Tallis' Third Tune

by Ellen L. Ekstrom

Once I saw that Dennis could make it by himself into the stands without spilling on to the ice for the umpteenth time, I slipped off my skates and padded in socks to the lobby, walking against the new crowd of high and middle school students that arrived for the annual Valentine’s Day “Skate-for-Love” charity event for the local hospital’s pediatric ward. Dennis and I had decided to be each other’s sweethearts for the day. Walking through the mob of chattering, happy lovebirds reminded me however of the nasty break up with Will the Pill, and how horrible it was to not have anyone on Hallmark’s Second Most Favorite Holiday of the Year. I averted my eyes from the bouquets and teddy bears, the balloons with “I LOVE YOU” screaming from their bloated perimeters.

  Once I had the ice pack – and a cup of ice cream and a frozen Mars bar in hands – I worked my way back to the rink and Dennis. We would soothe his sore bottom and ego and mend my broken heart in scrumptious calories.

  “Hey! Alice!”

  I stopped suddenly, for a boy was blocking my entrance and when I looked up to bark orders to step out of the way, I flushed bright red – I knew it was red, because my face was burning – and offered Quinn Radcliffe a weak smile.

  “Hi!” It came out like a squeak and I wanted to die, but mostly avoid the stares and giggling of the two nasty bitches that walked by with their latest conquests. They made my life Hell in second period English.

  “Don’t mind them,” Quinn said, nodding in their direction. “They only live to make people like us miserable.”

  “Us? Why would they do that to you?” I wanted to know. I didn’t say what I was thinking: I mean, LOOK at you; you’re gorgeous, a Greek god with those big dark eyes, knee-disintegrating smile, shoulders out to here and athlete’s body…

  “I’m a marching band and orchestra nerd, I guess.”

  “Nerd?”

  “Somebody who’s not cool – hey, are you with anyone?”

  I pointed to Dennis, sitting in the bleachers. “My brother.”

  Quinn glanced over my shoulder and nodded. “Oh, so I guess he wouldn’t want you to have company, or anything.”

  “I don’t – oh! No, please! Join us; I don’t think he’ll mind.”

  “I don’t want to intrude, or anything.”

  “You won’t. C’mon.”

  I led the way through another mob of students to where Dennis waited. He was looking as bored and detached as I’d ever seen him, and we weren’t even at a Giants game nor was he being forced to play Risk. “Hey Denny, how are we?” I cooed, climbing up to where he was seated. Dennis had that look on his face, the one that was a portent of whining and self-pity but it transformed to something akin to delight when he saw Quinn, who sat next to me.

  “I’m going to have a bruise down to my ankle, I know it,” Dennis said, taking the ice pack from me and sitting on it. He smiled at Quinn and glanced at me, waiting.

  “Hi, I’m Quinn,” Quinn introduced himself.

  “Where are my manners?” I apologized. “Denny, this is Quinn Radcliffe – Quinn, my brother Dennis. He’s home from college – winter break.”

  “Nice to meet you,” Quinn greeted, leaning over me to shake Dennis’ hand. They were still shaking hands, though I didn’t mind it for Quinn was very close. I did gently extricate Dennis’ hand when Quinn started looking nervous and Dennis kept staring at him.

  “Radcliffe? Any relation to Andrew Radcliffe of the Metropolitan Opera?” Dennis asked.

  “He’s my dad. He’s with the San Francisco Opera now.”

  “That’s why you look so familiar! I saw your father in La Boheme! The best portrayal of Rodolfo I’ve seen.”

  “Yeah, he kind of likes it, too.”

  “Is he singing with San Francisco? I’d love to hear his Rodolfo again.”

  “He’s semi-retired and teaching at Cal, Assistant Director at the Opera House. Once in a while he takes a lead role if pushed to it.”

  “What a loss,” Dennis moaned. I frowned, nudging him and giving him a look that warned dire consequences if he didn’t stop.

  “Some think so,” Quinn answered, shrugging.

  “Well, you’re not here to talk about your father,” my brother sighed and nudged me back.

  We three sat in silence, watching the activity on the ice. A girl who had been practicing salchows now attempted a triple and took a sudden spill. A collective gasp went up from the spectators in the stands.

  “That rink is tough, isn’t it?” Quinn said. “I stopped skating when my mother said I looked like a baby giraffe on ice skates, or Bambi on the ice with Thumper.”

  “Olympic skater?” I asked.

  “Ice hockey. Didn’t help when I took a puck to the head.”

  “Poor you!” I gasped. “Is that why you went into music?”

  “No, I’ve always wanted to be a musician. My father was against the ice hockey. I wanted it.”

  “My mother wants me to be a doctor, but I don’t know.”

  “Well,” Quinn said glancing in my direction and then back at the ice, “if you did go into medicine and became a doctor, the next time I took a puck to the head you could stitch me up.”

  I gave Quinn a sideways glance and he did the same. We started to laugh – I don’t know why, but it was certainly because we connected and felt a kindred spirit then. Dennis winked at me and offered the rest of the ice cream, which I shared with Quinn. He didn’t miss a thing and reminded me of that day while we sat in the Curiosity Shop moments later.

  “What makes you think I ever forgot?” I asked him, walking up to the counter where the Proprietress held my book in her hands. She snatched it away just as I was ready to open it and reached on the topmost shelf behind her for my cask, setting it carefully on a square of velvet on the glass top of the display case.

  “Well?” she hissed. “Your moment has come. The hour is now!”

  I opened the box slowly, as if snakes on springs would bound at me, a bright light unlike any other would blind me, or liquid squirt in my face. I lifted the satin-finished brass latch, ran my fingers along the parquetry edges and the velvet linings and discovered…

  Nothing.

  “I’m sorry,” I sighed. “Is this where I don’t see what’s in the box because I haven’t figured out what I’m doing here and why two wrongs make a right?”

  “Well aren’t you silly?” the Proprietress sniffed. “There’s nothing in the box, Alice Rose.”

  “Then why did you give it to me?”

  “Darling child, you have to put something in it! Honestly, do you ever pay attention?” She tapped her perfectly manicured nail on the box lid and frowned, waiting.

  I spun about, looking at Athena, then Joan of Arc, and finally Richard the Third for a clue. Marie Antoinette shook her finger at me while she shook her head.

  “What did we talk about before, Alice?” the Proprietress sighed.

  I stared back, no doubt a blank look on my face.

  “Broken hearts have pieces, Alice! They have pieces!”

  “That’s what I’m supposed to put in the box? Of course! But how do I get them?”

  “That’s for you to figure out as you struggle with two wrongs making a right!”

  The Proprietress nodded at the box and I snatched it off the counter before she could take it away. The box now in my possession, I closed the lid and found myself sitting on the front porch steps of our house in Berkeley, holding a package of Hostess Donuts in my lap. Quinn sat on the porch with me, a plate of fruit and two glasses of milk between us. The day wasn’t too cold for February, so it was no hardship to sit outside with the boy I thought was the most handsome junior at Berkeley High. Well, even if it had been Chicago in the dead of winter, I wouldn’t have minded.

  “I’m sorry we have to sit here,” I lied to Quinn. “It’s just that the nurse is over from the hospital to give Mom her medicine and look in on her. She gets self-conscious about the house, her appearance.”

  “I’m sorry about your mother,” he answered. “What’s the prob
lem?”

  “Ovarian cancer – that’s what it is this time. She’s had so many in the last year.”

  “Shit! That’s so unfair,” Quinn whispered. He glanced at me and saw that I was staring back. We both looked away. “I guess that’s why your brother’s home from school?” he asked.

  “Pretty much.”

  I opened the package of donuts and he chose one of the plain, while I chose the powdered. “I hear the kids at school talking, but I never guessed it was you,” he mentioned.

  “If it’s the popular clique whispering, it’s about me.”

  We took sips of milk, shared an orange, and went through the box of donuts silently, watching the foot traffic on Rose Street, listening to the sounds coming from the house.

  “It was great to run into you at the rink today,” Quinn said suddenly.

  “It was fun just to sit and talk,” I replied, hiding my blushes with the hair spilling around my face as I turned. “There’s one last donut,” I offered, holding up the package.

  Quinn took it and smiled, saying, “You’ve got powdered sugar all over your face.”

  I turned away and brushed the powder off my face and turned back, grinning like a fool. We laughed together and then sat quietly again, for it seemed as though we didn’t need to say a word and still be in perfect agreement and harmony.

  “Did you see that new movie out, Romeo and Juliet?” Quinn asked after a time.

  “My English class went to see it last week. I didn’t go – my mom…”

  “I thought of you, since you like medieval stuff and history.”

  “You did? How did you know?” I shot a look of surprise at him. Quinn was a boy I watched from afar, never said a word to for fear of rejection.

  “Winter play – the drama club did Becket and you designed the costumes and sets.”

  “You went?”

  “With my mom,” he answered sheepishly.

  “Wow, I didn’t…”

  “Those costumes and the scenery looked great – like a movie. Are you doing anything else?”

  “The drama coach wants to meet with me next week to plan some things so I’ve started a book and some storyboards – those are little sketches that show each scene.”

  “I’ve heard of that; when I perform at some theaters I’ve seen people working on them.”

  “Do you do a lot of concerts?”

  “A couple a year. My dad wants me to be a concert cellist, or a conductor.”

  “Wow.”

  “But I like rock n’ roll, especially Hendrix, The Airplane, the Beatles. Are your designs supposed to be a secret?”

  “No – d’you want to see them?”

  “Sure!”

  We scrambled to our feet and I led the way through the garden gate to the yard. A path led the way past the rose bushes and gladiolus, the pansies and petunias to a stairwell up to the laundry room and kitchen. We entered the house through the back door and skirted through the dining room to the second floor stairs and up to my room before Dennis, my mother and her nurse could see us.

  “My mother’s bed and all of her stuff are in the living room,” I explained as we entered the bedroom. “It would embarrass her I think, to see anyone new.”

  “Understandable,” Quinn said, sitting on one of the window seats while I took a portfolio out of the other. “This place is a lot neater and cleaner than mine.”

  I glanced around; the bed was almost made up and fortunately I didn’t leave any bras and underwear around, though my art supplies and sketching pads were everywhere, as were my history book and notebooks, my typewriter on its stand with a page draped over the carriage, the menagerie of stuffed animals shoved to the foot of the bed on top of my mother’s hope chest that was draped with a sad little afghan I’d knitted up the summer before when I was bored and needed something new to spark my creativity. The room was decorated in shades of blues, beige and peach. Very simple and utilitarian with window seats that had chests to store my treasures – except for the four-poster bed with lace curtains.

  “Here we are,” I said, throwing myself at Quinn’s feet. I untied the laces that held the portfolio together and opened it to costumes for a fantasy piece I’d been working on.

  “Are those hobbits?” Quinn wanted to know, preventing me from moving the sketch aside.

  “Yes, I’m working on a Lord of the Rings project. Here’s Aragorn, and Arwen, Frodo, oh, and here’s The Witch King and Galadriel. Legolas is in here somewhere…”

  “These are amazing! This is pretty much how I imagined the characters. You’re good, Alice.”

  “Do you think so? Thanks.” I looked up and smiled. “No one’s seen my work at this stage.”

  “Well, I guess that means this has been an honor,” Quinn said gently, his hand resting on mine.

  “Do you like Tolkien, too?”

  “It’s okay – some of it is hard to get through.”

  “Oh, no! If you think of it as theology – like the story of Jesus, you can get some of it, I guess. At least, that’s what I’ve figured out.”

  I was nervous and trembling; Quinn was still smiling gently at me and it wasn’t one of those grins meant to impress, but it looked as if he were really paying attention, and really cared. As much as I wanted to kiss him, I did not, and could not.

  Not now. Now was not the time…

  Quinn started to lean in when we heard the shout.

  “Alice! Mom needs you right now!” Dennis called. The screen door to the front porch slammed. “Alice? Quinn? Where the hell did you…?” As soon as we heard the footsteps on the stairs, we went out to the landing. Dennis stopped halfway up and frowned.

  “Tell me you’re behaving yourselves!” he groused, shooting a look at Quinn that meant trouble.

  “Strictly honorable,” Quinn said, coming down to shake his hand.

  “Oh back off, Prince Charming,” Dennis teased. He glanced at me and said in an apologetic tone, “Sorry, Faery Princess, today’s a really bad day.”

  “We’ll clean up the porch and I’ll be right there,” I said as we brushed passed him. We retraced our path to the porch and took our time cleaning up our picnic. Once everything was in the basket, Quinn opened the front door and waited as I went in. “Well, it was fun, Alice. Just to sit and talk. I like the yard, with the roses and the Canterbury bells; it reminds me of my grandmother’s place in Northern England. God, I’m rambling. Sorry.”

  “No worries.”

  He waited, hoping.

  Not now, not yet!

  “Well, see you at school?”

  “Sure – maybe we can have lunch now and then.”

  The look on his face was hopeless dejection.

  “Alice! C’mon, dammit!” Dennis called.

  I touched Quinn’s cheek gently and smiled.

  “Monday?” Quinn asked brightly.

  “Sure. See you.”

  I watched him go up the street and at the corner he looked back. I went down to the street and waved. He raised a hand, tentatively, then smiled, and went on his way. I watched until his tall figure disappeared around a corner. Once more, the lightness was overwhelming, the sense of peace and contentment, of harmony.

  As I turned to go into the house the light in the sky started to change and I looked up, watching for storm clouds and wondering if Quinn would arrive home before the rain started.

  Something extraordinary happened then: rain did not fall from the sky, but light. Light that was pastel in shades of blue and beige, peach and apricot, opalescent and warm. It came down like a shower and enveloped me so that I felt warm and loved. I hugged myself and closed my eyes and when I opened them I was back in the Curiosity Shop, holding my box. Joan of Arc looked up from her reading of The New York Times Book Review and I noted the smile – and tears.

  The Proprietress said nothing of the change over me when I walked up to the counter with the box in my hands and set it on the velvet square. Snapping her fingers, she pointed to the box and I dutifully ope
ned it. To my surprise, on the velvet cushion was a curious jewel, opalescent and bright, one that changed color as you turned it in the light. It was the size of an apricot.

  “Hmm, just as I expected,” the Proprietress murmured, nodding her head. She said nothing more and took the box and set it up on the topmost shelf. “Two more will be needed, Alice. Oh, don’t look at me like that!” she sighed, glaring at me from over her glasses. “It will be easier.”

  She snapped her fingers and pointed behind me to the brochure rack. As Eleanor of Aquitaine walked in to the Shop, she took a pamphlet from the rack and handed it to me in passing.

  “Unfinished business, Alice,” she said over her shoulder.

  The pamphlet in my hands was a map of the Yorkshire coast with the city of Scarborough figuring prominently. Hildegarde von Bingen entered with a bouquet of – what else? – parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme. “Remember me to one who lives there,” she said, winking, and turned to her watering of the flower boxes on the sill. The herbs started to glow, then, and transformed with the light, until they were a mixed bouquet of bright spring flowers that I arranged in a vase in my office at York St. John’s.

  “All settled then, Professor Martin?” a secretary asked as she passed my door.

  I turned and smiled. “Yes, thank you – and thank you for the vase. My only other choice when I bought them was using a milk bottle; I didn’t see any vases at home.”

  “Oh, I thought they were from that young man waiting in the hallway!” The secretary was pointing behind her.

  I followed her out and saw Quinn in one of the chairs outside the faculty advisor’s office. He smiled sheepishly and rose as I approached, ignoring the appreciative stares and look backs of female students passing by.

  “I owe you an apology for the night before,” he opened and looking around, added, “Can we go somewhere to talk?”

  “I’m finished for the day. Carry my books? We can have a proper dinner at home.”

  “Sure. Can we make a stop on the way to your place?”

  The stop was his grandmother’s store in The Shambles. The scents of lavender and spice filled my nostrils when Quinn unlocked the door and switched on the lights. Carefully setting down my things, he reached for the sheets protecting the goods for sale on the tables and counters and drew them off, going around to the cash register set up in the furthest corner of the little Victorian shop that looked like it belonged in my village.