by Deb Caletti
I wait until I'm out of the driveway and around the corner before I start shifting gears and thinking about seeing Sebastian. I have this ever-so-slight backstage-mind thought that Mom will pick up on my guilt somehow, my lying vibes. As I head for the bookstore, though, I have a huge natural-disaster wave of nerves. Are my jeans too casual after all? I don't want to seem like that's all I wear. Or too schoolgirl. He'd maybe been married, and I had barely kissed anyone on a date to the movies. In terms of our life experience, we really were from two 145
different worlds. I start to get that foolish feeling, where you're embarrassed at yourself and haven't even done anything too stupid yet. Anticipatory humiliation. And I was going saintless--
I'd left without even lighting Raphael or anyone else.
Seattle has two lakes right inside the city--one, Lake Union, where Sebastian lives, and the other, Greenlake, where Armchair Books is. Greenlake is small, about three miles around, and people go there to jog, walk, swim, lounge on the grass, and walk their dogs. Cozy businesses dot one end of the lake; peaked-roof houses in various shapes surround it. If you keep driving south, you'll eventually hit the zoo. Armchair Books is tucked between a bakery and a place that rents bikes. It's small and narrow, and an armchair is painted on the front window. I can see a fireplace inside, a couch and two plump chairs in front of it, and a large braided rug on the floor.
The store hours are listed on the door, and I have a plunge of disappointment when I see them.
The store closes at nine, and it's eight already. It's going to be a short date. But what did I expect, anyway? He probably needs to get home to Bo. He has just a few more demands on his time than an upcoming history test.
I push open the door, and the bells on the handle jangle. It's quiet in there, only the voice of some old jazz singer softly playing in the background. There's just one customer that I can see, a man with a backpack who doesn't look up from the book he's perusing when I come in. The fire is lit, and there is the nice, warm smell of coffee and cinnamon and bread, probably from next door.
The ceiling is high, and books rise up along the walls, reached by rolling library ladders, and where there aren't books there are posters, pictures of authors, I guess--I recognize 146
Hemingway in his big beard and wooly sweater--and scenes of Paris bookstalls and quotes about the pleasures of reading. The building is long and thin, with a winding staircase that leads to a second level. A set of doors to one side opens to the bakery, dark now, but which I can see has a few tables and chairs, and a large glass cabinet.
I pretend to look at books in that slow, meandering way that bookstores require, all the while looking casually around for Sebastian. I consider going in and out the front door again to make the bells jangle some more, and would have if the man with the backpack hadn't been there.
I wander; I tuck myself between two rows not far from the register. I am staring with Academy Award-winning interest at a shelf of books when I hear my name.
"Jade?"
And there he is, Sebastian, with his dark curls and dark eyes, in a nubby brown sweater and jeans.
Comfy, happily worn student clothes. "Hi," I say. "This is a really nice place."
"We've got many fine gardening books," Sebastian says.
I look at him, puzzled, and he gestures toward the books I'm staring at: Tips for Northwest Gardeners. Terrace Gardening. How to Garden at Night--okay, that one wasn't there, but you get the idea.
"I may be a little nervous," I say.
"Okay, I'm really glad you said that, because I just went to the back room to put on more deodorant," Sebastian says. He flaps his arms a bit. "I probably shouldn't even have told you that.
Those aren't the things you're supposed to admit."
"No, I'm glad," I say. I am glad too. I thought of my own car-freshening, and this makes me happy. If nothing else, we have
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sneak deodorant swiping in common. His nervousness calms me.
The bells on the door ring again, and Sebastian takes my elbow. "I'm sorry--do you mind? I've got another hour, and then it's just us. I've got to do some restocking, but we won't have customers." I get a shot of happy, a direct injection to my veins.
"It's all good. I don't mind at all. Do what you need to," I say. I try not to grin like an idiot. "I've got all these gardening books to get through."
I like the way Sebastian looks behind the counter, the way the big lady with the canvas book bag who just walked in asks him questions that he seems to have the answers to. I like the way he rings up the man-with-the-backpack's purchase, and talks to him about the weather. I like that when an old man with a shiny bald head comes in, he knows Sebastian's name, and Sebastian knows his. More than anything, I like just being there while he works, doing what he knows to do, in his own place. A place that I now know is his own place. I like the way he looks my way and rolls his eyes or twirls a pen between his fingers to make me smile. I could have gone home right then, and it would have been the best date I ever had.
A little after nine, Sebastian takes a ring of keys to the door and locks it. The jazz singer is still singing over the speakers, but it feels suddenly quiet. Sebastian turns the sign to CLOSED, looks out onto the empty street.
"I like this time of night," he says. I can see his reflection in the glass. It is the red-jacket boy that I remember, the one who has big thoughts to think, decisions to make. It is the same red-jacket boy who comes to the zoo at night, who I now know works in a bookstore with posters of Paris on the walls and too
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many gardening books, with customers who call him by name.
"Okay, now for the fun part of the date," he says. "This is pathetic, because now I have to restock." Sebastian runs his hand over his forehead and through his hair.
"Let me help," I say.
"You want to?"
"Sure."
"All right," he says. Til be back in a sec." He disappears through a doorway in the rear of the store. Suddenly, the music changes. It's cranked up. The kind of rock that's all guitars and energy and lyrics with a message. "God, that jazz puts me to sleep," he says. We work together.
Sebastian shows me how to check the computer for sales, how to fill the empty spots where the books are leaning lazily against each other. The music keeps us moving fast. When we are done, Sebastian looks around.
"Man, we did that in record time," he says. "Thanks to you.
"It was fun," I say.
"You're kidding, right? You, who gets to work with amazing, fantastic creatures?" "No, I really liked it."
Sebastian looks at his watch. "It's early, still," he says. "I'm not expected back until eleven thirty or so. It's my late night. Can you stay? This is the time I was hoping for."
"Sure," I say.
"Okay. Great. All right. Come here," he says. He takes my arm, leads me to the reading area by the fireplace. "Have a seat. I'm going to get us something."
I sit down on the couch, all old soft leather, and it's like
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sinking into an oversize baseball mitt. The fire is in front of me, still blazing, and I notice for the first time that it's electric, which explains the lack of firewood and the ever-glowing flame.
Sebastian trots to the back room again, changes the music. A woman singing, quieter, the voice of creamy liquid poured over ice. Then he heads through the doors to the dark bakery. He disappears from sight, and I look out the window. The street is quiet and it is beginning to rain.
Drops patter against the glass, making me feel warm and tucked inside. I can hear dishes clattering from the bakery, and then the crashing sound of metal falling.
"Shit," Sebastian says.
"Are you all right?" I call.
"Aside from the broken foot," he yells back, but his voice is cheerful.
He appears a moment later, carrying a tray. He sets it down on the table in front of the couch.
Two mugs, filled high with whipped cream, a plate with a pas
try--a strawberry tart of some kind-
-and two forks.
"Wow," I say. "What's this?"
"Something for hanging out with me at work on a Saturday night when you could be at a party, or something," he says. I remember, suddenly, that I actually am supposed to be at a party. I feel sorry for the people there. That life seems far away, and the memory of it annoys me. It intrudes, same as the phone ringing during a really good movie.
"I don't really like parties," I say. "Actually."
Sebastian hands me a cup. Hot chocolate with whipped cream, or, rather, whipped cream with a little hot chocolate. It seems another good reason to be falling in love with 150
Sebastian. He knows how to get the balance right.
"I don't really like them either," he says. "All that phoniness. Pretending you're not uncomfortable. I can do it, I just don't like it. And drunks never look good to anyone except other drunks. You've got to have a bite of this. It's my favorite thing over there." He taps the plate with his fork.
He's right, it's incredible. Buttery, and the bright sweet-sour of strawberry, and thick vanilla custard. "Oh, yum," I say.
"Isn't it?"
"The best." I put my fork down. Maybe it's the faux fire and the rain and the sinking couch, I don't know. Or maybe it's his soft clothes and warm eyes, but I'm just comfortable there with Sebastian. Some guys give you the edgy feeling of dogs behind chain-link fences, and some give you the nervousness of high heels you're not used to. But Sebastian--he makes me feel like I just buried my nose in warm laundry. It gives me a casual bravery--not how I'd be with anyone at school. With Sebastian, I am new.
"Okay," I say. "Here's what I know about you. Your name. That you work in a nice place and know a lot about books. That you have a son; that you appreciate elephants and live in a houseboat with your grandmother that you call by her first name."
"Tess isn't the type you call 'grandmother,'" he laughs. "She sounds unusual."
"That's one way to put it. She raised my mother and my aunt by herself, used to have a community theater . . . But she's always been an activist. Give her a cause, she's happy.
Old-growth forest--great. Picketing the NRA--no problem."
"Wow," I say.
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"Tess is one to get carried away. She once led this secret uprising to switch the voice boxes of Barbies and G.I. Joes. When they hit the shelves, G.I. Joe said, 'Let's go shopping!' and Barbie said, 'The enemy must be overtaken.'"
I laugh. "No way."
"Yes way. Sex-role stereotyping in children's toys, all that. She calmed down for a while when she hooked up with Max. Weaver. You ever heard of him by chance?" I shook my head. "He used to run the Iditarod. He was an early climber of Everest, too. Great man. She was peaceful with him. But he died last year. Lung cancer. He didn't even smoke."
"I'm sorry."
"Me too. I think Bo gives her a distraction from her grief."
"I'm sure." We sit quiet for a moment. "So, what else is there to know about you?" I ask.
He sips his chocolate. He has cream on his upper lip. "That's a big question," he says. "Although maybe not so big. I wish I had more to say. Mostly, I'm all about Bo right now. I'm Bo's father. It freaks me out to say it sometimes. I'm someone's father. God. It shouldn't be allowed. But you have a baby and they take over your world. One little person and ..." He put his palms down, gestured a spreading, a widening. "Your whole life."
"Was he planned?"
"Oh, shit, no," Sebastian says. He half laughs, runs his hand through his curls again. "When I found out... I thought my life was ruined. I was pissed, scared . . . Man, so scared, I cannot tell you. I was ready to start college ..."
"Did you ever consider other ..." I looked around for the right word. "Options?"
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"I would have, absolutely, only I didn't know she was pregnant until too late. She hid it from me.
Everyone. Herself." She. Bo's mother. I wonder where she is. Who she is. "Now that Bo's here, I can't imagine him not here. The first time I saw him, man, that was it. Something happens to you I can't explain. But then, I was ready to start college ..."
"You were just out of high school?"
"Just finishing. I wasn't even eighteen."
Quick math calculations. Sebastian is somewhere around twenty. We have a two-year difference, no big deal. Not to me. But with me still being in high school and him with a child, we are a lifetime apart.
I decide to let him know, get it over with. "That's where I am," I say. "It's hard to imagine dealing with that now."
"Oh, yeah?" Sebastian says. "I thought you were older." So that's that, I think. I consider taking a last swig of chocolate and heading out. What was I thinking ? He had a baby. I had a locker.
But Sebastian seems to have moved on from our age difference just fine. "You seem older," he says. "Maybe it's the way you care for the elephants."
"I graduate in June," I say. Might as well hammer a few nails into the coffin lid.
Sebastian holds his mug between his hands. His elbows rest on his knees. "Are you going away to college?"
"Probably not. Probably here. Is college out for you now?"
"I hope not. I wanted to study architecture. Want. When Bo gets a little older ... I can't burden Tess too much. It wouldn't be right."
I sip my chocolate. The mother question is there again--I
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can almost feel it. It is the rain on the windows, though, the music, the feeling of being in a cocoon, that makes me slip off my shoes and tuck my feet under me and ask. There is nothing like safety to make you feel bold, I was learning. "What about Bo's mom? Can she help you?"
"She's ..." It almost seems as if he has to think about this. "Dead. Died."
He gets up from the couch. Walks to the window. Folds his arms around himself.
"Oh, my God," I whisper. Oh, my God, oh, my God. He hadn't wanted to talk about it, and now I know why. Shit, that explains things. And I had to go and open my big mouth. I could be so stupid. I could be so bad at reading signs. My instinct spoke in a foreign language.
"Yeah," he says.
"What happened?" I whisper. This--it requires soft voices. I feel sick with horror. He doesn't speak for a while. "She died. . . . Childbirth," he says finally. "Oh, my God," I say. "Yeah."
Childbirth. Oh, God, how awful. How traumatic. How rare was that? And what guilt he must have. I can't take it in. I can't picture his life. It's like seeing some disaster on TV. The words go in, even the pictures, but there's no way to grasp it and make it real. Real tragedy, not the kind of my imagination.
"I'm so sorry," I say.
"Can we . . . talk about something else?" Sebastian says to the window. "You know ..." "I am so sorry," I say.
"It's . . . what happened." He stares into the street. "I just the nature of jade 154
want to say one more thing," he says at last. A gust of wind blows the trees outside, and splats of rain hit the window. I picture people under umbrellas on the grounds of a cemetery. "This thing that happened between Tiffany and me ..."
Tiffany. A real girl. "With white-blond hair . . .
"Getting pregnant and all . . ." Sebastian crosses his arms, looks up at the ceiling for a moment.
"I didn't go around doing that, you know, having sex with people. Tiffany . . . She was someone I loved since I was like, eleven. Her parents were really overbearing. They put all this pressure on her. She would cry and tell me about it and I would just break in half. This sad, beautiful little person I wanted to watch over. She said when she was with me was the only time her life was true. When we finally got together, I mean really got more serious ..."
"It's all right," I say. I don't know what is all right. Nothing, really.
"We don't know each other, but I don't want you to get the wrong idea about me because of Bo.
Me having Bo. 'Getting a girl pregnant'--I mean, it sounds like someone who's this ... I didn't even go on dates."
"I ap
preciate your telling me. I didn't think that, anyway. ..."
"You--you're like the only other one I've even noticed."
I don't say anything, mostly because my insides are tangled. Sad, happy, heavy, dancing. I want to cry. I want to smile.
"When that baby elephant put his trunk up to your hair, and you kind of pulled back, surprised ...
And then you rubbed his trunk. Her trunk. It was really ..."
"I UJOS surprised. . . ."
"Caring," he says.
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"You can't not love them," I say.
"Oh, I'm sure some people could manage," he says. "Most people, it seems like they've only got one part of the equation down. Caring for themselves, or caring for someone else. And I've learned how important it is to have both. I don't know. . . . Look, I'm sorry about all the deep talk for one night. I feel like a fuck-up. First date, and I make you work in the store and then we discuss these things, and I don't even take you to the movies or something. And I don't even know your last name. ..."
"DeLuna," I say.
"Jade DeLuna. God, that's pretty," he says. "It fits you. I'm so glad to know, because it's been bugging me. One of those things you're embarrassed to ask after too much time passes.
Something I should have found out a while back."
"Like how old Bo is," I say.
"Fifteen months," he says. "Tess tells me we stop counting his age in months after a year and a half. If not, he'll be five and we'll still be saying he's sixty months."
"Yeah, that might embarrass him."
"That's supposed to be part of the job, right? I'm looking forward to that."
"My mother was great at it," I say. "She brought me my lunch once, when I forgot. I was a sophomore. She came to my math class."
"Ouch," Sebastian laughs, and then we are off, talking and laughing, and things are easy and there are no sudden roadblocks. We are in front of a blazing faux fire, surrounded by books, the reflection of the streetlights showing on the wet pavement outside. Later, he reaches for my stockinged feet, puts them in his lap.
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And that hand on my foot--just that, is one of those uncommon moments, those times when you don't wish for something else, for even one thing to be different; when you have no other needs and no worries, where your insides are calm, and everything you were ever restless about, anything that had ever given you angst, is quieted to stillness. No steel ball in your chest, no breathless fear. No blue numbness of nearly passing out, no nagging doubts of the backstage mind. All of that, forgotten. It is just rightness, so rare.
