by Evy Journey
Marcia smiles with relish. “Clever metaphor. Must be some nerd having malicious fun. I bet he sent those cans to a number of people.”
Minutes later, as we’re returning to our work stations, she says, “Anything you’ve done recently that you think may cause trouble for you?”
“No. Why?”
“You sure?”
I shake my head. “I’m sure. Nothing new.”
“You’re thinking of getting married to a guy who’s every other girl’s dream. That’s new. One of those girls might be envious enough to send you this package as a message.”
“I didn’t think of that. But it’s possible. Leon’s ex-girlfriends have done crazy things.”
“You’ve already been a victim of one. By a best friend, at that. Be careful, okay?”
A larger package arrives a few days later, sealed all over like the first one was. My first impulse is to throw it, without opening it, into the bag with the first box. But again, my curiosity gets the better of me. The box is bigger, so something else must be in it. If it’s just more worms, I’ll survive. With a few slashes of the butcher knife, I release the flaps on the box.
Except for the size, this box is a repeat of the first, with a bigger can of worms. Same note. Why bother sending me a second one? In disgust, I slam the flaps together and dump the box into the bag with the first.
This time, I don’t tell Leon about the second. He’ll explain it like the first—a joke from a prankster who has nothing better to do. Maybe he’s right.
But what if Marcia is right? Some girl out there, someone I don’t know, may be sending me a warning. After what Cristi did to me, the idea creeps me out. Still, only people close to me and who I trust know Leon and I plan to get married.
I shove the bag under the sink, twisted on top and tied securely to prevent stinky odors from escaping.
That night, I dream, not of the worms, but of running after Brent and Marcia. Marcia’s face alternating with Cristi’s. The dream is old. It has recurred twice before.
23
“What do you think I should wear to dinner with Leon’s parents?” I ask Marcia, as we sit once again on crates at the back of Du Cœur.
Her head jerks toward me, a look of surprise in her eyes. “Are you there already? Has his father said yes?”
“No, but Leon thinks his father will say yes if I meet him, so I need to make a good impression.”
“Will it be at their house in Los Altos?”
“As far as I know.”
She knits her forehead and looks away. “Something nicer than what you’d wear in an office. Be yourself and don’t let him intimidate you. I think his father likes to do that.”
It’s my turn to look at Marcia in surprise. “Have you met Leon’s father?”
“No. I’ve only seen him here the few times he came with Leon. But I hear things. When’s your dinner?”
“I hope sometime this month. Seems even dinners need to be put on his official schedule. Leon will talk to him this week.”
Marcia snickers and pats my knee. “This dinner may decide your fate, but try to have fun. I hear they have a great personal chef.”
*****
Life at the condo has settled to a routine. On Mondays, I do some tidying up. Cleaners come on Tuesdays. Without Luciano to cook for Leon, I also prepare some dishes for his frequent solitary dinners.
It amazes me how patient he can be for a pampered brat who’s always had someone at his beck and call, who’s used to getting what he wants when he wants it. But it’s early yet. We’ve only been by ourselves a few weeks. And I make and plate his dinner so he only needs to microwave it. I can also rely on him to put his dirty dishes in the dishwasher.
On Monday, towards the end of breakfast, Leon puts a hand on mine as I’m about to get up to place dirty dishes in the sink. “Stay. We need to talk.”
“Aren’t you going to work? It’s past nine,” I say.
“No, they know I won’t be in this morning.”
There is something in his voice that bothers me. A gravity I’m not accustomed to. A quietness that often comes with bad news.
He looks down at his cup, rubbing one side of it back and forth with his fingers. I’m more certain now he’s going to say something about to change things drastically for the two of us.
“What is it Leon?”
“Gina, this is very hard for me ….” The crease in Leon’s knitted brow deepens and his eyes narrow in suppressed anger.
“I know. I’ll wait until you’re ready. I’m not going anywhere.”
He stares back at me. “What do you mean you know?”
“Well, I’ve seen that look in your eyes. You get it when you talk about your father. I think you’ve seen him. I guess he doesn’t want to have me over to dinner at your family home.”
“Yes, we talked, twice. I don’t know why I keep trying.” His gaze returns to his cup of coffee. “He’s a bastard.”
“That’s no way to talk about your father, Leon.”
“Well, he is a bastard. And he plays that role with relish. He knows his money gives him the power to be as much of an asshole as he wants, and get away with it.”
“What exactly did he tell you?”
“He says he doesn’t need to meet you, that he’s never going to give his consent.”
“But we knew that already. Something else must have happened. That’s why you’re so angry.”
Leon sighs, still staring at his cup. He pushes it violently away. I stop it with my hand to prevent it from crashing on the floor. He bolts out of his chair and turns around, his back to me. He stands motionless for a long moment, his hands clenched, his body as taut as a line tied too tightly at both ends.
Staring at Leon’s rigid back is like butting against a concrete wall at the end of a street. There’s no way forward. I’ve been forewarned, but I’ve learned to love Leon and I’m sorry it has to end just when we’ve agreed to move on to a more committed relationship. Still, when I look back on these past months, it’s losing Brent that I’ve regretted most.
Finally, Leon finds his voice again. “He had his private investigator …. He knows who you are. The second time we talked, he threatened to cut me out of his will, out of everything the Barretts have stood for if I don’t do as he says.”
His eyes blazing with anger, he turns to face me again. “He will take away from me a legacy due me as the oldest son. That’s the way it’s always been. This legacy belongs to me and nobody else’s. Not even my younger brother.”
He paces back and forth from one end of the room to the other. “He’s groomed me to take over the Barrett fortune and everything Barretts have stood for. I’ve played along, taking in every unpleasant thing he threw at me without complaining. I could have rebelled. I was tempted to, many times. But I understood: The Barrett legacy has to be kept alive and the responsibility falls on me. My brother can do what he wants, but not me. He was molding me to inherit his role. And his image.”
He bangs his palm on the table. “I hate that image! But he taught me well. And sometimes I hate myself.”
“But you’re not cruel, Leon.”
“No? You once said I was an asshole.”
“I also said you’re sweet and thoughtful. I also know you better now and maybe, I can even understand why you change girlfriends so often. But the image of your father—and you—which you find so hateful—it doesn’t have to be part of that legacy, does it?”
“No. I’ve told myself many times it’s for me to change that image. That I wouldn’t want my son to grow up like my father. Or like me.”
For the first time, I feel a deep sympathy for Leon. If I had seen this side of him early on—one I can’t yet define in the swirl of emotions between us—I could have loved him as deeply as I’ve loved Brent.
He resumes pacing, faster at first. But he slows down and his voice is quieter when he speaks again. “I do love you, Gina. With the others
, it was all about sex and having a good time. But with you … you may be right that it was lust when I first saw you at Du Cœur, but you touched me, tugged at my heart from the start.”
He stops in front of me. “I love you but I can’t let my father take my legacy away from me. I’ve invested too much in it, suffered for it.”
Leon kneels on the floor and takes me in his arms. “I hope you understand.”
Tears begin to roll down my cheeks as I put my arms around him. “I can sympathize with your agony, Leon, though I can’t understand how a legacy can mean so much to anyone.”
No, I can’t grasp the hold a legacy has on people like Leon. The weight it puts not only on his shoulders, but also in his spirit. Just as I couldn’t fully fathom Brent’s anguished preoccupation with justice and getting at the root of why people kill.
I realize, in a vague way, that the burden of legacy and knowing why people kill are as far apart as can be, but I think I understand passion, and both Brent and Leon possess it. Adam, my first boyfriend, didn’t. He was merely following a path laid out for someone like him. Not that it’s wrong to do so. But to me, there’s something noble about passion for something that’s outside of yourself; that’s bigger than yourself. How else can we elevate life from the ordinary?
Leon and I hold each other for a long while. Neither of us says anything more. Nothing more needs to be said. We quietly accept the burden that will soon tear us apart for good.
He doesn’t go to work that afternoon. We decide to drive towards the coast and along it, as far north as the late September light would let us. We don’t talk much. Leon has opened the car windows and the skylight, and we get lost in the cacophony that surrounds us. The car engine’s low hum. The occasional squawking of sea gulls. Gentle waves lapping on sandy shores sometimes broken by violent waves slapping on rocks. Dissonances that drown Leon’s anguish and my sorrow.
We stay at a roadside inn that evening. At dinnertime, we go to a restaurant the hotel manager tells us serves fish fresh off the fishing boats that day. The simply-grilled fish complimented by fries prepared from scratch lift our spirits a bit.
That night, we hold each other, but we don’t make love. The bed is firm and uncomfortable for Leon. Sleep claims my consciousness without effort. Hurting and anguish can take at least as much out of you as physical labor. In those periods of light sleep, I sense Leon turning and tossing next to me.
Back at Du Cœur, the gravity of Leon’s mood stays with me. Is it because loss is so personal that you can’t share it with other people? But Marcia doesn’t seem to notice my silence. She’s stopped talking about Brent, and I think she has her own concerns she prefers not to share with me. So, during break, we walk and make small talk.
*****
Leon and I have to part. And soon. As much as this recent crisis has drawn us closer together, I’m aware that the longer I stay with him, the deeper leaving will hurt. But he doesn’t say anything about me leaving, nor has he made any move to hint that I should go. I think we were getting used to each other’s company. Maybe that’s part of how love can last. The comfort of familiarity. The reassurance, the quiet acceptance that come with it.
I tell myself I must begin the process of ending our little experiment. We’ll both need to get back to the business of mundane daily living. I need to find a new apartment. This time, I can get a better one because I’m making more money than when I started my first cooking job. I have also saved up a few thousands from the months of living with Leon.
One morning, at breakfast, before we both go to our jobs, I bring the matter up.
“I have to move out soon, Leon. I’ve been looking for a new apartment and found one I’d like to check out.”
Leon looks up from his coffee and says, “No, don’t do that. I’ll move out. You stay here. I’m pretty sure I can go back to the Claremont Hills house because my father seems to have tired of his current mistress pretty fast. He’ll kick her out soon.”
“I don’t want charity, Leon,” I say with some vehemence. I take offense that he thinks he should “pay” me in some way for having lived with him.
“Gina, please. Don’t get me wrong. This isn’t charity or payment. I want to give you something of me. Something that can last. Unfortunately, this is all I have right now that I fully own, that I worked for to get. I have transferred the title of this condo to you.”
I stare at him, surprised at first; then, quickly, I scowl in dismay, “No, Leon! I can’t accept it. I won’t.”
“You must, because if you don’t, taxes won’t get paid, and the city will seize this property. It will be lost. So, you see, you’re not going to own it without responsibility. You’ll have to pay $15,000 annual property taxes, but I figure you can do that on your salary. There are utility bills to pay, but since you’re by yourself, it’s not much more than you might pay if you rent an apartment.”
I shake my head. “You’ve thought about all this, haven’t you?”
“Yes, I had a lot to sort out.”
“Why are you doing this Leon?”
“I’m not quite sure why. I just know I want to. Maybe I’m trying to alleviate my remorse. Maybe I don’t want you to ever forget me. I bought this condo to live in away from my family and before my father enticed me with the house on the Hills. This place means a lot to me. It is a haven. It means freedom. You’re the first woman I’ve ever truly cared for. I never thought I was capable of that. In learning how to care for someone else, I feel like I’ve also been set free.”
How depressing it is to hear Leon talk like that. I always thought his money gave him freedom most people wished they had. But it seems he is shackled by that money and the kind of person he has become because of it. I suppose it should make me feel good if it’s true that, in some little way, I have freed him from the shackles of money and legacy. But doesn’t every person have a natural ability to care or love someone else? Caring isn’t something you buy or trade for a legacy.
Leon’s lips twitch, in an attempt to smile. "Don’t look so sorry and sad for me. In choosing my legacy, I’m giving you up and selling my soul to my father, but I’ll have an obscene amount of money that will last a few lifetimes. I can easily get another haven like this one. Larger and more luxurious.”
“But your choice is making you so unhappy.”
Leon sighs. When he speaks, I sense an ominous note in his voice. “This is my destiny, I’m afraid. My father will get what he wants of me, but I’ll make him pay an exorbitant price.”
“I don’t think I’ll ever understand you, Leon. It seems to me you’re giving in to him, but you’re also thinking of getting back at him for it.”
He doesn’t answer right away. He’s clenching his teeth, and that look of suppressed anger brightens his eyes once again. Then with a sneer, he says, “That’s how it’s always been between the two of us. But I’ll win in the end. I’ll outlast him for sure. And he’ll leave a fortune that I can do with as I please. I know that bugs him like nothing else does. He’d take his money to the grave if he could.”
What could I say to words that speak of hate and revenge? I avert my eyes down to my hands, clasped together on top of the table. We sit in silence. Silence suits us. Soothes us. The Leon I had known was uneasy in silence. He broke it with words, with action.
It’s my turn to break it. Not because I’m uneasy, but because I think: Why not accept what he’s offering? I’ll never forget him. I don’t want to forget him. But I’m also practical. I doubt I can afford to keep this pricey piece of memory he’s offering me as his legacy.
"What if I take this place and sell it?"
"It’s yours. You can do what you want with it. Rent it, sell it, use the money to open that restaurant you’ve always dreamed of owning. All I want is for you not to forget me, to always remember I helped you make your dreams come true. That’s really what means a lot to me—to know that I made a difference in your life. A difference in the life of t
he only woman who’s ever really touched me. Who’s freed me up in some way from my family. I suppose, in a way, it’s a sort of legacy I’m leaving you."
A few days later, Leon is gone.
Exactly what I’ll do with his legacy, I haven’t decided yet. All I know is I can’t afford to live in it. Maintaining it means I have much less (or none at all) to put into the pot I’m saving for that distant future when I can open my own restaurant. Besides, it seems so lonely living too far away from where you see life, hear it, taste it, be a part of the chaos it can become every day.
I miss Leon. We’ve agreed to cut all ties to make it easier on both of us. But on days when I’m not at work, I half expect him to call me to tell me he’s found a hole-in-the-wall we should try out for lunch.
Before he walked out the door on the day he left, I kissed him all over his face. “I’ll never forget you, Leon and I won’t want to.”
He held me tight for a long time, then he said, “I’ll miss you, Gina. I’ll miss your passion. Your refreshing innocence. The fact that you taught me I can love. But I can’t help who I am.”
24
Is it strange that loss can make you reluctant to share your feelings and thoughts with another, even your best friend and your mother? But maybe that’s just me. I haven’t told anyone that it’s over between Leon and me.
I’m conscious that, nowadays, something about me is quieter. I talk less, force my smiles, and seek quiet things—soft music, books and movies about women searching for themselves, pictures of solitary figures and calm nature scenes. It’s a new state of being that I find I’m comfortable with. But I haven’t lost my enthusiasm for concocting new and tasty dishes. I come alive at the kitchen in Du Cœur. It’s the source of my pleasure. A balm to my bruised self. Food for my spirit. As I give myself fully to this act of creating food that nourishes others, I also feed my soul.
As is my habit, I check my snail mailbox for letters before I go to work. These days, it’s Leon’s mailbox. I suppose it’s mine now. But no one will be sending me any mail here. No one but my family has this address. And no one in my family is a letter-writer. Leon asked me to forward any mail that looks important to the house on the Hills.
