Swoon 02 - Swear

by Nina Malkin

  “No offense,” I tell her from my lolling collapse on the couch, “but I need some post-parental decompression.” Head cocked, lip nipped, she studies me at length. Much as I ached to spill about my kiss with Tosh and how it did or didn’t spark Sin’s subsequent comeback, bitching about an embarrassment of testosterone riches with her boy still mysteriously AWOL just feels wrong. So off she goes, and here I lie, the battlefield for a civil war between thought and feeling.

  The largest of issues: Sin, of course. Who. I. Still. Love. That is not at issue—I have loved him from the get, and miserably ever after. The very idea that he is near yet not here is the definition of unfair. And insane. And just plain stupid.

  Now that it’s established that my love is not in question, I can sideline Sin to take up Tosh. Have I been leading him on? Using him, a captured flag in my attempt to negotiate a normal life? No, even Sin pegged it as real. Of course I care for Tosh; just how much and in what way I was moving toward discovering when Sin barged in.

  So, Sin, front and center again—the what, why, and how of him. All along I’d thought he was in charge from some unidentified beyond, my blue bruise—his dark mark—evidence of that. Only to hear him rant, this is my fault. I’m the reason he couldn’t find peace; I’m the one who ordered him to my bed and then, as my attraction to another grew, brought him closer and closer to this, his latest infernal, unnatural existence.

  Which does make a certain psychotic sense: The turmoil of my emotions—intact for Sin, incipient for Tosh—igniting à la nuclear fission or the celestial big bang.

  If so, what sort of monster have I blunderingly conjured this time? Where’s the mortal soul he so gladly embraced that November night by the fire? Left behind, clearly, or fatally wounded or on hold or . . . I don’t know, but Sin sans soul is bad news for this town, and for me, and I just cannot imagine what I ever did to deserve this.

  “Wah, wah, wah!”

  I hike up on my elbows, direct a glare toward the fireplace.

  We don’t own a bearskin rug—the Reagan-Moskows do not do fur—but Ruby Ramirez has brought her own, and she poses on it, languorous, a fledgling centerfold.

  “Don’t freak,” she says, plucking the material. “It’s faux.” I tuck my legs, composing myself for what she has to impart (like I have a choice). “What, I’m not allowed to complain even within the confines of my own brain?”

  “Go ahead, Candida, wail all you want.” She too sits up, slipping on a sheer peignoir. “But that and a MetroCard will get you to Times Square.”

  True. “So do you have a solution, oh wise one? Or did you just get lost on your way to a Playboy shoot?”

  “No solutions, only suggestions,” she says. “And I suggest you get over yourself. In other words, why are you so ready to take responsibility for this, and by ‘this’ I mean the resurrection of a very naughty boy? It may not be about you at all.” Not about me? Then who? I stare at her. She stares back with “duh” dripping all over her face like Carrie’s prom queen makeup.

  “Oh . . . crap . . .” I really have been in me-me-me mode.

  “Antonia!”

  Soon as I mention her name, Duck pleads into the phone that I come over post haste. I take my bike, but before entering Forsythe Manor, venture onto the lawn for the garden.

  Pausing at the gate, I glance up, not surprised to find the east-wing tower window rising directly above. Up there, that small, round room, her room; this spot where I stand, her view.

  I lay my hand on the latch, mustering the courage to go in.

  That’s when I notice the gate itself is a tribute to the roses it guards. Buds and leaves of iron wind around the bars and nestle in the curlicues, leading to the grille’s centerpiece: a large, fully open bloom, each petal finely wrought and perfectly placed.

  The detail is exquisite; the craftsmanship a counterpart to the carved marble mantel in the tower room. That Antonia must’ve been into roses big-time—and her parents spared no expense placating her passion.

  Beyond the gate, rose perfume beckons. Curiosity trumps apprehension and I lift the latch, wandering into this untended eden until I reach the bower. There’s still plenty of light, and I can see the colors—soft pastels, as opposed to riotous brights.

  The bushes are laden and all abuzz, countless bees listing and weaving as if drunk on the pollen.

  Sitting on the bench, I no longer feel threatened. In fact, it’s incredibly peaceful here, and the fragrance is sublime—how could I have found it off-putting? A smile spreads, and I stretch drowsily. Contact high from that potent stuff the bees are swilling? The last few days catching up to me? Mm, wouldn’t a nap be nice. I’m here for a reason, though, aren’t I? Yeah, well, whatever it is can wait. I won’t even sleep; just rest my eyes. If only the bench weren’t so hard. Nudging the ground with my rubber-capped toe, I find it far softer, so I settle there among the clover and fallen petals . . . curl onto my side . . . cradle my head with my arm . . .

  And then somebody’s shaking me by the shoulders. Who even knows I’m here? Right, Duck—he must’ve grown impatient. I’d tell him to let me be but can’t seem to make the effort, so I burrow into the cushion of one arm and swat with the other.

  Only damn, he’s persistent. I flip onto my back, unglue my lids—and encounter small, close-set, red-rimmed eyes set in a face white as powder. Duck being wide-eyed and ruddy, this is so not Duck grappling with me on the pliant earth. My mouth is open, which would be good if a loud, urgent “get off me!” would spew. Or forget articulate command—at this point I’d take a bark, a bellow, a nice resounding scream. Nada. Greasy strands of hair brush my cheeks. Breath that would make an onion cry. Desperately I swipe at the ghoulish visage above me.

  Knee! Elbow! Heel! Luckily, my mind can still holler like a drill sergeant, alerting me to body parts proven effective in encounters such as these. I hook with my right arm and connect with what might be a nose, then scramble to my feet and tear out. Find the gate, fumble with the latch, slam free. Only once I’m out on the lawn does my scream, loud and urgent, return to me.

  XXI

  Multitasking—as in screaming and running at the same time—I ram smack into Duck. This serves to renew my scream and make him scream too. Unless his scream is triggered by the garden ghoul coming straight for us, arm extended, in a limping gallop.

  “Girlie! Boychik! Please! Enough with yelling! Please!” Possibly, he’s not a ghoul. Possibly, he’s . . . just a guy. A little old guy in grimy clothes. As to his pallor . . . some kind of dust?

  “Please, thank you, for stopping yelling.” He holds a small hand to his heart, catches his breath. “I am sorry, very sorry.

  Young lady, please forgive . . .” Skeptically, he squints at Duck.

  “You are Mr. Williams?”

  “Mr. Williams is my father,” says Duck, as we both struggle to regain composure. “I’m Duck. Who are you?” The man raises his chin. “I am Stanislaw. You are Duck? This is name?”

  Duck huffs. “It’s a nickname, all right.” He looks at me, a sweaty wash across his brow. “Dice, are you all right? What the hell happened?”

  “Uh . . . not exactly sure?” Although I get the strong conviction I’m about to become embarrassed.

  “Mr. Duck, nice girlie, please. I explain.” Stanislaw slaps at his thinning hair. “I am not bad man.” He thumps his chest. “I am craftsman, how to say, plaster master. All the way from New Jersey I come.”

  To me it sounds like he’s come a lot farther than that.

  “Are you trying to say you work in the house?” Duck demands.

  “Da.” Stanislaw points to the tower. “I am for fix ceiling. Make . . .” He kisses the tips of dirty but delicate fingers.

  “Yes, I understand. That doesn’t explain what you were doing in the garden . . . with her.” Duck sets a comforting paw between my scapulae.

  Stanislaw looks askance, mildly abashed. “For weeks, I am there, and see from the window this garden. Today I am done; I think to se
e this garden from closer.” With a tsk-tsk-tsk, he shakes his head. “All of respect, Mr. Duck, but that garden . . .” Small, careful hands flail in the international gesture of disarray. “Still, very beautiful, and so many flowers.” Now he pulls a utility knife from the pocket of his overalls, brandishing the blade. “So I am, ‘Stanislaw, you cut some roses for your wife!’” He shrugs. “That is bad, maybe? But that is all my bad, just that, to take some roses for the woman I love.” He closes the blade, returns it to his pocket. “Then I see young lady, like so.” In the air, a flat line. “Is she hurt? Make faint? I go help! It is truthful!” He turns to me. “I make fright on you, nice girlie. I am sorry.”

  Yeah, uh-huh—embarrassed all right. “Uh, no, Mr.

  Stanislaw—I’m the one who’s sorry.” I turn to Duck. “When I got here, I don’t know, I wanted to check out the garden.” Up and down, sheepish, with my shoulders. “Then . . . guess I crashed.”

  Duck still seems dubious, but he says, “Welll. . . as long as you’re sure you’re not hurt, Dice.”

  I nod. “And you, Mr. Stanislaw? I think I kind of got you in the nose.”

  Touching his nose, he winces slightly. Still, “It is fine nose,” he says.

  “Then I suppose it’s all right,” Duck decides magnanimously.

  “No harm done. Please, cut as many roses as you like.”

  “Mr. Duck, you are nice young man. I had some, but then dropped. So: I will go?”

  “Yes, do . . . go right ahead.”

  Only then I think New Jersey’s got to be a good four hours away. I could run to the house, dampen some paper towels, grab a sheet of tinfoil. It’s a Lainie trick; you double wrap the stems to preserve them for the ride.

  “Hey . . . Mr. Stanislaw?” He swivels with a quizzical half grin, hands in his overalls pockets. “Aren’t you worried the flowers won’t survive the trip?” I ask, then offer, “I know a way to keep them alive, if you like. You wouldn’t want to bring dead roses home to your wife.”

  The half grin spreads to full, and I see that Mr. Stanislaw hasn’t got very good teeth. “My wife? Oh, nice girlie, is okay—she will not mind,” he says, stroking the blade in his pocket.

  “My wife, she is also dead. Dead roses will be very perfect for her.”

  Taking off toward the garden gate, he la-la-la’s a little tune. Somewhat off-key, but I know it, of course—that same bittersweet waltz I ad-libbed on the baby grand.

  XXII

  Dead flowers for a dead love. Creepy, yet motivating—onward!

  “So,” I say to Duck as we head up the lawn. “You talk to Tosh?”

  “Briefly.” He plucks errant petals from my hair. “I wanted to bask in our glory, but you know how it is in that madhouse he calls a restaurant.”

  “Mm.” Not one to kiss and tell, our Tosh. “I thought he might have mentioned that he . . . we . . . anyway, Sin’s back in town.”

  “No! Really!”

  “Yeah, really. He crashed Pen’s party, then disappeared with Kurt. And I have every intention of grilling him about Antonia but . . .” Best to keep it simple. “We kinda-sorta had a fight, and I’m not sure where to find him.”

  “Well, once a party crasher always a party crasher,” Duck points out astutely. “There are parties galore tonight. But of course, you’d know that better than I.”

  Astute and on target—if a bit pouty (ah, the social inequities of the homeschooled). “You’re right. I do. Want to be my date?”

  “Bien sûr! Only, Dice . . . are you . . . prepared to go out?” I read his face: My cutoffs/sneakers/T-shirt represent a whopping fashion don’t. “Duck, you know what? I have a mother,” I inform him. “And never once did I hear her say, ‘Is that what you’re wearing?’” He flaps his arms. “Suit yourself. But I need preen time.” It’s not quite dusk. “You got fifteen minutes.” He takes twenty. Then we head for the garage. The Williams automobile collection includes a Rolls-Royce I once had the pleasure of riding in (after I had the displeasure of stealing it). Duck’s everyday ride is a humble hybrid, which normally would be fine by me. Except . . .

  “Hey.” I put my hand on his arm. “Can we take the Cutlass?” Since Crane’s disappearance, someone tucked it under a dun-colored cover.

  “I cannot understand you, Dice,” Duck says. “You’ll party hop dressed like that, but you care about the car you roll up in?” I smile small. Before Crane bought the Cutlass—lovingly restored by Libo, who despite numerous faults is a primo mechanic—Sin had it on permanent loan. He’ll know the engine’s distinctive roar from half a mile away; the better to psyche him out.

  “Indulge me,” I say, and together we remove the polypropylene shroud. The keys are in the ignition. I take shotgun, and Duck starts her up.

  “Where to, madame?”

  Good question. There are the upper-echelon affairs, thrown by kids whose families have held sway in Swoon for generations.

  Those would’ve been the places to scope Sin last fall, when he focused on the progeny of those he deemed responsible for his untimely death. Things are different now, with my boy on the loose without such an agenda. No doubt he’ll be after fresh meat, though—innocent meat. “Take Bantam Road,” I say.

  Mary-Kate Kale remains a proud member of abstinence alliance Pure Love Covenant, the ranks of which, locally, dwindled after Sin’s tear through town. I know her from chorale (she the owner of an appropriately angelic soprano) and personally never had a problem with her; she doesn’t proselytize or spout rhetoric, and she’s smart (number three in our class).

  Ergo, I trust her party to crawl with not just Swoon’s remaining virgins but also the sort of brainiacs who can tell you exactly what marijuana does upon entering the bloodstream, only not from experience. Fertile territory for Sin and Kurt’s enterprise.

  It’s a relatively small group. Swoon doesn’t produce a lot of “nerds” or “geeks.” Most kids who show such inclinations get it burned out of them at an early age. Surely there’s some ritual to which I, an outsider, am not privy, during which the Preppy Handbook is quoted and names are scalped. Sort of like a bris . . . except not. Those who slipped through the cracks congregate at Mary-Kate’s tonight: Eliza Lee Warren and Melissa Jane Pratt (PLC girls), S. Roland Furman (our valedictorian), and every Asian in our graduating class (all four of them). A few other people I may not have noticed at Swonowa, due to their wise decision to keep a low profile, now, among their own, seem interesting, animated. And hobnobbing quite contentedly, Sinclair Youngblood Powers.

  If he’s rattled by the roar of the Cutlass pulling up, it doesn’t show; he simply lofts a cup of punch in salute as Duck and I make our entrance into the Kale backyard. Like me, he’s dressed down. Yet something about the way jeans and a plain white tee fit his lean, precise frame elevates the prosaic pieces to what all men’s fashion aspires to. Not curly, not wavy, more like whorly, his dark hair drapes casually to just past his collar; his sideburns stop right where they should, as if by their own intention and not a razor’s. There’s a slight lift to the left side of his upper lip, but then it drops evenly into place. Duck pours me a cup of punch and I take a sip. (Unspiked. Shocker.) Then we wend our way over.

  A gentleman never disregards a lady’s approach, so Sin greets me with a brusque “Dice.” My companion he treats to a smile.

  “Is that Duck Williams? Dude!” Then a half-hug-with-pec-bump-and-back-slap.

  Duck blushes happily. “Sin . . . you remember me?”

  “I’ll never forget that hayride,” he says, and the deliberate way he won’t look at me feels like the slow insertion of a knife.

  “Then we partied at Con Emerson’s, right?” The reference brings Duck from crimson to an almost fuchsia. That’s the night he and Con—the Swonowa Lancers’ macho linebacker—began their scandalous fling. See Duck rack his brain for a bon mot to trivialize the whole thing. See the need for it broken by Kurt Libo, who bounds into our circle.

  “You guys want to see something scientific?” Startled whi
z kids barely have a chance to scoff before Kurt smushes his palms together, then smears his cheekbones and the bridge of his nose with glowing acid green war paint. The exhibit makes me cringe, and I can feel Sin seethe—once you’ve been dead a few times, you gain a greater respect for life, even that of insects.

  Finally, a cough. “Photinus pyralis, one of the few phosphorescent land species,” says Jeremy Patel, who will imminently cure AIDS. “Though of course it’s prevalent among aquatic organisms—phytoplankton, jellyfish, and the like.”

  Of course, as nods around us concur. Kurt lunges, as if to spread the rest of the radiant guts on Jeremy’s forehead, but Sin cuts off the move with a glance. Kurt drops his hand, surreptitiously wiping organic goo on his cargos, while Sin gently captures a bug out of the air to cradle between heart line and lifeline.

  “How quintessentially summery they are,” he says. “And how sad.”

  A girl I don’t know reaches timidly for Sin’s hand, then tilts it to look inside. “It’s beautiful,” she says. She beams up at him, then all around. “Like an art deco design, the clean lines, the symmetry.”

  Our hostess and her PLC pals move in for a peek, something they’d taken for granted all their lives suddenly as compelling and unique as E.T. Sin flattens his hand to set his quarry free, but it seems content right where it is.

  “Why sad, Sin?” Mary-Kate inquires sweetly.

  He sighs, then says, “Their time is so brief; two weeks at the most, isn’t it?” Jeremy nods affirmation. “While they’re here, they’re rife with imperative—to live, to mate—but with none of the frenzied scuttle you see in other creatures.” I swear that bit is directed at me. “They glide, they float. Even the way they light—so largo yet so blithe. They don’t know they’re bound to die.”

  Can the boy ooze or what? Everyone rapt by his eloquence, his aura, his Sin-ness, as if he emits some potent substance.

  One by one the girls, even a few guys, reach for Sin’s hand to admire his antennaed mascot.

  “Funny you should mention the blinking,” Jeremy says.