ODD NUMBERS

by M. Grace Bernardin

  “Ah, see, I picked a lucky piano,” he said, a sudden smile of surprise spreading across his face as he spied the sheet music before him. “Debussy’s Claire de Lune. It was the piece I played in my last recital.”

  “Let’s hear it, hot shot.” With that Frank took a deep breath, locked his fingers together and stretched them until Vicky heard them crack. He carefully positioned his fingers on the keys and began to play.

  The sound of his playing transported Vicky into that same world of sweet ecstasy she visited briefly outside his door on the night their friendship began. She moved carefully and quietly over to him and sat down slowly, with great decorum and restraint so as not to disturb him, on the corner of the piano bench. It didn’t seem to bother him, her being there. At that moment Vicky was oblivious to everything but Frank. She watched his fingers move back and forth over the keyboard, she was so closely aware of his breathing that it seemed she was breathing right along with him. Most notable of all was his face, filled with an expressiveness Vicky had never seen. She’d seen him jovial and outgoing, with that intelligent good humor and wit. She’d seen him thoughtful and good mannered, ever the gentleman. And she’d seen his darker side; stern, intolerant, and angry. But she’d never seen this before; tenderness with a subdued passion just barely peeking out every now and then. It was something akin to love, she guessed, all of these emotions she read on his face. She wanted to put her arms around him, to rest her head on his shoulder but she knew it would disturb his playing. When he finished he turned and looked at her, and for a moment it was just the two of them inhabiting the planet all alone and undisturbed. The brief spell was quickly broken by the sound of the salesman’s applause.

  “Bravo,” the salesman shouted and Vicky joined in with the applause adding the sound of cheers and whistles.

  “See you weren’t as rusty as you thought you’d be. Did it all come back to you like riding a bike?”

  “Actually yes,” Frank said with surprise.

  “Sir, may I honestly say that I don’t know if you need lessons. It seems to me you’ve already had sufficient training. I think your skills are more advanced than what the instructor I recommended is accustomed to working with. Perhaps you need to work with someone more advanced. You say it’s been years since you played?”

  “I play maybe once a year, when I go home to visit family. My father has an old baby grand which belonged to his father.”

  “You need to play more. You have a real gift,” the salesman said.

  “It’s what I keep telling him,” Vicky said. “And I never even heard him ‘til today, but I knew it. I just knew it.”

  “Well,” Frank said, hesitating, as he stood up and pulled the business card out of his wallet. “I’d still like to give this instructor a call, if for no other reason than to have a chance to play on a weekly basis.”

  “You know with your ability you really ought to own one,” the salesman said with a gleam in his eye as if his fruitless day may suddenly pay off after all.

  “I really can’t afford one right now. Thank you anyway.” Frank smiled politely and zipped his jacket with certain finality, to let the salesman know their conversation had come to a close. He then took hold of Vicky’s elbow and tried to steer her away. “We really need to go,” Frank said to her with raised eyebrows and a tense smile. “Goodbye and thank you.” Frank put his arm around Vicky’s shoulder and hurried her toward the door.

  “We’ll be back,” Vicky called out to the salesman.

  “Boy, you are one expensive date,” Frank said as soon as they got outside. The sun peeked out from behind the winter clouds as they walked at a slower pace making their trek toward Frank’s car and their next destination, wherever that might be.

  “Do you have any idea how much one of those things costs?” Frank asked, his arm no longer around Vicky’s shoulder but tight against his body, his hands in his pocket. It seemed to Vicky he was feeling the cold more intently than she was.

  “Francis darling, it’s an investment, like my education.”

  “No, it’s not the same thing.”

  “If I’d known that I wouldn’t have let you buy my books.”

  “Nonsense, Vicky that was my pleasure. I can afford a few books. I just can’t afford a piano right now. ”

  “I know, but still it doesn’t seem fair somehow.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Vicky didn’t reply right away. She waited until they got to Frank’s car, so they wouldn’t be moving, so she could turn and face Frank, so she could look at him eye to eye, human to human, soul to soul.

  Ever the gentleman, Frank escorted Vicky to the passenger side of his car.

  “You helped me out with my investment,” she turned and said to him before his hand could reach the door handle. “I just wish there was some way I could help you out with yours.”

  “Forget it,” he said opening the car door. “A cad like me needs to do something nice for someone else every now and then. How else am I going to redeem myself?”

  “You already have. But then again maybe you haven’t. Don’t stop trying anyhow. You just don’t have to try that hard.” She playfully elbowed him in the ribs and it made him laugh.

  Vicky took one step into the car and immediately Frank was assisting her.

  “I’m not an invalid, you know,” Vicky protested as Frank made sure she didn’t bump her head getting in. He pulled the shoulder strap over her and pushed the metal buckle into its sheath with a click. Vicky was uncomfortable with this sudden and unexpected closeness of proximity.

  Frank smiled and quickly kissed her on her scarred cheek on his way out. The kiss stunned her. She touched her cheek as if she’d just received a wound.

  Chapter 21

  It was hot in the little apartment from all the cooking; the biscuits baking in the oven and the chicken frying in the skillet, which Vicky turned over one piece at a time with a pair of metal tongs. She turned the heat down on the burner and wiped the sweat from her brow, examined the corn and the green beans on the back burner and gave them a quick stir with a long handled wooden spoon.

  “Phew, it’s hot in here,” Vicky said as she reached into a drawer just off side of the stove for her potato masher. Indeed, it was one of the first warm days of spring. A welcome breeze blew in through the screen door that led out to Vicky’s patio and brought with it the distinct smell of spring with its fresh air, rain, and faint fragrance of honeysuckle. So much was changing; the earth, the weather, and Vicky. “Our blood’s still gotta thin out before we become accustomed to the heat again.”

  “Thin out? This is something your grandmother told you, isn’t it?” Frank said, stepping behind Vicky as she pushed the potato masher into the hot steaming pot.

  “You’re getting to know me, Francis.”

  “So what did Grandma say?”

  “Grandma said your blood thickens up in the winter to help you stay warm. Now I don’t know if that’s a scientific medical fact but it makes sense. Don’t you think?”

  “Who am I to argue with Grandma’s medical knowledge? Her whiskey and honey mixture fixed me up just fine when I had bronchitis.”

  “Fixed you up just fine now, did it? You know, you’re starting to talk like me.”

  “And you’re starting to talk like me.”

  “Yes, King’s English and all that rot,” Vicky said in a mock British accent. “Anyhow, the whiskey and honey mixture was just a standby really. Grandma always said the best cure for a cough was bark from a black gum or wild cherry tree.”

  “I’ll remember that next time I have a cough. Instead of going to the drugstore I’ll go to the park and peel some bark off a tree. So what do you do with this bark; chew it, smoke it, what?”

  “You boil it in water and drink it, you ignoramus.” Vicky said carelessly grabbing a dishtowel and opening the oven door. She pulled the rack out and lifted the biscuits, only half aware that the worn through material of the dishtowel served as a poor protection from t
he hot pan.

  “Mmm, those smell good. Careful, you’ll burn yourself. Don’t you have any oven mitts around here?”

  “Naw, why should I? Don’t need them. Oh, that’s another thing about Grandma, she cured burns.”

  “Of course she did.”

  “Actually she’d take offense if I said it was her did the healing. She claimed it was the Lord, she was just a vessel used to draw the fire out.”

  “Draw the fire out?”

  “Right. This one time, I guess I was around seven or eight, I was at grandma’s house and she was ironing some clothes. I was running through the house being silly; grandma warned me to settle down but you know I was just a stupid kid. I tripped over the iron cord, fell to the ground, and this piping hot iron lands smack on my bare leg.”

  “Ouch!”

  “So grandma runs over to me, grabs the burnt leg, holds it up in the air and commences quoting bible verses. All the while she’s just a blowing on the burn. Says she’s got to blow the fire out ‘cause it’s still burning inside the skin. Says she’s gotta get it out before it burns all the way down to the bone. I can see her kneeling there beside me, frantic, just a prayin’ and a blowin, prayin’ and a blowin, then all at once she lets go my leg, breathes this big sigh of relief, and starts thanking and praising the Lord for the healing. Sure enough, my leg stops hurting right at that instant. ”

  “You’re kidding!”

  “I swear by my grandma’s grave.”

  “Move over Mayo Clinic. So then what happened?”

  “After that she put a little talcum powder on the burn. A few days later it dries up and peels off, never even left a scar. Anyhow Grandma said the devil was mad about my healing ‘cause the Lord done it – sorry – did it – so he was gonna try and get me back somehow with fire. But she said not to fear ‘cause the Lord would be my protection. Since then I never burnt myself. Even if I touch the hot handle of a pot or pan, it’s like I got a callous right there protecting me, like some kind of protective shield clinging to the outer layer of my skin. I know it sounds weird. Unbelievable really, but true. You think I’m crazy, don’t you, or at least ignorant and superstitious?”

  “Vicky, since I met you I don’t know what to believe.”

  “I mean here I am reading the likes of Charlotte Bronte, Charles Dickens, and all them and I’m really starting to get it and enjoy it and yet a part of me is still so ignorant.”

  “You’re not ignorant and neither was your grandma. Obviously she knew something we don’t if she could cure a burn by blowing on it and quoting bible verses.”

  “So you do believe me?”

  “Yes, Vicky, I’m learning to believe things I can’t explain.”

  “And I’m learning to find a reason for things I believe. I don’t know, I think my brain’s changing. I think it’s from all the reading,” Vicky said, picking up a chicken leg with the tongs, examining it then placing it back in the bubbling grease.

  “Speaking of which, how’s Great Expectations coming along?”

  “Better. I only had to reread like maybe three or four paragraphs this last chapter. I didn’t have my usual trouble, you know, reading a whole page then wondering what the heck I just read.”

  “Good. So you’re getting it?”

  “I’m getting it. I think I’m getting smarter. At first I thought how am I gonna relate to this English dude who lived a hundred and fifty years ago. And the language is so different, you know, at first I had to reread a lot, but now I’m getting used to it, I’m getting into it. It’s like I’m inside Pip’s head and I totally relate to him.”

  “Oh, yeah? How so?”

  “He’s an orphan. All he’s really got in life is Joe, kinda like me and Bobby. I felt like him a lot growing up. And how about that crazy Miss Havisham and all the nutty head games she’s playing at poor old Pip’s expense. But the thing about Pip is he’s so alone.”

  “He’s an odd number.”

  “Yes, he’s an odd number. And I’m the only one privileged enough to get inside his head and hear his thoughts; just me, well and any ol’ person who happens to pick up the book and read it. And the thing is, by getting to know Pip and Jane Eyre and all them other folk I thought I wouldn’t have a thing in common with, I’m understanding myself better and I’m figuring out that we’re all more alike than we think. And I feel less like an odd number. Maybe we wouldn’t be so lonesome if we would just pour out our hearts and souls and share our stories with one another instead of walking around like we all got corn cobs stuck up our backsides and it hurts too dang much to smile at our fellow man.”

  Frank laughed as he reached for her and drew her into his arms. Vicky was taken by surprise at first until she got caught up in the laughter and began laughing too. She squeezed him tight and remembered how somewhere she’d heard, maybe from her grandma, that you could always tell how in love a couple was by how much they laughed when they were together.

  The embrace lasted longer than any other, even after the laughter subsided. It ended all at once and somewhat awkwardly, and Vicky thought it a shame that after her lengthy discourse on the benefits of opening up the heart and mind to others, she couldn’t let Frank know how much she loved him. No matter, she thought while Frank set the table in silence and she nervously hummed and whistled while stirring the contents of pots, placing chicken pieces on blocks of paper towels, sprinkling flour in the pan drippings, and stirring in milk to make gravy. No matter. She loved her Francis in private and was content to do so. She feared to expose such a love was to jinx it somehow.

  “Dinner’s ready. Now this is how we do it in the country,” Vicky said placing all the serving bowls and plates on the table. “It’s called self-service.”

  “You gotta observe country hospitality. You don’t grab, you pass. And your guest gets the first pick. Francis darlin’,” she said passing him the plate of chicken.

  “Thank you. This all looks delicious: an authentic country meal.”

  “About as authentic as you’re gonna get these days. For truly authentic it’d have to be game I killed and skinned myself, and instead of plain ol’ corn, maybe hominy.”

  “What is hominy anyway?”

  “Hulled corn with the shit boiled out of it.”

  “Hmmm. Maybe it was just your description of it, but somehow that doesn’t sound too appetizing. By the way, you owe me a quarter.”

  Vicky winced, then without a word she reached into her jeans pocket and retrieved the coin and put it on Frank’s placemat. Frank handed her the plate of chicken with a bemused smile. She handed him the bowel of mashed potatoes and the gravy boat. “Mr. Perfect,” Vicky said sticking her tongue out at him. “Your curse words ought to be worth fifty cents ‘cause they’re worse than mine. Least I don’t take God’s name in vain.”

  Frank heaped mashed potatoes onto his plate with a big grin. “So tell me.”

  “You’re changing the subject.”

  “You’re right. So tell me,” he said, pouring gravy over his potatoes then reaching for the corn, “have you actually killed, skinned, and cooked your own game?”

  “Well, heck yeah, city slicker! My Daddy used to take me hunting and fishing. It was the only time we ever really got along. I think he wished he had a son instead of me. Anyways, the first time I killed something I cried my eyes out. I remember it was a squirrel. I couldn’t look at it afterwards. I sure as heck couldn’t eat it. It was funny, you’d think my Dad would be all tough and Mr. Macho about it, but he was actually pretty cool. Said he cried the first time too. Said it’s all right if you kill for food. If you just kill for the fun and sport of it, it’s not right. Anyhow, Bobby told me some of the American Indians used to ask forgiveness from the animals after killing them, explaining to them that they needed the food for their family. When I learned that I felt a little better about it. Now fishing never bothered me quite so bad. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s because fish are cold blooded creatures. But to kill something warm blooded. It’s just
…” Vicky touched the scar on her cheek. “I don’t know.”

  “Vicky, how did you get that scar on your cheek?” He had seen her touch it. She wasn’t even aware that she had.

  “Barroom brawl,” she said, picking up the chicken breast she had placed on her plate and taking a large bite, large enough to occupy her mouth for a while why she considered just how far she would elaborate on this fib. “See, I was working at this really divey redneck joint…”

  “Don’t lie to me.”

  “Sorry. It just sounds more adventurous than to say I got it in a car accident.”

  “What happened?”

  “I had a run-in with providence.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Providence–that was the name of the street. I hit a street sign.” She said it nonchalantly then turned her attention to her plate and began working fork and knife together to create a large mound of corn kernels. She quickly put the forkful into her mouth. She would eat slowly. She would try to count to forty and make the bite last that long. She looked at him and shrugged like it was nothing.

  “How?”

  “I was trying to avoid this kid on a bike who pulled in front of me. I went up on the curb and hit this sign. It bent in half and came crashing through my windshield. It was pretty fierce. There was bits and pieces of glass all over my face, but what left this here scar was from the sign itself not the glass. It cut me. Damn near cut my head off. Oops, there goes another quarter,” she said retrieving the small spiral notebook from her pocket. “That’s twenty-five cents for the ‘D’ word,” she said writing in her notebook, her head bent down so that her hair fell strategically in front of her face. She shaded her eyes with her hand as she doodled in her notebook, pretending she was writing something. She didn’t want Frank to see her crying. Her jaws ached and her eyes burned as she swallowed back tears. ‘Help me,’ she wrote on the small page. Then she remembered she’d been forgiven. She scribbled some stars and a crescent moon and wondered if it really took. She believed it had. She believed. So why couldn’t she tell him?