“Do you want to do something after?” He was very direct, Celia thought, and a little nervous.
“What did you have in mind?”
“We could take a walk, if it’s not too cold. There’s a park a few blocks away.”
“You know this neighborhood?”
“Yeah, I live on the next street over. You know the Tudor house with the wood shingles that curl under the eaves?”
“You live there? That house is beautiful.”
“It’s all right. Sometimes I wish it were larger. But you’re free after?”
“Sure.” Celia smiled. He gave a half smile back, and she enjoyed the feeling she had spent a lot of time trying to recapture during the last few months—the warm buzz that flowed through her when his strong features softened even a little. “I’ll come back at five.”
“You’re sure? It won’t be two months from now?” She wondered if she was crossing a line, but he chuckled.
“I’m sure. I’ll see you at five.” Once again he made a quick exit, and Celia wondered if he really would come back. When she turned to find that Lippa had observed the exchange from the end of a row of shelves, she laughed in spite of herself.
“It’s been months, and you don’t know him any better?” Lippa asked, approaching.
“That’s the first time I’ve seen him since the last time he was here!” Celia said.
“Well, you two are not setting any records, are you?” Lippa teased. She pulled out a pack of gum and offered a piece to Celia. “This is the only thing that keeps me from smoking.” Celia accepted, and they folded strips of chewing gum into their mouths.
“I wanted to ask you, you said before—do you really think being old and mysterious is bad?”
“What did I say?” Lippa looked blankly at her.
“‘When you are young and mysterious, men write songs about you. When you are old and mysterious, boys throw stones at you.’ ”
“I said that? Hm.” Lippa thought for a moment. “Well, it sounds good. But it’s not true. No one has ever thrown stones at me. Has anyone ever written a song about you?”
“Not that I know of,” Celia said.
“And we’re both rather mysterious, aren’t we? So it can’t be true at all.” Lippa smiled benevolently at her, nudging Celia’s elbow. Then she turned to go back to the office.
During the rest of her shift, Celia became nervous about meeting Tomasi. She really didn’t know much about him. She wanted to trust her instinct that he was a good guy, and Lippa seemed to approve of him. But he was big and strong, and he had been missing for months, and Regine’s cautionary words lingered in her mind. Celia couldn’t banish the thought that she would be taking a risk by going somewhere secluded with him.
“It’s a little cold for a walk. Do you mind if we just get cider at that place across the street?” she asked when he came back to meet her. He didn’t seem crazy about the idea, but her face must have betrayed her hesitation, because he gave in.
When they settled at a table, he looked out the window, and then said, “I’m sorry for disappearing.”
“I’ve never met someone and then had him disappear before,” she said. “It was strange. But it sounds like you have a very good excuse.” Celia sipped hot cider, and she pulled apart a small cake encrusted with currants, pushing the plate to the center of the table. Tomasi looked at it curiously and then took a small piece.
“That’s good. So, how’s Diaboliques?”
“It’s exactly the same. I think that place is frozen in amber. Not that I mind, because I love it, but it’s so consistent. People stand in the same places. They dance to the same songs. When Patrick plays something new, within a few weeks it’s like he’s been playing it forever. People pounce on it, and memorize it, and it’s completely absorbed. Halloween was really beautiful.”
“I miss it.”
“Well, you should come back,” Celia said. “I had gotten used to you being there on the other side of the room, staring.”
“Your weird sisters are still being overprotective?”
“They haven’t had any reason to be protective since you’ve been gone, but I think it’s time for that to stop anyway. Marco said they were jealous you were paying attention to me.”
“Oh really?” Tomasi’s eyebrow went up.
They looked at each other until she couldn’t stand the silence. “I read The Awakening,” she said. “Twice. It’s amazing. Thank you so much for recommending it. My friends Liz and Regine both read it, too, and I think Ivo might have.”
“I’m glad you liked it. It is a completely different perspective on being a woman—so many other women in literature stay within the boundaries that are set for them.” It surprised Celia to hear him speak like that. Over the past months she had remembered only his clipped sentences.
“Will you recommend something else? I’ve read a few other things, but it’s so hard to choose. I’m still overwhelmed every time I look through the shelves.”
He thought for a moment. “Have you read Henry James yet?”
“No, but we have a lot of him at the store,” Celia said. “And my friends love to quote him about being a person on whom nothing is lost.”
“Try The Portrait of a Lady. I’m thinking of it because it’s probably the best female character I’ve ever read who’s been written by a man. So it goes along with the theme, kind of.”
“I will get it on Tuesday, when I work again.” Once more they looked at each other for a long moment. Celia felt herself grow bolder. She studied his face as though she were preparing to draw it. This time he lost the staring contest and drank from his mug. “So, you must read a lot, then?”
“I wasn’t always a reader,” he said. “In fact, I used to have a lot of trouble reading. They thought I had a learning disability, but, well, I figured it out, and then I caught up quickly. My mother was a literature major in college, and we have so many books at home. There was a time when I was getting grounded a lot, so I started reading for something to do.”
“Grounded?” Celia quickly added, “I don’t want to pry.”
“My parents are pretty strict, and when I was struggling in school, they thought I was just being lazy.” Tomasi sounded resigned about it all.
“Well, if you came out of it having read so many books . . . I should read more.”
“Books are my best friends and my worst enemies at the same time,” he said a little wistfully.
“Do you have a lot of friends? I mean, people?”
“Not really. Can’t you tell?”
“A little. But you don’t seem to be shy with me.”
“Maybe because you’re not shy with me, either,” he said, and she got to see his half smile again. “I’ve been told I can look a little intimidating.”
“Where do you go to school?”
“St. Dymphna’s. It’s a great education, but everything else is kind of a drag.”
“What year are you?”
“Junior.”
“So you’re sixteen?”
“Seventeen. Except in old Father William’s class, where we’re all twelve.” Tomasi grimaced. “How about you?”
“I’m a sophomore at Suburban. I’ll be sixteen in April.”
“You seem older than that. More mature.”
“Well, most of my friends are older.”
“Are we friends?”
“I think so,” Celia said. “Now that you’ve reappeared, yes.”
She asked him more about having pneumonia, but his answers were vague, and she thought he sounded weary of the whole experience, so she let it go. She imagined him moping around the house, with only the sheets and his school assignments changing, and she thought it must be a relief for him just to be back in the real world. He quizzed her about the Rosary and she was happy to describe them to him.
Too soon it was time for her to head home for dinner. Outside the café Celia tried not to shiver in the winter air. She didn’t want her coldness to be the reason the
y said goodbye and broke this strange, lovely connection. He didn’t seem to want to part, either.
“So you’ll be at Diaboliques?” she asked.
“I hope so. My folks are still concerned about me going out. They’re scared I could relapse or something. It’s been a little suffocating. But I certainly hope so. Can I kiss you?”
Celia was caught off guard by his directness. Her feelings quickly sorted themselves, and desire triumphed over her lingering fears. “Yes,” she said. She put her hand on his arm when he touched her waist, and she did her best to kiss him back, though she thought he was a little unpracticed himself. But it was electric to her, and strange, and her sense of him as the Leopard returned.
Celia closed her eyes and had a flashback to a park her family had used to go to for cookouts. It was sequestered deep in a forest outside town, at the end of a gravel road that seemed to snake along for miles. In the park, trails through the trees gave way to rocky ridges and bluffs, but in its midst there was a massive power line draped across the terrain. Huge skeletal metal towers held the lines up, with rows of strange ceramic plates on each side where the wires hurdled across them. The trees had been cleared on either side of the lines, leaving a groove that ran through the forest and curved into the landscape. There was so much current in the wires, Celia could hear it humming a hundred feet above her. If she stood quietly she could hear the hum even back in the cookout area. She loved that park and its huge playground made of notched logs, with tire swings and a maze. But it felt a little dangerous, too—she never could forget completely the hum of the power line just beyond the trees. Her family would stay until dusk, when the park ranger started blowing his car horn in the parking lot, and then she would fall asleep in the back seat on the way home, happy and gently exhausted from the day. Tomasi’s kiss blended all those feelings together for her, all over again. Celia stepped closer to him, and he slipped his other arm around her back, but then someone was shouting his name and he pulled away.
“That’s my dad,” he said. He looked rattled, but before they turned away from each other he gave her his warmest smile yet.
The man strode forcefully across the street toward them. “What do you think you’re doing? Get home right now!”
Tomasi actually seemed to shrink as his father, who could have been a linebacker, got closer. “Go!”
Tomasi mumbled goodbye to Celia and walked across the street. His father stood guard as he passed, still facing Celia. “I don’t care who you are, but he is going to have nothing to do with you anymore!” His words were like a slap across her face, and she stared at him in shock. Then he turned and walked after Tomasi, who was already halfway down the block, and suddenly the enchanted evening was cold and lifeless.
She cried as she walked home, and her tears turned cold on her cheeks until she rubbed them away. The stars were dull in the sky.
CELIA SPENT THE NEXT FEW days putting the finishing touches on the rest of her portraits and mounting them in frames. She couldn't stop thinking about Tomasi and how their date had ended, but like so many things these days, she didn't know what she could do to make it better. Late in the afternoon on New Year's Day, Regine picked her up and they went over to Ivo and Liz's house. "I would say First Night is a tradition for us," Regine told her, "but next year everything will be different, so this may be the last time. I guess they'll probably come home from college for break, but who knows if it'll be the same." Her excitement bubbled over. "You are going to love their parents!
They were the last to arrive, and Celia finally got to traverse the ivy lawn and go inside the house she saw every morning before school. On the front door a bright brass plate had FOURAD engraved on it.
“I want everything in this house,” Regine whispered to her before Liz opened the door. From the moment she stepped inside, Celia could tell the Fourads shared a taste for the erudite and offbeat with their son and daughter. Everything was special, and carefully chosen. The jar next to the phone on the hall table held antique-looking mechanical pencils and fountain pens. The bulbs in the chandelier were the type that mimicked Edison’s originals, with oblong glass and glowing looped filaments. Celia admired framed prints in the hall, which she learned were created by people with intriguing names like Rauschenberg, Frankenthaler, and Diebenkorn, and she hoped to have the chance to examine a collection of beautiful old books she noticed as she passed the study.
They assembled in the family room, and Celia was presented to Mr. and Mrs. Fourad, who welcomed her warmly. If Celia had tried to imagine what Ivo and Liz would look like in twenty-five years, she would have guessed something very close to Mr. and Mrs. Fourad. They were darkly stylish and refined, and she could see aspects of Ivo and Liz in both of them. They had a whimsy about them, though, that Celia hadn’t found in their son and daughter. “I know your name isn’t exactly Cecilia, but do people sing you that Simon and Garfunkel song?” Mr. Fourad asked her.
“I’ve heard that a couple times.” She smiled.
“There’s a much better song, by the Motels, and it really is your name,” he said. “Celia, see what you’ve done, see what you’ve done to someone . . .” He sang the line easily, and she thought that she couldn’t remember ever having heard her own father sing anything, except to mumble “Happy Birthday” in a crowd.
“I don’t know that one.” She looked around, and the others didn’t seem to know it, either.
They approached the long, low dinner table, around which stood an assortment of upholstered chairs that were all different but somehow matched. Mrs. Fourad took the head, and Mr. Fourad the foot, and the Rosary filled in the sides. Celia found herself between Brenden and Marco, which pleased her.
“What is this music?” Marco asked. “It’s beautiful.”
“I’m glad you like it!” Mrs. Fourad beamed. “It’s Vivaldi, and it’s sung by a countertenor.”
“That’s a man singing?”
“Yes! I had this same conversation when I heard it the first time. When I was in Paris last August, I heard it in a store.”
“A music store?”
“No, a clothing store. Should I tell this story? You have to know it’s there. From the outside it looks like a private residence. But if you ring the bell, they buzz you in. You step into this dark hallway, and while your eyes are adjusting, a pleasant, soft-spoken person approaches you and asks you to turn off your cell phone. Can you imagine?” Mrs. Fourad looked around at them amusedly.
“And the whole place is dark?”
“In that hall it is, but you follow the salesperson farther in and it opens up into this raw space, with exposed stone and brick, and ancient rafter beams, and a few skylights way up in the roof, and it looks like it hasn’t changed since the French Revolution. But there are racks and racks of the most exquisite clothes. I spent an hour looking at things, and I wound up buying that gorgeous hammered silk blouse I wore on Thanksgiving, you remember?” she asked Liz, who nodded. “At any rate, they were playing this music in the store, and I couldn’t believe it was a man singing. They were nice enough to write the name of the recording down for me, and I picked it up first chance I got.”
“That doesn’t sound anything like any store I’ve ever been in,” Marco said.
“When I got back out on the street, I felt like Alice, fresh back from Wonderland.”
“I want to go to Paris,” Brenden said.
Mr. Fourad said, “It’s so fun to find things like that—things a guidebook wouldn’t tell you. Do you remember that door we found on the Aventine Hill in Rome?” He asked his wife, who nodded enthusiastically. “We were on our way to hear these monks sing vespers at St. Anselmo’s, and we got there a little early, so we were strolling around the neighborhood, and there are all these high walls outside the private homes. Well, for some reason I decided to look through the keyholes of these huge doors in the walls—they’re eight or nine feet tall—to see what was inside.”
“You’re lucky you didn’t get arrested!” Liz said.
“If they didn’t want people looking through the keyholes, they wouldn’t put them there.” Mr. Fourad said it as if it were the most obvious thing in the world, and everyone laughed and protested. “Anyway, there wasn’t much to see through most of them, only a glimpse of a house or a car. But I looked through another one and there was this view down a gravel walk, with a row of topiaries on either side, and at the end, framed like a picture, was the dome of St. Peter’s! It was like looking into a snow globe. I nearly fell over. And then of course I made her look.”
“So you should go to Rome, too.” Mrs. Fourad smiled at Brenden.
Celia looked around her friends, feeling almost like an adult, sitting at this table, speaking of art and travel and ideas, and she felt their shared dream of always having new adventures, as long as they lived. If Celia’s July self wouldn’t have recognized her September self, she would have been completely flummoxed to see herself now, in January. The thought made her smile.
They reminisced about the previous semester, and Celia was grateful no one brought up curses or virginity. But Liz took pleasure in telling her parents about Celia’s mysterious admirer. “He was beautiful, and he would stare at her so intently. Then he showed up at the bookstore where she works—he’s the one who recommended that awesome book, The Awakening. And then he disappeared.” It was gratifying to hear someone else describe Tomasi as beautiful. From the beginning Celia had been struck by him, but it was only recently, when she had glimpsed his nervous, softer side, that she really had considered how handsome he was. She wondered again what had happened when he had returned home after their star-crossed date.
Mrs. Fourad said, “Well, as literary as he is, and as laconic, he sounds like quite the Lord Byron: a little mad, bad, and dangerous to know? How very romantic, maybe in a tragic way. What do you think, Celia?”
“That sounds about right.” She smiled, thinking there was no point in telling them about her recent encounter with Tomasi. Mrs. Fourad had described it perfectly, without even realizing it.
After dinner they helped clear the table, but Mrs. Fourad shooed them away from trying to wash the dishes. Celia watched everyone wander in different directions. Ivo and Brenden began looking through Mr. Fourad’s record collection, and Regine tagged along. Liz asked Marco to look at a blouse she wanted him to tailor. Celia was standing in the family room paging through a book of Edward Steichen’s photographs when Mr. Fourad found her. “I don’t know what I did with that Motels album. I hate when I lose things in my record collection—it could be anywhere.” He smiled helplessly. “If I find it I’ll send a copy along with Ivo and Liz for you.”
The Suburban Strange Page 16
