no,” Hector insisted. “I mean, I do have techniques, of course. But, I’m definitely not the guy to teach Jean about women.” He looked at Jean and back at Mitchell. “You’re a woman, Doc!”
“Thank you, Hector. I’d like it better if you wouldn’t sound so surprised,” she quipped.
“No, I mean, since you’re a woman, you should explain to Jean about women. That’s all.”
“Ah,” said Mitchell. “And, what should I explain about women?”
Jean inserted, “Stone says, ‘Women are The Great E Nigma.’ What’s a nigma?”
“Who?” Mitchell cried in surprise. As far as she knew, Jean had never even seen the rumpled senior agent, Frank Stone. Now, he was quoting the man? Now, he knew the man’s name?
Jean stopped cleaning his brushes, alarmed by Mitchell’s tone. He looked up to see her advancing on him.
“What?” he said, befuddled.
“What did you just say about enigmas?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t mean to say it. It just came out. I didn’t know it was a bad word. I’m sorry.”
Mitchell grabbed Jean by his shoulders as if she would shake him – which, of course, she could not manage to do. “Who is Stone?” she demanded.
“I don’t know. I didn’t mean it. I said I was sorry, Michel. Please...”
“Who is Stone?” she shouted.
“I don’t know!” he shouted back. His eyes jerked to all corners of her face, seeking a reason for this unexpected drama.
Realizing that he was telling the truth, Mitchell released her white-knuckled grip on his shoulders and drew him into a hug. “I know you don’t, Johnny,” she said softly, rubbing his back soothingly. “I’m sorry I shouted at you. It’s okay.”
“I’m sorry, Michel,” he said sincerely, though he didn’t really know why. He only kn
ew she was upset, unhappy all of a sudden. And, he had caused that, somehow. He hugged her closer.
Mitchell and Hector both realized the hug was taking on a new character. Jean shifted against her, looked down into her face, and lowered his lips toward hers.
“It’s okay, it’s okay.” Mitchell spoke quickly, broke contact abruptly, and hurried from the room.
Jean looked at the doorway and then at Hector. Hector’s face showed approval and amusement, but Jean’s showed only confusion.
When they heard the front door open and close, Hector smiled broadly. “Guess dinner will be late.”
Outside, Mitchell strode beneath the banyan tree canopy on a sidewalk corrugated by thick tree roots. Streets were narrow in Coconut Grove, and the beams of mercury lights fought their way from their tall poles down through thick foliage toward the pavement with only intermittent success. Mitchell relied on the light of her cellphone as she pulled a business card from deep within the purse she had slung hurriedly over her shoulder on her way out of the house.
She referred to the rumpled card and punched a number into the phone. When she heard a click indicating the call was answered, she did not wait for a hello. “You told me to call if I got a name out of him, so I’m calling,” she snapped. “Would you like to hear the name?”
A muffled grunt came through the phone.
Mitchell summoned all the irony she could force into a single word: “Stone.”
She hung up. She didn’t even want to hear whatever cockamamie response Frank Stone would spout. The man lied for a living, when he wasn’t threatening or blackmailing.
She jammed the phone and business card into her purse, adjusted its strap on her shoulder, and marched back over the wavy concrete toward home. Whatever Jean remembered, whatever she felt about Jean’s almost kissing her, and whatever Stone would do or not do, Mitchell still had a dinner to serve.
Stone did not contact Mitchell in the weeks following her call. She and Jean had relaxed and settled into a routine of work-filled days, pleasant evenings, and carefully separate nights. They never discussed the hug and near-kiss that had almost raised their relationship to a different level.