Rufus + Syd

by Julia Watts

  Next he passed out blindfolds to everyone in the class—there are only about twelve of us, and I’m the only guy—and then he told us to draw what we saw in our mind’s eye. It was a fascinating exercise. And it will be interesting to see how many of us are still there tomorrow.

  But rather than focus on school—there’ll be plenty of time for that—I’d rather think about the upcoming weekend: on Sunday Josephine is taking me, Syd, and Cole to the High Museum of Art in Atlanta. Josephine says it’s about a two-and-a-half, three-hour drive, so she wants us to be ready to leave by 9:00 a.m. The museum opens at noon, and Josephine says we can stay three or four hours and then stop for supper on the way home. Mama and Daddy have agreed to let me go with one proviso: Mama wants me to see Dwight while we’re in Atlanta.

  At first I balked. “Aw, c’mon, Mama!”

  She just gave me that look of hers. Don’t you talk back to me, son. And then she added that she was going to bake some of Dwight’s favorite banana nut bread for me to hand deliver to him. “That way I’ll know for sure that you saw him.”

  After thinking about it and realizing there was really no way out, I called Dwight to set things up. He acted like we talk on the phone every day, when in fact it’s been eons.

  “Hey, Doofus.”

  I’ve always hated when he called me that, so I returned the favor.

  “Hey, Blight.” I did my best to avoid the small talk and told him the reason for my call.

  “I’m awfully busy with church activities every Sunday, little brother—you know that.”

  “Mama’s making her banana nut bread for you, big brother.”

  He hemmed and hawed and then finally said that he guessed he could fit me into his busy schedule very briefly, long enough just to say hello and pick up Mama’s gift.

  Thank God for the church! is what I wanted to say, but instead I told him that he’d have to come to the museum to meet us. “I can’t ask Josephine to go out of her way.”

  First he gave me a big sigh, and then he agreed. After that, having nothing left to say to one another, we hung up.

  I shudder at the thought of my friends meeting Dwight—especially Syd—but what was it some wise person said about not suffering future pain? That future will be here soon enough. And so I find myself in the unusual position of simultaneously looking forward to Sunday and also hoping it never comes.

  So far this week there have been no more incidents at school, fortunately, although I do feel pretty haunted and unsafe when I’m on campus. I’m probably growing a second pair of eyes in the back of my head. Maybe that’s something I’ll draw for Mr. Sloane!

  Just when I thought I wouldn’t be seeing Syd until Sunday, she called me on Wednesday right after school. She was crying and said she was having a hard time getting over Tara; she asked if I could come over.

  “Of course!” I said. I ran the whole way.

  Syd had composed herself by the time I got there, although I think this was the first time I’d ever seen her without her mascara on, which I’m guessing she had cried off and cleaned up. Even if she hadn’t told me that something was wrong, I would have known because the TV was on, and Syd almost never watches TV, especially during the day.

  I gave her a hug and stupidly asked how she was.

  She put her hands on her hips, cocked her head and said, “Just ducky, what do you think?”

  We sat on the sofa. A laugh track from some stupid sitcom, probably in reruns, punctuated our conversation.

  I put her head on my shoulder and caressed her hair. “I’m so sorry.”

  She closed her eyes. “Mmm, that feels nice.”

  We sat there for a while like that, with only the TV for sound and me petting Syd’s hair. But then there was the noise of a car pulling into the driveway.

  “Oh, shit!” Syd said, sitting up. “She’s home early.”

  Before I could even see her, Mrs. Simmons walked in shouting, “I got off early! Let’s par-tee, girl!”

  And then she saw us.

  “Well, lookee here, if it isn’t the little gay boyfriend!”

  “Be nice, Mom. Rufus, Sandee Simmons, Mom, Rufus Snow.”

  “I’m so glad to meet you, finally,” Syd’s mom came over to the sofa and held out her hand.

  I stood up to shake her hand. “You too, Mrs. Simmons.”

  “Call me Sandee, please hon. ‘Mrs. Simmons’ makes me feel like a gray-haired librarian.”

  I smiled.

  “Look at you—you’re a cutie! Why didn’t you tell me he was such a cutie?” She looked at Syd now for the first time and then said, “What happened to you, Buttercup? You look like something the cat dragged home.”

  “Buttercup?” I had never heard Syd called that before. It didn’t fit.

  She just shrugged.

  “You know, Rufus,” Sandee said, looking me up and down, “I used to have a figure like yours. I mean, I was skin-ny! Except that I’ve always had a little more up top than you do.” She laughed. She was on a nervous roll. “But you get to be my age, and—well—some things are better padded than others.” She slapped her butt and laughed again.

  “Syd didn’t tell me how pretty you are,” I said back. And it was true—she was pretty. “You could be sisters.”

  Syd rolled her eyes. “Here we go!”

  “Ain’t you sweet. You’re my new BFF. He’s my new BFF, Buttercup.” Sandee turned to Syd, then back to me. “You know, people actually say that all the time.”

  “And that hair!” She ran her hand over the top of my head. “Most of the ladies I know would kill for those curls, and for that color too.”

  “Well, they’re both real….”

  Syd’s mom and I got along real well, much to everybody’s surprise, I think. But I know it was frustrating for Syd, since her mom knew absolutely nothing about Syd’s relationship with Tara, so Syd couldn’t just go on feeling what she was feeling.

  Sandee and I chatted like two schoolgirls, until I said I had to go, while Syd mostly looked on, rolling her eyes occasionally.

  “Don’t be a stranger!” Sandee called after me as I took off for home, running.

  COLE IS sitting in the front seat when Josephine pulls up in her mama’s old tank of a car Sunday morning, a baby blue Oldsmobile. I can’t see him from the waist down, but up top Cole is wearing a pink shirt and a plethora of gold chains around his neck. The pink is too much for me so early in the morning, and so for relief I focus on the chocolate-brown dress that Josephine is wearing: I don’t think I’ve ever felt as grateful for a saturated color!

  “Hop in, Rufus,” Josephine says, smiling, and Cole turns around in his seat to say howdy too. I can now see that he is wearing bright white pants.

  When Josephine called to set things up for today, she also told me the order in which she’d be picking up everybody: Cole first, then me, and lastly Syd—“Because it makes the most sense, so that I don’t have to backtrack. I hate going backward.”

  I set the banana bread on the backseat. We all say “Good morning” and ask each other how we are, and as Josephine takes off, I wonder if she knows about Tara and if, for Syd’s sake, I should say something about the breakup before we pick her up? But because I’m unsure if Josephine even knows about Tara yet, I decide that it’s not my business to say anything, and to let Syd tell whatever it is she wants to tell—or not. Complicating things is the fact that I do believe Cole is probably one of the town’s biggest gossips in town, if not the biggest.

  Clearly uncomfortable with silence, he lets out a big whoop. “Road trip!”

  In the rearview mirror, I can see Josephine give him a big smile.

  When we reach Syd’s, that same dog that’s always barking from somewhere nearby—you can’t see him but you can hear him—is still barking, but he sounds almost hoarse now from the effort. The plaintive sound seems appropriate as Syd slinks out of the door of her house and into the backseat beside me, all seemingly in one move; if body language could talk, hers would speak vo
lumes. The dark sulkiness she carries with her serves as a stark contrast to the bright, “Good morning!” that Josephine and Cole say almost simultaneously, whereas I know better.

  “How are you this morning, Miss Sydney Simmons?” Though I know Cole means well, I wince at his not having picked up on the Don’t Tread On Me signals that Syd is broadcasting loud and clear. Even Josephine’s expression, which I catch in the rearview mirror, looks pained, as I see her occasionally glancing Syd’s way.

  As for Syd, she lays the sarcasm on pretty heavily in her response, saying, in a monotone drone, “I couldn’t be better, can’t you tell?”

  Josephine enters the conversation. “Do you want to talk about it, Syd?”

  Syd shrugs. “I just broke up with, uh, this girl I was seeing.” She briefly waits for a reaction from Josephine or Cole about the gender of her ex and then continues. “I know it’s not the end of the world, but it sure feels like it.”

  Cole immediately turns around in his seat and reaches a hand to pat Syd’s leg. “I’m so sorry, hon.”

  Syd thanks him.

  “I know it probably doesn’t help, but I have had more breakups than Liz and Dick had,” he cackles. “So I understand.”

  And then Josephine, the voice of wisdom, says, “Take it from an old woman, Syd. You’ll look back on this and you’ll wonder what the hell you were thinking.” She paused to let that thought settle. “I believe most of us don’t know what we’re doing, as far as love goes, until after thirty. I had a string of love affairs in my twenties before I met Philip. I thought every one of them was the one, and I was devastated when they ended. But truly, Philip was the one, the only one, and I was already thirty-two when we met. And as you know, Philip and I went on together until, well….”

  Syd looks intently at Josephine’s reflection in the rearview mirror and thanks her like she means it. Whereas Cole announces that he thinks he’s going to cry, which for some reason makes everybody crack up, even Syd, and that breaks the ice. After that, it’s all good.

  From there Syd and I go on to complain about school being back in session, though I’m careful not to mention what Tyler Thompson said to me. Syd doesn’t even know yet.

  Cole chimes in that he has never liked fall, because it always reminds him of going back to school, and also because the colors are so dour, which he pronounces, “dowah.” “I mean, rust and orange-colored mums are not exactly my thang,” he continues. But then he seems to lose track. “What was I saying? Oh, I know—it was also in the fall that I was beaten up and left for dead.”

  We’re all silent for a while in response to that. But then as we enter metropolitan Atlanta, the car becomes animated again, and the excitement palpable.

  “Bright lights, big city!” Cole screams.

  I can’t quite believe the complexity of the Cloverleaf, the system of highways that surrounds the city. And I’m impressed by Josephine’s ability to maneuver it, and also by the fact that she doesn’t drive like an old lady at all—we were going seventy-five most of the way here.

  THE HIGH Museum is very impressive and very white, especially on such a blindingly bright, sunny day; stairs hug the walls and wind around the building in wonderfully dizzying circles.

  “I think we’re not in Kansas anymore,” Cole says with a laugh.

  Whereas I’m thinking, “Cool!”—until I see Dwight standing by the entrance as we approach it, his body language not exactly friendly. What’s weird, I suddenly realize, is that Syd, Josephine, and Cole have no idea that this somewhat plump and wholesome-looking young man in a beige suit is my brother: we certainly don’t look related! The four of us could just keep on going, walk right past him and into the museum, but instead I subtly nudge Syd and then say, “Hey, Dwight.”

  He responds by extending his hand for a shake, “Hey, little brother,” and then I introduce everybody.

  “Nice to meet y’all,” he says, a true, polite Southerner.

  Syd, Josephine, and Cole all mutter some version of, “Likewise.”

  I give Dwight the banana nut bread Mama baked for him, but he’s looking at Syd, Josephine, and Cole. “Do y’all mind if I speak to my little brother privately for just a sec?” He pulls me off to the side, about ten feet away from them.

  “So how’s everything at home, Mama and Daddy?” he asks softly.

  “Just fine.”

  He gestures with his chin and says, “That’s quite a menagerie of friends you’ve got there.”

  Though I can tell by the way he says the word “menagerie” that he doesn’t exactly mean it as a compliment, all I can think of to say in response is “Thanks.”

  Now he gets all serious. “So listen, little brother, wouldn’t you rather come to church with me than go into that museum with them? I could bring you back here later.”

  I shake my head, partially in disbelief but also in response. “No, Dwight. Those are my friends, and I want to go into the museum with them.”

  He stands there glaring at me, and I decide to continue.

  “I’m going to be an artist, so this is a working day for me.” I start walking away from him, back to Syd, Josephine, and Cole, but then I turn around and raise my voice. “And besides, I don’t believe in God!”

  “Shh! You’re going to get us all shot,” Josephine says.

  Syd laughs.

  “Bye, Dwight,” I say to him now.

  “I’ll pray for you,” he calls out. “All of you!”

  And with that we enter the museum as if it’s hell itself.

  I can’t believe that it costs eighteen dollars per person. Surely, hell wouldn’t be this expensive!

  Josephine says that she’s got it, that it’s her treat. I quickly do the math: seventy-two dollars. But if you ask me, it’s going to be worth it, because getting to see a lot of great art is such a real and rare treat.

  Syd, Cole, Josephine, and I sort of wander from room to room, floor to floor, with Josephine leading the way because she’s been here before. It’s so interesting how it works with the four of us: we’ve pretty much stopped talking, except for an occasional word or a phrase here and there. One or more of us will linger over a painting that others of us breeze by, but all four of us seem to keep track so that we never get too far ahead of or lose sight of the others.

  We see some very cool paintings. I like Rembrandt. And I really like Goya. There’s this cool painting by a guy named Otto Dix called Dead Man in the Mud. And there’s the Impressionists; Cole screeches when he sees those. But I have to say that the stuff they call “decorative art” really doesn’t do it for me.

  I don’t think they have any paintings by Willem De Kooning, or at least I can’t find them. But in the Modern & Contemporary section I do see two paintings I really like a lot and that are along the lines of the kind of work I want to do, that most interests me; both, as it turns out, are by German artists. One is this big, scratchy, drippy abstract and mostly blue canvas, with just a few splotches of red. Part of it looks like it’s been eaten away by acid or something—it’s really beautiful. That’s by Gerhard Richter.

  The other painting is so huge it practically takes up a whole wall. It, too, is mostly blue—ocean, sky, and I guess a constellation of stars…. Very dark in a way that appeals to me, and that I understand. It’s called Dragon. This guy’s name is Anselm Kiefer. I write it all down in a small notebook I’m carrying.

  I make sure to point them both out to Syd, and she says she can see the painting that I’ve done in these two.

  I’m so moved by this, all I can do is turn to her and say, “Really?”

  She just squeezes my shoulder and nods her head. “Someday, I believe your paintings will be in a museum in Germany.”

  By now, we’ve been in the High for over three hours, and man oh man, it really is a kind of sensory overload; I need a nap!

  I ask Syd, Josephine, and Cole if they feel the same way, and they all say that they do.

  Josephine glances at her watch. “We should probably be
going soon anyway.” She looks around at us. “Is there anything else any of you want to see, or to see again?”

  Syd, Cole, and I all shake our heads, as if we’re all too exhausted to speak.

  WE STOP for supper soon after we get off I-185 and back onto Route 27. Josephine gives us the option of stopping at the first dive we see or looking around for something interesting. We vote for stopping at the first dive, and it is a dive, and nondescript to boot. I am so tired that I can hardly hold my head up, but I do notice the unfriendly looks Cole gets from some of the other diners—simply for being who he is. He seems to notice but also appears to have learned to steel himself for such looks. Syd and I are both quiet, while Cole and Josephine talk animatedly about the art they’ve just seen; Cole is all about the “pretty pastels,” by which he means the Impressionists, whereas Josephine, who’s seen more art than the three of us combined, focuses on one little Dürer she enjoyed. The food itself is not memorable.