Chapter 8
We weave our way across the room that’s being lit by whispers of flames. I hold Andrew’s hand lightly. I’ve never gone around holding a boy’s hand like this before, but I think it’s right for us. His eyes are robin’s egg blue, I notice when I go to say something. My breath stops, so I guess that’s why my blood rushes forward, compensating.
He’s waiting for me to talk. I giggle, sounding only slightly bizarre, “Don’t worry about remembering everybody’s names. Nobody can get them right. Just this week I got called Camilla, Cassia, Carolina, Cutie, Cumin, Charlie, which I don’t get where that one came from, and Hey.”
“I didn’t know there’d be so many of you.”
“I know it’s a lot,” I say by way of apology.
He pulls the hand that’s in mine down by his leg, and I stumble back.
“Let’s just assume right now that I won’t remember any of them tonight, what do you say?”
“Uh, ok.”
“Good. So then you can just go on and whisper each one to me when it becomes necessary.”
“Sure.” Weird, but sure.
He grins, and I manage to smile back.
We find Cassie and she’s rather shy when I introduce my future husband. There are too many people here for her tonight, I think.
I start talking to her in a sweet voice, but her face stays down. I don’t know what to do. I catch Milo watching from across the room, and blink down at Cassie. He nods and starts making his way over. He comes and shakes Andrew’s hand and they mumble hellos at each other, then Milo claps Andrew on the shoulder far too hard and tells me to go off and have fun with my new boyfriend.
I roll my eyes and drag the boy after me, this time with a firmer grip. I introduce him to a bunch of my boy cousins who ask us to go out front and play some kind of net game they just made up, while I try not to imagine kicking my brother in the shins.
I decline to play their game, but tell Andrew to go on ahead and I’ll come and watch them in a minute. I just need to let my zizi know we’ll be outside.
Which is a lie. Instead, I slide through the reverberating hall, go straight out the back door, and sit on the little porch. I stretch out my limbs. They’re stiff from my being so nervous all day.
It’s a clear night, but the hemisphere’s summer attitude makes the stars look like they’re underwater. I like it. I also like it in the winter when they’re all tight and crisp. But tonight is a night my mother would’ve loved to sit out here with me on her lap and ask me aren’t they beautiful? Then we’d have to go look out over the front porch, towards the ocean. We’d see the full moon just risen, in close to the earth, a mother’s breast as she bends down to kiss you goodnight. I can’t do that now, though, with everyone here.
Of course, I’m not alone back here, either. There are ten or so of my little boy cousins out in the grass, along with a few little boys from Zizi Angie’s side. All playing a game of bocce where chucking the balls at your opponents and random bystanders is apparently an integral part of the game. I’d say something but they’re laughing a lot. I watch the stars in the treeline.
I jump. I just heard a noise. A pressing, raspy cry shredding through the party sounds. Trying to contain the tingly rush, I’m on my feet and moving towards the yell. The air must be thick from the dusk, because the boys’ voices undulate now instead of ripple, and the movements of their shadowy bodies are strained and slow.
“Oh my God there’s so much blood!”
I swallow a grunt. I reach the boys, jaw clenched, expression hard. There’s no telling what kind of trouble these boys can get into. Great grandmothers, please just let them be ok.
“What’s wrong?” I cut in to the rhythmless round, and the voices and feet go quiet. Shocked there’s a girl here, I’d say, from their soft drawn faces.
There’s some giggling and then, “Benito and Gino are bleeding all over the place.”
“Where?”
I move through them, following pointing fingers and moving them aside. Giving each a glance, making sure my touch doesn’t cause any unnecessary cringing. These ones seem fine.
Then I see the two bloody boys, hunched over with a few others hovering around them, a few more hovering just beyond that.
“Ok, move back you guys. I need to see them,” I reach out and take both by the arms. Then I crouch down so I can see their faces. Well, they’re both conscious. That’s a good sign, right?
And Jesus, there really is a whole lot of blood.
I wish I’d taken the courses to become a certified corpsman.
Gino is tearing up. His face is scrunched with what I’m pretty sure is guilt while he holds a hand to his shoulder. He’s got blood on his fingers, true, but nowhere else. I put a hand on his back and rub it a few times as I turn to the other boy.
Benito squints at me through one eye. I barely touch his forehead to move his hair aside. It’s slick. His pupils are dilated, but it’s pretty dark so that’s normal, I guess. I move a finger around and tell him to watch it. No funny eye movements. His color’s good. If anything, he’s flushed.
I try not to sigh too loud.
I think he’s mostly just confused about what to do with all the blood that’s coming off of his head. It’s on his face and neck and arms. He holds out one of his hands in the air, gloppy fingers splayed like he’s afraid to let them touch.
“Hey there, Benito. What happened?” I hear my sticky sweet soprano and realize I was talking kind of gruffly before. No wonder they all look so scared.
I take my cousin’s little hand, not so little as the last time I held it to keep him from running off on our Thanksgiving Day walk. I fold it in mine, rub it, and, with the utmost discretion I wipe it on my skirt.
“My head.”
“Your head? Ok, let me see. Can you show me where?”
He hovers shaky fingers just above the hairline.
“Ok, let’s see, will you let me look? Good, thank you,” I tell him, just because they’re all nice and normal things to say.
I put a hand on the back of his neck and he ducks his head. Dah. Ooo, I never checked for a neck injury. But he was hit squarely, he didn’t fall. It’s just his head. Grandmothers, please just that. I part the boy’s hair with as little touch as I can and try to find the cut.
There’s a good amount of blood making a swamp out of his scalp and it’s hard to tell exactly where it’s coming from. I’m going to have to clean it. And we might have to shave his head later, for stitches.
But first I think we just need to make the blood stop falling in his face. I’m not sure because like I said I never took the coursework to become a certified corpsman, but this seems reasonable to me. And I can’t hesitate.
“Alright, alright, Benito. You’re gonna be ok.” He stares up at me and I stare back. I swallow my own conviction down deep and hope that his wide-eyed, gleaming gaze means he believes me.
It’s hard to tell. Still, I feel him latched on my face and that makes me feel better. I turn back up to his scalp and ask if anyone has something to press on it.
A bunched up shirt nudges my shoulder and I take it, still peering into the little boy’s hair. I touch my fingers through it. It’s dry sun-hot and moist body-hot. Just a cut, I think. No cracked skulls here. Maybe a concussion? My aunts can check him out for that later.
“You’ve got a hard head, Benito.”
Lifting the hand that’s in his hair, I replace it with the shirt. I press down gently, and Benito doesn’t react even though I pretend not to be looking.
“Seriously, you’ve got, like, a tortoise shell for a skull or something. You could be some kind of a superhero. You sure you aren’t one? Ever been bit by a radioactive tortoise, Benito?”
The boy looks at me like I’m insane and shakes his head. This kind of freaks me out because he has a head injury and all, but I let up on the shirt and he doesn’t seem irritated by the movement. I’m suddenly exhausted.
&n
bsp; I sigh, “Well, I guess that’s just your silly cousin talking. I am very silly, huh? But still, it would be kind of awesome. First superhero in the family, and all. But you’re fine even without getting bitten by a radioactive turtle. You’re pretty amazing, actually. We’re just gonna get you cleaned up and then we’ll have your aunties take a look at you, ok?”
I try to smile but I can feel it pinch up. He’s still staring at me, still looking pretty confused, but I feel like he’s working closer and closer to the verge of something more…rambunctious. I really hope he doesn’t cry. Please don’t cry, kid. Please.
I take one of the boy’s hands and place it over the bunched up shirt. I ask if he can hold that for me and he whimpers a brave affirmative.
“Good, Bennie, you’re doing real good. You’re a brave kid. Don’t you guys think so?”
I stare down one of the nearest boys. One of Angie’s that I’ve never met. He’s rather startled, but when he catches on it’s like he can’t talk fast enough.
“Yeah, you’re not freaking out or nothing. Did you hear Sal scream when he saw it?”
“Yeah, he was all, ‘aaaah!’” another boy says, rolling his eyes back and executing what I can only call a graceful swoon. I can’t imagine where he learned that.
Benito cracks a smile. A corner of my own mouth slides up and I turn away.
For the sake of Benito’s pride, I try to make it seem like the only reason I put my arm around him now is because I believe he is in serious danger of suddenly collapsing, and I check back towards the house.
Someone has fetched his mother and she runs across the yard with hard chapped lips and wild eyes. I hand off the boys to her and she hustles them both back to the house, the others gaggling along behind her, not wanting to be left out of whatever happens next.
Well, I hate to tell them but what happens next is a lecture.
I twist my hair up and, having no hair ties on me what with Eleni’s dress having no pockets- one reason I don’t completely hate my uniform- and the fact that even I know a hair band strung around my wrist just wouldn’t go with this outfit, I let it flop back down.
I wipe the sweat from my forehead and wipe it on the dress. Hm. Probably shouldn’t have done that. Since I’m gross and really should go clean up, I turn around.
“Ah!”
I scream and my lungs spring clean out of my chest. My voice is so off the charts high-pitched, I swear if it were a color it’d be ultraviolet. Jesus Christ Almighty. I’d be less shocked if it were Philbert the man-cow standing there.
But it’s not Philbert, it’s two grown men. Who’ve apparently been standing right behind me without my noticing. It makes me feel a little better when they startle, too.
I guess I decide not to move, because I don’t. At all. Though I should.
Hey. I never said I was trained as a sentinel.
Even as this new wave of panicky chemicals is just shocking my blood, a hotter one, one made of pure old shyness, floods through every pore of my body, inside and out.
I clutch a fist to my chest.
And accidentally giggle.
It’s a nervous habit and I can’t help it.
It’s good though, because I realize I’m being stupid. It’s just two people. Sure, they should be shorter. Take up less space.
And together they should add, not end up squaring each other.
They’re screwing with my math and I hate that. It’s very irritating. And plus, these guys are wedged right in between me and the meetinghouse.
In the dark.
By the woods.
With nobody else around.
I forget irritation and glance at the windows in apology. Because now I know why they’re looking at me so brokenheartedly.
“God, I’m so sorry, I didn’t know you were there,” I spurt, hating the rushed sound. The outside of my skin feels chilled because my insides are so heated up. I try to make myself relax. It doesn’t work. Which is obnoxious.
Then, to make it even better, I choke on air as the closer of the two, until now just a blank shadow, turns so some of the house’s lights slip by and everything on him lights up in reds and golds. He smiles.
I stare.
And keep staring.
He also stares, but seems to be having more fun than me while doing so.
I’m suspicious the other shadow man is staring, too. All of us looking at these strange other creatures who were stupid enough to come running towards an obvious disaster.
“Well, that’s it then,” says the eerie, lit up one.
“What’s it?” I say, grateful for the polite reflex my zizi put in me. Because otherwise I would’ve just kept staring.
“I’m in love.”
“With what?”
“With you.”
I blink, honest to goodness confused.
Oh great. He thinks he’s charming. Now he’s just standing there. Smiling.
I squirm.
The guy stretches his lips even more. It’s alarming, but, thank God, it does make me move. Albeit just my eyeballs, and albeit down.
My pride preferred the staring. I force myself to look back up.
I ask him how he’s related to our zizi Angie.
“Yeah…” he says, “I don’t know what you said, but don’t worry, I still think you’re pretty.”
I bite my lip and hold in a nose wrinkle, which kind of comes out one of my eyes. The man in front of me shifts his weight to his toes.
I shouldn’t encourage him, but I can’t help my half-smile. Because, great grandmothers, he does look like he’s just utterly lost in some kind of dreamworld. It’s sweet. I guess I really am soft like people say because I just keep smiling. Nothing too glaring, I hope. I wouldn’t want to wake him.
I hear a low laugh. Dream-laughing. He says, “Hey, baby. I feel like I’ve seen you someplace before. Where’d you come from, beautiful?”
I snort and try not to laugh too much. I decide he’s had enough sleep.
“I’m from right here. This is my house.”
“Hey now, princess. Don’t get all mad,” his expression goes soft. It’s very suspicious.
“I’m not mad.”
“Yes, you are.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Are you sure?”
He waits. He’s very patient.
Forefathers, I am.
I tense as a sound comes from the massive shadow that’s wandered up behind him.
“Brother, leave her alone. And do you always have to be half naked? You might as well have made the shirt into a garrote again, for all the good it’ll do now.”
The abnormally large man-shadow that I don’t know how I was just ignoring, steps around the one I’ve been talking to and scowls. In response, the first one grins mischievously. To which this other one’s only reaction is a single lifted eyebrow. Given his stature, I’m not offended when it seems he’s looked everywhere around the yard before he turns down, and sees me.
“Hello,” I say.
I’m proud. I sound like I am absolutely composed. Despite the fact that I’m worried all my bones are melting apart at the joints.
“Hi. Who are you?”
They have matching accents, and I think they taste nice. Maybe a peach and dark balsamic and creek water, and some warm spice. Different from our island flavor, all ocean brine and lemon rinds and fall apples right of the branches. This one’s is less rough than the first’s. Equally polite, however.
“Like I was telling your brother here, this is my house,” I cross my arms. “Who are you?”
Before the rude one can respond, the also-rude first one steps in between us.
“Sweetpea,” he says, and I frown.
“This is my brother, Hale. Hale, this little miss is so far unnamed, but I’m trying to find one for her. So far, she does not like beautiful, pretty, or princess. What did you think of sweetpea, Sweetpea? No? Hm, I kind of liked it. Well, ok then, no p
roblem. I’ll think of something for you, don’t you worry. Just hold your horses, now.”
While I squint at this bizarre specimen of a man, he steps back to his brother and says, nice and low and right at me, “Now, I should warn you, she’s got a bit of a temper so watch yourself.” Then he gets serious, like I’m about to attack them.
Apparently, a certain someone finds himself funny.
My lips unstick and drift apart. I think I’ve never been so baffled in my entire life.
“I don’t have a temper.”
If you can ignore a person while figuring out how best to fish for them, that’s what he does next.
“May I escort you somewhere, little lady?”
Dumb boy.
“Fine. To the meetinghouse. Please,” I remember at the last second.
“This way.”
“I know which way it is.”
No parrying remark, so I assume his outer dreamworld has taken up residence inside his skull, making it foggy. Instead, he just holds out his elbow, which we don’t really do around here but I’m not dumb, so I take it.
There’s a thick fluttering overhead, and I cringe slightly.
Meanwhile, the boy with my arm jumps a mile and then tries to clobber me. I loose my feet but he has the grace or maybe it’s just that his wrists are strong enough for me to hang from, that I don’t land flat-out in the kissed-cool grass.
“Bats,” I say, straining to hang on. I’d complain about this position, if for nothing else than because it makes my arms hurt, but he is a man so I can’t blame him for assuming closer to him is a safer place to be. And putting me there is kind, I suppose.
It’s just not quite vertical enough.
“They have bats where you’re from?” I ask, hoping it will remind him I’m still down here.
Perplexed, he stands and takes me with him.
“Mostly there’s rats.”
“Bats are kind of like rats, just they fly. They’re eating the bugs now, see? That’s why we like them around.”
“He tried to eat my head.”
“You probably had a bug on it.”
Still disturbed, he drops a heavy arm around my shoulders and moves us off towards the back porch again.
“The rats we had didn’t eat bugs, that’s for sure.”
“No? What did they eat?”
He gives me a toothy grin. It’s rather close. “Dogs, sometimes. Cats. Even small little annoying people like you.”
“They did not.”
“They did, too. Hoards of them would run you down, and once you were down, they’d eat you.”
“I wouldn’t want to be eaten by a rat.”
“Not one rat. A hoard of them.”
We walk up the couple of steps onto the back porch. The kitchen door is open, so I guess he can see my pouting mouth then.
He laughs.
“Hale.”
Hale’s not paying attention. He’s on the lookout for more bats, I think. And mountain lions. And bears.
He’s very busy.
“Hale.”
“Huh?”
“Take a good look at this one and remember her. Got it? I want you to be nice to her on account of, ah hell, forget love. Love doesn’t mean anything to me. Now I worship her.”
Both Hale and I make noises. And I’d say they both fit our respective statures quite nicely.
I find one of the insane boy’s hands, which isn’t hard because it’s lolling off my shoulder, and I pat it. Then, trying to go unnoticed, I lift it.
He’s not looking down, though, so he apparently takes this as a natural cue to knot our fingers together into something worse than anything you’d find in Eleni’s knitting basket. Including the basket itself.
“Um, he’s not in love worship whatever with anyone, don’t worry.”
“Yes, I am.”
“Um, trust me. I don’t think you are.”
“How do you know? Is your name Cupid?”
Oh great. I’m confused again. Only really smart people and really not smart people can do this to me. I just can’t decide which this one is.
“No,” I give him.
“Hey, it’s a fair question. You never told me your name.” The guy shrugs, going back to smiling that fishing smile of his. Which I decide is evil.
“Have you ever met a real person whose name is Cupid?” I ask.
He hesitates. Ha.
“No.”
“Then it’s not a legitimate question, is it?”
“That doesn’t mean it couldn’t be your name, rosebud.”
I don’t like him.
“It’s very unlikely.”
“That means that it is a little likely.” He gives my hand a squeeze in his delight.
Great grandmothers. “Ok. You…are, I’m sure, very nice. But I don’t know you, and you don’t know me. Neither of us knows each other. Or our names,” I motion between him and me, although there’s not a lot of room for making it emphatic.
I notice I’m steaming hot. It doesn’t help that the one with the arm has a cloud of heat surrounding him. Remnants of the dreamworld again, I bet. Matter transformed into energy, heat energy, since it can’t just disappear and E equals mc squared and whatnot.
“Tell you what, buttercup, listen good because I’ll say it to you. You’re right.”
“I know,” I say. Because it’s not my fault, I just do.
He becomes wary, “About one thing,” he says. Then watches me for a reaction, so I don’t give him one.
He doesn’t appreciate this. In fact, he looks pretty mad. I feel like I should say I’m sorry. It’s on the tip of my tongue…
“You don’t know me. All you know is that I’m the, come on, let’s face it, very good-looking guy that just came running to your little rescue. Twice. You’re the one that should be saying that you worship me.”
I start choking on my own uvula at that convolution of logic.
“You have a massive ego,” I point out, just because I can’t not say it any longer. “And, like we both agreed, I don’t know you! Which is why I’m not declaring my undying love for you. And, you weren’t coming to my rescue once before, you were coming to help a bunch of little boys. Thank you, by the way. And lastly, it’s dark and I can barely see you. How do I know what you look like? All I see is a big shadowy blob!”
Now I’m the one squeezing his hand. His fingers are in the way of my fist.
I feel like screaming and stomping off, which I would definitely do if he were family. It takes all of my self-control not to. To give him the proper respect due to a guest.
“Wow, you sound like a flying rat,” he says.
My eyebrows go up so high, that they come back down again.
“No comeback, huh? Too bad. I was having fun.”
He brushes a piece of grass off of his sleeveless arm. With the hand that still has mine stuffed in it.
“Farewell, love.”
Great grandmothers.
His eyes are a funny color, as far as eyes go. The two thin rings of yellows, oranges, reds and browns are almost the same as the light spilling from the house. Warm. And waiting for me.
Gently, I tell those eyes, “Don’t be sad, love. I’m sure you’ll find another love tomorrow.”
“But what about you, oh worshipful princess?”
“Alas, I shall become an old spinster. Hey, maybe I’ll become a witch!”
“A witch?” He doesn’t look like he gets the genius of this idea. Though he does seem to be trying rather hard.
“Yes, a witch. And then I’ll make you love potions to give to any girls you want. How’d you like that?” It’s an excellent plan, if I do say so myself.
“Sure,” he seems pleased. “That’d be great. Let me know when they’re ready.”
“Ok, I will.”
That being done, I notice Hale working his way out of his button-up shift. Under it, he has a t-shirt that my zizi could use as a dressing gown. I assu
me he’s going to use the overshirt to clothe his brother which, as far as I’m concerned, would be awesome.
Instead, this Hale character comes towards me and tries to tuck it over my shoulders. I squeak some more. It makes my inaugural witch’s brew client chuckle.
I hitch up my shoulders and pull at the dizzying array of checks and lines and seams, trying to give it back.
“It’s ok, I’m not cold.”
Hale doesn’t register this, just takes the collar of the shirt and realigns it around my neck. It’s like wearing one of the unisex, one-size-fits-all-if-you’re-Hercules lab coats they gave us at the academy. I feel like I’m eight again.
“You’re covered in blood,” Hale says.
Confused again.
I frown and look down. Huh. So I am. Oh poor Benito, he can’t be feeling too good right now.
“Oh, now see, Hale? You’ve gone and spooked her. Don’t worry witchy-baby, it’s only blood.”
The one who still hasn’t told me his name pats me on the shoulder and gives me what I swear is a purposefully creepy smile. Then he abruptly aims a terrifying look at his brother, who does appear to be second-guessing himself.
I wonder if it’s necessary for all of us to stand so close together.
The boys start arguing. In a strange language I don’t recognize, but still. Given my family, I know these things.
I wince, “Please don’t worry, you guys. I’m not afraid of blood, it’s fine,” I brush at it and sigh. Then I think of something.
“I’m going to be in so much trouble for ruining this dress, though. My cousin’s going to kill me. Did you see her in there? The really pretty one. She does not like dirty ruined things. Especially dirty ruined things that are hers. Do either of you know how to get bloodstains out of this material? Feel it. I don’t even know what it is, it’s not cotton or wool, right? Is it dried in, do you think?”
I pull at the fabric, trying for a better view. Nobody answers so I check if they’re still there. Because I’m rambling and it’s totally understandable if they wandered off.
“No?”
They shake their heads. It makes them look like not just brothers but twins. I wonder if Milo and I are that disturbing to people.
“Um, Hale. Do you think I could borrow this for a moment? Just to get back inside.”
“Go ‘head.”
“Great, thanks.” I smile in real gratitude, and he studies his feet. So much for my charm. “I’ll be back in a minute.” I poke my head in the door. The coast is clear, just some ladies back here cleaning up.
I stroll in like nothing’s wrong, crossing behind the picked-over banquet, slip behind my Grandpa Stonington who just happens to be wandering towards the staircase, then slip my shoes off so my footsteps are nothing but dull pats on the staircase.
A tea kettle whines. That means dessert soon. Which I should serve. Dah.
All in all, that stealth training sure comes in handy in practical life situations. Just like the field instructor promised.
I put on a new dress, this one with little sleeves, and say I was getting chilly. Our Crusa is so sensitive to the cold, my zizi confirms when I find Andrew and her downstairs. I apologize for being gone so long.
“Dear, why don’t you take him around and make sure everyone’s met him.”
She takes a sip of the dark wine Andrew brought her. Her chest is already splotchy and I know she’ll be complaining about the heat in about five minutes, but she won’t like it if I tell her that.
Andrew stands and takes my hand. My zizi gives me a look that’s as good as a shove. I give her a what slash sorry kind of thing and go.
Since the whole downstairs is wide open except for the four walls, and even those are rather porous what with the doors and windows all flung open, I can’t say our path through the clusters of chairs and tables and children playing on the floor has much sense to it.
Which is why, as far as I can tell, every little group of my relatives hovers at an equal level of anticipation whose rise is dependent on both the number of groups and the area of the room. This state is seemingly characterized by alternating whispers and bracingly voluminous comments on the weather, up until Andrew and I approach and it’s time to try very hard to not notice us there.
I want to tell them all to stop it. But they’re doing it because they want this to go well, to make me happy. And when they finally allow themselves to acknowledge us, they all light up like our arrival is the most wonderful surprise.
So how can I be mad.
Instead, I think I’ll save my breath for telling them to stop touching my fiancé. Because they’re all over him. The women kiss his cheeks and squeeze him and the men clap his arms and shoulders, shaking him so only the soles of his feet don’t move. He has impressive balance, actually. Though I’m not sure the priest will care too much about that.
The boy also has good poker face. Yes, he handles it well. Meanwhile, I could die. I’m waiting until they won’t tell me my reaction is an overreaction.
Which, as far as I’m concerned, was a point we passed way back by the stove when my noni Laurie squeezed his bicep and asked what his exercise routine was.
I think we’re almost done now. We just have to say hi to the people out on the front stoop.
“Hello, everyone.”
I give them a few seconds.
“You guys? This is Andrew. Andrew, this is my cousin Berto, his wife, my aunt Tia, my cousins Penny Marie, Pia Marie, Benito,” I smile with my lips together and wink at him, happy to see he’s nicely bandaged and stuffing his face with fruit and cheese. “My other cousins Lia Marie, Gia Maria, Mikey, little Sal, my great aunt Diane, my uncles Trumbull and Groton, and…” something hits me square in the stomach. I’ve got to calm down. I almost knocked myself over.
“Oh, hi,” I say.
The brothers I just met out back are right out here on the steps. And, forefathers they do look similar. Half eating their suppers, half moving towards some kind of expression.
“Hi.” “Hi,” they say together. Slightly off in timing, like they’re in the echo chamber up in the sonics labs. It feels like mice running up my back and into my ears.
“Um, these are brothers, Hale aannnnd...”
“Lium,” the guy supplies.
Huh. Lium. Lium and Hale. Strange names.
“Yes, of course, I’m so sorry. Gentlemen, this is Andrew. He and I will be getting married in the fall.”
I’m surprised when they’re startled. They all grunt at each other and try to rip each other’s arms off.
Boys. I ignore them and try not to smirk.
After that, Andrew laughs with this chuckle of his that he’s been pulling out all night for my freaky relatives. I’m suspicious that it’s a nervous habit, but it has a nice ring to it. Doesn’t sound insane at all. Why does he get a good nervous habit? It’s really not fair. I’m glad he’s going to be my husband.
As Lium is the only one of the brothers not glaring at the ground right now, I smile at him.
“This is your party?” he asks.
“Mhm,” I smile some more and bob my head.
“It’s nice.”
“Thanks, it’s my aunt. She’s amazing.”
And that’s all we really have to say to each other. That’s all any of us has to say to each other, it seems. Andrew puts a hand on the dip in my spine and presses.
“So, Mets or Yankees?”
Hale. Surprising. Not the question but that he asked it. And I didn’t know other countries followed our baseball.
Andrew is a Yankees fan. Hale says they’re going to loose the rest of the season after what happened with that relief pitcher. Andrew says no way it will matter. My uncle Trumbull feels the need to add his own opinion, which is apparently backed by stats in the latest newspaper from Boston area. He darts inside to show them, and they follow.
I hated stats classes.
I’m glad baseball wasn’t my at
hletic concentration.
Hey.
Andrew just left me here.
I look around, feeling really awkward. I put my hands on my hips. Normally, I’d just plunk down, right there on the steps and watch the world go by until he came back or maybe something interesting happened.
Only I realize I can’t. Because there’s Lium. Sitting back and watching me. Waiting for me to do something, I guess. I bet he’s used to girls falling all over themselves, trying to entertain him. Hmp. Well, he’s about to be disappointed, then.
And I don’t feel bad about that at all.
I wait for him to remove his gaze. I’m very patient while this Lium guy lounges away, all spread out like he finds rocks comfortable.
I, however, am not. It’s too quiet. I feel a terrible compulsion rolling up in my chest. It wants me to say something. I’m reduced to listening as my mouth runs off on its own accord.
“So, you like tigers.” He kind of looks at me. I don’t blame him.
“I mean, you’ve got one on your arm. Right? It’s nice….I didn’t notice it before.”
“Oh.”
And then more silence.
“I like all your tattoos.” Forefathers.
Summer heat rolls up from my chest to my face. The boy raises his eyebrows. Then checks down at his arms. And then back at me.
Not smiling.
Oops.
Well, I’m sorry, but given that I was searching so hard for something and the first thing that came to my mind was absolutely nothing, what can I say? They’re worn but they’re there, all over him, plain as dust in a sunbeam.
“Do you have any?” he says.
“No,” I answer too quickly.
“How come?”
“I don’t know. Just never got one, I guess.” I shrug.
I really, really wish I could just walk away. But that would be rude. And odd. And I usually try not to be either of those things.
He tips up his chin and says, “Uh huh. My bet is, you’re just afraid of her.”
“Her who?”
“The lady in there.”
“Of my zizi?” I say smoothly. “Yes, I suppose so. I have a healthy fear of her. A proper, respectful, evolutionarily advantageous fear. Plus, she wouldn’t be mad.” I sigh, “She’d probably just drive both herself and me crazy by asking why I felt the need to get stabbed with needles over and over and over again. And then she’d cry and wonder where she went wrong in raising me.”
I guess Lium thinks this is funny because he laughs. I tip my own chin towards the door.
“Go ahead. Go right on in there, and you tell her something. I’m sure whatever you say will upset her, so no reason to tax yourself. Do that and see what happens. Then come back here, and tell me about it. Go on, you’re welcome to it.”
His eyebrows fall in hard. They stay there, “No thanks.”
I stand up straight, as apparently I’ve been leering over him which I don’t know where that came from but anywho, I stand up properly and sigh, “Oh, that’s too bad. You’re no fun.”
“I’m plenty fun.”
“Hm.”
“Everyone thinks I’m fun.”
“I’m sure they do.”
“You’re not fun.”
“Yes, well. That’s because I’m sad that I’ll have to go without any entertainment for the evening, as you won’t go inside.”
“What if I’m not going inside because it’s way too entertaining out here? You ever think of that? It’s your own fault, honey.”
“It’s my fault that you’re having too much fun?” I try to deliver innocently.
“Well, you’re just too much, aren’t you? Come sit by me, babe.”
He pats a good piece of shale right next to himself. I hesitate. I feel like he wants me to go closer so he can get in my head. To trip me up. I don’t like that. I need space to maneuver to do my best work.
I turn around and sit. I have no choice, really. Not after he asked and stared and waited, and nobody else came close enough for me to pretend to talk to. I pull my skirt’s hem tightly over my knees, and pick at it.
The inside light has no trouble reaching here, all pressed up against the half-closed doors, bathing the house in the colors of wild corn. Yellow in the windows and threaded joints, ember red in the worn out places. Autumn leaf brown in the thick, and a black that’s almost blue under the shadows. Same as his eyes turned from the light, I bet. I check. Yes.
“So. No tattoos but you like them, huh?”
“Yes,” I say, feeling unsure, and annoyed that he just made it sound like an insult. “But yours are very nice.” He makes a face where his eyes, nose, and mouth all squirm.
“Ah, sweetheart, they’re not supposed to be nice.” Oh.
“Well, what are they supposed to be then?” Some of my hair falls in my face, which is great for about two seconds, until my stupid crazy hands reach up and put it back behind my ear. I’ve always envied Eleni, how she uses hers as a veil.
The stupid boy Lium moves closer. I wonder if I’m in his way and if I should get up.
He shrugs, “The ones I have are more for protection.”
I nod like I understand. But I have a question.
“Lium?”
“Yes?” He’s trying not to laugh at me, though I don’t know why.
I sigh in frustration, “How can those tattoos protect you if they’re already stabbed into you?”
He mostly just looks surprised, and well, soft. I think I broke him. I feel bad. He is quite handsome. Lots of clean lines.
“Trust me, baby. They work.” He taps my forehead, “On everything but know-it-alls.”
I don’t feel bad anymore. He leans right into my face and looks like he’s about to say something.
Then he doesn’t.
And doesn’t some more.
I seriously start to wonder if he’s waiting for me to move.
“It’s not all the stabbing kind of protection that I’m talking about, love. Although I do know one guy whose tattoo stopped a bullet. Dead in its tracks.”
“Do you really.”
“Yeah, I do.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure, on account of I was there.”
I don’t really have anything polite to say to that, so I follow my zizi’s advice and hush.
Lium frowns, “You don’t believe me.”
“Yes I do.”
He considers me very carefully. I try to look honest. Since I honestly don’t want him to call me a liar, I think of that while he does.
Meanwhile, I decide I was right. I should have never sat here.
I smile, conjuring up my best, go welcome the company while I finish this, Crusa honey, magic. My aunt taught me it, her lectures on guests are some of my earliest memories. In them, I feel close to the floor and wiry, and things look dusky but her voice is sharp and singing. This magic always works, thanks to her. She knows people better than my Uncle Groton, and she’s a great instructor. So it shouldn’t amaze me so much every time.
I don’t think it’s a natural inborn kind of thing for me, though, because it does. Either way, I do it very well, she says, and so I know Lium can’t help it when he smiles at me now, like there’s a secret. That’s what it does. I smile back because it’s always so adorable.
“It’s true,” he almost whispers. “I saw the bullet hole, just a red spot, that’s it, I’m telling you.”
“Oh my goodness.” Hey, maybe it is true. It could possibly be, somehow, I guess. I don’t know. I do know I’m supposed to be generous, and let all craziness pass.
Lium nods with that secret-knowing smile still all over him. “I’m telling you, it was awful. We all thought he was a goner and he just stood there. I was ducked under a truck, just a few yards away, and I could see everyone else there, just freeze.”
“So…you all stood around, then? Waiting for some poor guy to fall over d
ead?”
Lium nods, “Yup.”
Oh dear. Not Coast Guard material, these guys of his. “But he never did, right? Fall over and die, I mean.”
“No, he never did.”
He pats me on the shoulder. I’m afraid I must not be covering my distress. “Well, Lium. That was a horrifying story. I’d appreciate if you never told me another one like it ever again.”
He snorts, “What’s so bad about it? It’s great.”
I turn to face him, “It’s about not dying and misfired guns. And standing around.”
He looks at me weird. Whether the weirdness comes from him or me or someplace in between, I can’t say. But it’s definitely there. So. There.
“I like it,” he says.
“That’s very nice for you.”
I smooth my skirt and he spreads out his arms behind us, getting comfortable again. I wonder where Andrew is. I wish he was here so I could yell at him.
Another curl tucked. Yup. Seriously need some kind of drug for that.
Next door, I hear windchimes knock lazily into each other. My zizi hates those things. She’ll talk about how much she hates them, right on our front stoop. I’ll try to tell her to talk quieter, and she’ll wave at the trees and the scant fifty meters and say no one can hear her.
“I got this one a few years ago,” Lium holds out the inside of a wrist.
I move to see. “Where’d you get it from?”
“A guy at a shop.”
“Oh.” I seem to have crossed a line. Again. Into what, who knows with this one. “They have whole stores for that kind of thing?”
“Yeah.” He lays back again and this time I do the same, curling up on the rocks.
“Where?”
“This is from one in North Orleans, called Alfonse’s.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, it was down this alley that was only this wide.” The space between his two hands isn’t even big enough for his shoulder. Does he really think I’ll believe that?
“Huh.”
“What? You want to go? I could show you where it is.”
“Mm, no thanks. Was the shop small, too?”
“Oh, yeah, sure. But never crowded. At least, not while it was open.” He scrunches his brow. I scrunch mine back. He nods.
“Yup, not a soul there after dark. Except Alfonse.”
“Why?”
“It was only open then.”
“Oh. How come?”
“During the day, it was a coffee place.”
“Oh. Because more people want coffee than tattoos?”
“Nah, because it’s illegal. The tattoos, not the coffee.”
“I see.”
“There you are,” comes a sharp call.
I jump and try not to act like a stunned puppy.
“What happened? I thought you were right behind me.” Andrew comes over and holds out a hand. He pulls me up and gives me a little hug.
“Hey, Andrew. I was just out here talking to Lium.”
“Well, thank God. I thought you’d gotten cold feet and hightailed it out of here. But then one of your cousins said to me, I forget which one, it’s an island so how far could you get, really? Your family’s hilarious. Anyways, what are you doing?”
“Um, nothing really,” I glance at Lium for some help clarifying, but he’s too distracted.
“I’m telling you, Crusa, when we look back on tonight we’re going to keel over laughing. Now, come on, babe. Everyone’s asking where you are. I want you right by my side the rest of the night.” I feel shy as he sets me right against him, his arms going around and crossing over my hips.
“Your aunt wants you back inside to serve dessert. And I’m going to help you.”
“Oh, Andrew, you don’t have to do that.”
“I am. Now come on.”
“Alright, alright. Lium?” He’s got one side of his face raised. I pretend that’s normal. “Make sure you come in and get some, ok? And your brother, too. It’s blueberry crisp, family recipe. I picked all the berries myself and made sure there was the exact right proportion of blue to sour. It’s my secret ingredient. The proportion. Trust me, you’ll love it,” I smile.
He sighs, “Yeah, yeah. Get out of here, you little lovebird.”
There’s no real gracious response to that, so I just turn and go inside with Andrew.
I serve the crisp with my zizi’s help, and Eleni threatening that if I get a blueberry stain on the dress, even though it’s mine, but she has to wash it, she says, she’ll murder me in my sleep.
Glad that she doesn’t know about the one that’s currently soaking in the sink upstairs, I give a reply that our zizi rewards with a look for me that makes me glad Andrew is here, paired with a suggestion for Eleni to go someplace else.
Later, we sit at the long table with Andrew. My aunt grabs my brother by the wrist and begs him to join us. Camillo sits, but I think it takes him a whole lot of determination to do it. I wonder why he’s in such a bad mood. We never get to see him anymore, I wish he’d just relax and be happy tonight. I mean, he’s barely talked to me all evening.
Still worried about my brother, I turn to someone who is happy. He taps a rhythm on my hand, like he’s listening to a song in his head and my zizi at the same time.
All things considered, I think I’ve been truly blessed. This Andrew is wonderful. He’s handsome and talkative and nice to everyone, even me. He could’ve hated me, for being forced to marry me. He could have been sickly, or smelled bad, or…I want to cry, I’m so relieved that he doesn’t. I think he honestly wants to marry me. It sends a thrill through me.
“Our Crusa is very accomplished.”
Huh? I heard my name.
“I’m sure she is,” he says. It’s embarrassing how easily he agrees. “That’s why this is the greatest country on earth. I mean, not everybody gets the philosophy. My own parents were against it when I first started, but they came around. My father is a business consultant, you know, for the state, and my mother is a reporter like hers was, you know that, that’s how they met, but still neither of them got how my studying soccer strategy would make me a better journalist.” He laughs, “It’s hard to explain to people unless you’re in it, right?”
I nod. Along with my core classes in anatomy and physiology of the senses, general logic, visiospacial/auditory/kinesthetic reasoning and analysis, military support practicum and whatnot (plus, after a certain airplane borrowing thing, on a certain Problem Solving Tuesday, my highly suggested volunteer hours in Land-based Air Support Command), I spent years and years studying random subjects.
Embroidery, European history, guitar, organic chemistry, immunology, they even made me figure skate two hours six days a week, something about vectors and rhythm and proprioception, and I don’t even remember what else, all to improve my AIS performance.
Andrew sighs and takes a bite of the blueberry crisp. His second bite. Everyone else is done.
“And what’s nice is, like what you’re doing now, people can transfer over seamlessly into peacetime occupations. It’s great. It will make a whole new world, someday. Until then, though, I have to say it sure works out well for husbands.”
“Sure, sure. But then, our Crusa has always been talented, and would have been even without that school.” Oh, Zizi. “Would you like to see?”
No.
I’m given a choice between fetching my skating medals or a blanket I wove. I sigh. Silently, for the benefit of my zizi’s delicate ears, of course.
“Please, excuse me, Andrew.”
“Well, excuse me, too,” my aunt proclaims, and I scamper up the stairs.
I fling open the door of my room to the darkness.