by Julia Watts
Rufus, I hope that by the time you get this package, you’ll be feeling lots better. And I hope you enjoy the cookies. I’m still cooking like crazy and loving it, and just like an old granny in a frilly apron, I baked you these cookies to say I love you. Compared to the genius of your painting, I feel like my cooking is no big deal. But then again, when you’re out of Vermillion and living with me, you know you’ll never have to be a “starving artist.” Be well, Rufus.
Love,
Syd
Dear Syd,
AM I glad that Thanksgiving is over, but I bet it was probably fun at your house. Today also marks exactly one month since whatever happened to me happened—or so they tell me, and I’m pretty much back to normal now too, which is easy to say since I was never normal in the first place—HA! The doc says that I’m out of the woods now as far as potential pneumonia from the bruised ribs goes. And most of the bruises on my face and body are gone too, except for the scar on my forehead, which is shaped kind of like a crescent moon. Try not to worry about me, okay?
It was very sweet of you, pun intended, to bake cookies for me, and then to go to the trouble of mailing them. Thanks. And please thank Ben and Adam for the coffee too. Wow! As my Uncle Joseph used to say, that’s so strong it’ll put hair on your chest!
Your cookies have done something else too, something that I don’t think you could have ever imagined or planned for in your wildest dreams. But first, I have to tell you that I haven’t told my parents that you’re gay too (or lesbian, if you prefer that—do you?), or why you moved to Chicago. I just told them that you moved away and let them assume that it was with your mom. I figured it was just all too much right now, right after I came out to them and everything, I mean, though I’m sure Mama will figure out before too long that your mother is still in town and working at Hair Affair.
So anyway, Daddy has really been enjoying your cookies. I mean, really enjoying them. I think I had maybe four of them, and except for the few that Mama may have had, he ate all the rest. He liked them so much that last night he actually said to me, “That girl sure can cook.” And then, “Maybe there’s hope for you yet.”
And while we both know that it’s true that you’re my hope, Syd, we also know that it’s not quite in the way that Daddy thinks!
That’s pretty cool news about the Gay-Straight Alliance at your high school. I mean, can you imagine anything like that ever happening at Vermillion High? Me neither. But next week there will be a meeting about the antibullying campaign that Josephine is trying to start, but I shouldn’t say “trying” since I’m 110% sure that she’ll get it off the ground. She wanted Mama to get involved too, but Mama says she’s just not ready for something like that. At least not yet!
That girl Renatta sounds really cool too, and like a good friend to have when you’re in high school. Speaking of which, Jimmie-Sue has been really nice to me. I mean, she’s always been nice to me, but especially lately. She came up to me my first day back at school, looked at my bruised face and said if she ever finds out who did it, she’ll kick the shit out of them. But we just live in different worlds, you know? I don’t think we could ever actually be friends, so I’ll just enjoy admiring her from afar.
And then there’s your sad news about Zoe. I mean, it’s not like I’m surprised to hear that she tried to kill herself. But I am sad about it. It’s not like I never thought of committing suicide either, and I know you did too. But now we have so much to live for! I hope Zoe feels the same.
I’m glad to hear that you’ve been talking to your mom more, and that she seems to be coming to terms with things. Do you think she’d ever be up for a visit from me? I’d sort of like it, since she’s the closest thing I have to you here, if that doesn’t sound too weird? Maybe you could sort of run it by her?
Is it freezing there? That’s how I think of it. Whereas here I walked around barefoot on Thanksgiving, which just seems wrong! Maybe you’ve already had snow?
I’m really dreading the holidays, but I’m planning to get through them by getting back to painting. I need some supplies again, so Mama and I are going to Dothan tomorrow. Remember how much fun we had on that trip?
Please always try to keep in mind that I’m stuck here in Vermillion while you’re there in the fabulous big city of Chicago, so write back as soon as you possibly can!
Love,
Rufus
P.S. Sunday afternoon, Josephine, Cole and I are finally having another movie afternoon (movie still to be determined. Stay tuned! Can you stand the suspense?)
Dear Rufus,
I BET you’re wondering why your mail carrier showed up with this overnighted letter from me like some sort of top secret document or something. Well, the reason is I have big news. And hopefully it’s news that will make you happy instead of mad at me for meddling in your business.
After you got beaten up, I spent a lot of time feeling both sad and mad that I couldn’t do more for you. Then one night I was at the Beverly Arts Center seeing this crazy, fun Spanish movie when I saw a sign up for this contest for high school-aged artists. The next day I entered the painting you gave me. I did it secretly and used your name in care of my address because I didn’t want you to be disappointed if nothing came of it. But, Rufus, out of over two hundred entries, your painting is one of six honorable mentions. I wish you’d won one of the three prizes that came with money, but an honorable mention is still pretty great. The official letter to you is enclosed, so you can see I’m not making this up. Your painting is going to be in a special showing in the gallery with the other winners’ paintings, and there’s a reception on December 15 to open the exhibit. The RSVP card is enclosed.
Rufus, you’ve got to come to the reception! Tell your dad I’ll bake him a batch of cookies every month if he’ll let you come. I may be a dyke (which seems to be what I’m calling myself these days), but I still know that the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.
Love,
Syd
P.S. I’d love it if you’d visit my mom.
P.P.S. When you come for the reception (notice I say “when,” not “if”) make sure to bring a warm coat, scarf, hat, gloves, and whatever else you can think of. Winter here is no joke.
Dear Syd,
SO—THANKS to you, the holidays just got about 100,000% better! I hardly know what to say. Just to thank you for entering Gone into that contest doesn’t even begin to express how I feel—about it and about you. And that the painting got one of six honorable mentions! I mean, I can’t believe it: are you sure?
As soon as I finish writing this letter I’m going to call Josephine to see if she wants to come to Chicago with me for the awards ceremony. I mean, we know she visits at least once a year, right? It’s worth a shot. And I figure that there’ll be a much better chance that Mama and Daddy will actually let me come if Josephine’s coming with, right? Mama was excited when I told her the news, and I think Daddy was impressed even though he couldn’t let himself show it. Let’s just assume that I’m coming, okay? I don’t have much in the way of warm clothes, because I’ve never much needed them, but layers are always cool, right? Who cares, anyway—we’ll be together—that’s all that matters!
Do you realize that December 15th is just two weeks from today!
It’s so funny, because I’ve kind of always known that we’d see each other again sooner or later, but I never expected it to be this soon! And that it’s happening because of one of my paintings is just crazy!
Okay. I need to try to calm down to be able to finish this letter.
So the first meeting about the antibullying campaign was just Tuesday night, and Josephine said she thought it went pretty well. Principal Davenport was there, and also a handful of teachers, though Josephine couldn’t remember all their names, except for Mr. Sloane, my art teacher (known to you and me as Jason), because he was the only male teacher to show. (Turns out that, like Josephine and many of us, he lives in Vermillion because of family. And he announced that he’s determ
ined to make it a better place to live too.) There were also some parents, including Michael Foster’s mother, which Josephine says was heartbreaking. And there were maybe about ten female students too, and also that African American guy, Malik King—do you remember him? I truly don’t think he’s gay but that he was just there to show his support, which is very cool. Josephine said she made it clear that antibullying pertains to everybody, whatever the reason. So I guess there were maybe twenty to twenty-five people there altogether—not bad! And you’re going to love this: Josephine served her iced lemon cookies! She said that once this meeting is reported on—one of the girls said she was tweeting about it, and putting it on Facebook—that they’re expecting more folks to show up at next Tuesday’s meeting. So I guess the whole thing is really happening. I feel pretty good about it, although I do wonder what kind of ramifications there might be for me, you know? Also, Syd, can I tell you? Whenever I see “LGBT ,” all I can think of is a BLT!
I realized how stupid it is of me not to call Josephine BEFORE finishing this letter, so I just did and—yahoo!—she’s up for the trip. She said she was “thrilled” to hear the news about my painting, and that she wants to do everything she can to support both of us. She even said that she’ll drive, and also that she’ll talk to Mama for me.
I’ve gotta go now. I’ve got so much energy, I don’t know what to do with myself. Maybe I’ll paint for a while. I do have a new painting in mind. It’ll be for Cole.
Okay, Syd, I’m just going to go ahead and say it: SEE YOU SOON!
Love,
Rufus
P.S. I’ll visit your mom before I see you. Promise!
Syd
THE DOORBELL is ringing. I turn the heat off under the caramelizing onions and run to answer it. I swing the door open, and there’s the newly black-haired Rufus with the gloriously silver-haired Josephine. We all squeal and hug like sorority sisters.
“This extra hug is from your mom,” Rufus says, squeezing me again. “No, wait, that one was from me too. This one is from your mom.”
“I can’t believe you’re here!” I say once I’ve pulled out of the hug to look at him. There’s something different about him besides the hair. No scars from his beating are visible, but he carries himself more carefully, like someone who’s recovering from being hurt. I think of Cole and of Michael Foster and how much worse it could have been.
“I can’t believe I’m here either. And it’s snowing!” Rufus says.
“Just for you.”
“When I lived here the snow got old fast,” Josephine says. “But it looks beautiful today.”
Then Rufus and I both say, “Love the hair” at the same time, and laugh.
Finally I snap out of the magical spell of their presence long enough to remember my manners. “I guess it would be nice of me to invite you all the way in out of the cold, huh?”
“God, this place is beautiful.” Rufus is looking around the living room.
“I know, right?” I motion for them to sit down. “This room looks better with your painting in it, but I guess we have to let the Beverly Arts Center borrow it for a couple of months. Ben and Adam took the kids to the museum for a while. Ben felt like you probably needed a little time to get settled before being assaulted by noisy kids. They’ll be back in time for dinner.”
“Well, whatever’s in the oven smells heavenly,” Josephine says.
“I’ve been cooking all day.” I settle down on the couch next to Rufus.
“Rufus says you’ve turned into quite the chef.” Josephine looks regal in the wingback chair.
“Well, I’m learning. And I’ve got a lot to learn, but cooking makes me happy.”
“That’s wonderful,” Josephine says. “So art school for Rufus and culinary school for you?”
“I hope so. If any of the colleges with culinary programs in town will have me, and if I can get enough financial aid. There are a lot of ifs.”
Josephine smiles. “Well, you seem to have a talent for turning ifs into whens.”
After Josephine excuses herself for an “old-lady nap,” which I really think is her generous way of letting Rufus and me have time alone together, I go to the kitchen to check on dinner, and then pour cups of coffee for Rufus and me. We sit on the couch holding hands. For a while we don’t say much of anything. We just enjoy one another’s nearness. Finally I ask, “Are you excited about the reception?”
“Are you kidding?” He grins. “More excited than I’ve ever been about anything in my whole life, except just being here with you. I can’t believe you made this happen for me, Syd.”
“You made it happen. If your painting had sucked, it wouldn’t have mattered that I entered it in the contest.”
“That’s true, I guess.” He smiles like he can’t help being a little pleased with himself. “So, like I promised, I went to see your mom the other day. She’s starting to show—”
But before he can tell me about their visit, Ben and Adam come home; the kids stampede in like the bulls in Pamplona.
“How’s it going, Rufus?” Darius calls as he rolls in, sounding like he’s known Rufus his whole life.
Zoe makes a beeline for Rufus, gives him a good looking-over, and says, “I dig the black hair. Very emo.”
Destiny says, “Zoe, why did you call Syd’s friend an emu?”
Ben and Adam both give Rufus hello hugs, and Ben says, “Welcome to our zoo. I hope you didn’t come here looking for peace and quiet.”
“No way,” Rufus says. “There’s way too much peace and quiet back in Vermillion.”
Once Josephine is back and has showered the kids with presents, I put dinner on the table: herb-roasted chicken and potatoes, burgundy mushrooms, creamed spinach, and homemade focaccia. Everybody mms and yums, although the spinach isn’t as much of a hit with the under-twelve set. Soon the mms and yums give way to talking and laughing, and I look around the table at the faces that are old and young and in between, and black and white and in between, and I’m filled with a feeling I spent most of my life thinking I’d never find: I belong. I look longingly at Rufus, Josephine, Ben, Adam, and the rest, eager to fix the moment in my mind, somehow knowing that I’ll need it.
After dinner, Rufus and I go to get gussied up for the reception, me in a very Holly Golightly black taffeta dress and him in black jeans, a black shirt and jacket, and a cool new pair of black boots.
“My mom let me get them after everything happened,” he says. “They make me feel tough, like I can kick some serious ass, even though I know it’s just an illusion.”
“You do kick ass, Rufus,” I say, taking his arm, “and that’s no illusion.”
WE WALK into the gallery arm in arm. Josephine’s going to join us later. She made it clear that she wanted Rufus and me to make our “big entrance” as a duo.
The white open space is full of high school kids who would all be huge misfits back in Vermillion: a girl with a buzz cut, a boy with a bright red mohawk holding hands with a boy with dreadlocks. There are adults too, probably some of them the kids’ parents, other gallery patrons sipping wine as they seriously survey the paintings.
When we reach the wall where Gone is hanging, Rufus squeezes my hand hard. I look at him, and his eyes are glittery with unshed tears.
“I like this one,” says a chic woman standing behind us.
I nod in Rufus’s direction. “He’s the artist.”
“Really?” The woman smiles at him. “Congratulations.”
“You know,” Rufus says after the woman has left, “now would be an excellent time to have a glass of champagne together. Too bad we’re underage.”
“I have an idea,” I say. “Wait here.”
I head to the bar that’s been set up for the reception and order two Pellegrinos, nonalcoholic but at least adultlike. With a twist of lime, it’s pretty good.
I hurry back to Rufus. “This will do for now,” I say, handing him a glass. “But you have to make a toast.”
Rufus looks at his
painting, then at me. “I was watching an old movie the other day where this British couple toasts each other and says, ‘Happy days.’ I think I’ll go with that one. Today’s the happiest day I’ve ever had, and for the first time I can imagine more happy days in the future.”
I touch my glass to Rufus’s. “Happy days.”
ROBIN LIPPINCOTT, like the main characters in the novel he and Julia Watts wrote together (Rufus + Syd), grew up in a rural hellhole, Central Florida in his case. The only good thing about his childhood was that at one point he had twenty-three cats, all of which had to live outside (his mother’s rules). He escaped Florida as soon as he could and has lived in the Boston area ever since, where he is a walker in the city (and a bicycler, and a subway and bus rider), but where he has no cats (his partner is allergic). Robin is so proud of his most recent book, Blue Territory: A Meditation on the Life and Art of Joan Mitchell. He has also published three novels and a short story collection. He has received multiple fellowships to Yaddo (the artists’ colony), as well as a fellowship to The MacDowell Colony. He teaches in the low-residency Master of Fine Arts in Writing Program at Spalding University.
