by Ruth Wind
He leapt to his feet. "Let me help."
"I think I can manage it," she insisted, but he followed her to the kitchen anyway, taking out a big plastic bag to put the ice in. Quietly she said, "I'm sure she's dying to talk about the movie. Go listen to her. I'll take care of this."
"I have a better idea." He grabbed the ice bucket and the bag, and her free hand. "Let's both go. You'll know more than me."
And for one instant, as he moved around her, to tug her gently into the living room, he was close enough to kiss. And to her amazement, he didn't duck away this time. He simply bent, touched his lips to hers lightly without even closing his eyes. A hint of a smile crinkled his eyes and he pulled her quickly into the other room before she had a chance to respond.
He pushed her gently into a chair, and then took a moment to touch Crystal's head. "Want anything, kiddo? Some limeade?"
"No, thanks." She frowned. "What's the ice for?"
Marissa said, "Sprain. No big deal." She started taking off the elastic bandage, swallowing to keep her face free of expression. She jumped up. "I'll take care of this, really. Just give me the ice and I'll do it in the kitchen."
Robert gave Crystal a glance. "I think that arm's hurtin' pretty good. What do you say?"
Crystal nodded. "Might as well let him just look at it, Ms. Pierce. You ain't getting out of here till he does. It's that soldier thing."
"Don't expect me to salute," Marissa said. Tears sprang to her eyes when he gently unwrapped it, and the sudden lack of support caused her to move the wrist the smallest bit before he managed to get his hand beneath
"That hurt," he said.
It really did. Blinking fiercely, she tried to focus on the sensation of that hard, flat palm beneath hers, but not even the glorious Robert could distract her just then. "Ice," she said sharply.
He glanced up at her, a half smile on his mouth. "Ice will help for a minute, but it's not a sprain. It's always hard to know for sure, but just guessing, I'd say this is broken."
"I can still move my fingers and everything," she protested, and would have illustrated, but he caught them before she could.
"Don't."
"I had my wrist pads on," she said, and hated the querulousness of her voice. "Oh, I feel stupid. Maybe I'm too old for in-line skating."
"No way, Ms. Pierce. You're cool." Crystal shifted a little. "Mario, this good friend of mine, he loves anything on wheels—in-line skates, skateboards, bikes. He was always breaking something, and he's only eighteen."
Marissa smiled. "Thank you."
"You can't drive with this," Robert said, "and I can't leave Crystal, so who do you want me to call?"
She sighed. "Louise of course."
He chuckled. "Of course." He put her hand down gently on her knee. "Don't move a muscle for a sec. I'll get you fixed up and then call Louise." He jumped up.
Marissa was so disappointed she wanted to wail like a five-year-old. Not fair, not fair, not fair. She looked up and saw Crystal watching her very closely.
Too distracted herself, Marissa said, "So, who is Mario?"
"Just a friend," she said without emotion, and turned over on her back, clicking the television on. Her mouth was set in a resigned kind of line.
Marissa almost asked, "Is something wrong?" but bit the words back in time. She knew very well what was wrong, that Crystal had observed the subtle interplay between the two adults.
Robert returned with a sheaf of newspaper which he wrapped in a thick bundle around her wrist. "Louise is on the way."
Marissa managed a small smile. "To the rescue."
"Cheer up. They'll have you fixed up and home in no time."
* * *
Chapter 8
« ^ »
Crystal did not feel all that great the next day. The pain in her back and belly had stopped, but now there was a jumpy irritation in her limbs, along the back of her neck. The doctor told her the drugs might make her feel this way. Walking cautiously to the truck, leaning on Robert, there was a part of her screaming, Hurry up! Move it. Do something.
"I don't want to go to some white lady's house," she said suddenly. "I don't know her. She probably thinks of me as a project." Even as she said it, she knew it wasn't true, wanted to take the words back.
Robert looked at her in surprise. He'd been about to put the keys in the ignition, but let them fall beside him. "Okay," he said easily. "Tyler won't mind if I miss a day or two of work." He smiled. "Gives me a good excuse to play hooky."
Even that friendly smile was kind of irritating. She slumped lower. "No, never mind. We need the money. We're not rich like all these people." She gestured at the town in general. "I know that."
By now Crystal's mother would have been shouting at her, but Robert only said, "What's going on, kiddo? Who are you mad at?"
"Nobody." Which wasn't exactly true. "Everybody."
"Me?" He stretched out a hand and put it on her shoulder, steady and warm.
Yeah. Because he had that look in his eye when he looked at Ms. Pierce, and she had it back, and it wasn't fair. When adults wanted to have sex, that's when life for Crystal went downhill. She found herself chewing on her little fingernail and put her hand down. "You like her, don't you?" she said.
"Who? Mrs. Forrest?"
She rolled her eyes. "No. My teacher."
He narrowed his eyes a little, not looking away, which was good. But thinking how to answer her, which was bad. "I do, a little."
"I knew it."
"Look, Crystal, I'm not gonna lie or hide things from you, okay? I'll be honest as I can be—and here is my promise. No matter what happens, I'm here for you. As long as you need me, nothing and nobody will ever come before you." He put his hand to his chest. "Cross my heart and hope to die."
Now that really made her cry. Big tears just welled up and fell down her face. She nodded.
"C'mon," he said. "Let's go in and I'll fix you some eggs for breakfast. How's that? Scrambled with icky American cheese, just the way you like them."
That wasn't what she wanted, either, for him to miss work. And she liked Mrs. Forrest, who had promised to watch movies with her and cook green chili, which Crystal had confessed was her absolute favorite. She craved it every single day—almost like those people she'd read about who ate clay because they didn't have enough iron in their bodies—and Crystal already knew from the smell that first night that the chili would be good.
"No, I'll go to Mrs. Forrest's house."
"Sure? It's really okay with me if you don't want to."
"I'm sure." Blinking back tears, she looked at Robert. "I don't know what's wrong with me. I feel all weird."
"Ah! It's the drug, honey. Remember? Ramona told you it might make you jumpy."
"Oh, yeah." Not that it helped, knowing why. "We better go. I don't want you to be late to work."
They were, she saw by the clock, already late, but Robert took a minute to squeeze her hand and give her that wink. "You and me, kiddo, all the way."
And in that minute, she loved him more than anybody in the whole world. Except Mario and the baby of course, but it was close. She nodded. "Thanks, Uncle."
* * *
Marissa's wrist had indeed suffered a hairline fracture, which she should have known since Victoria had warned her. Odd how even the warnings they gave each other ended up acting out the same way. Not the same day or the same week, but their lives mirrored each other's so often that it would only make sense to listen. Marissa hadn't asked, but she knew instinctively that Victoria had broken the right wrist instead of the left, just as Marissa was right-handed, left-brained, math-and-logic oriented, while Victoria was left-handed, right-brained and one living creative nerve.
Hairline fracture made it sound tiny and harmless, but Marissa spent a miserable night. In spite of the painkillers they gave her, she had wild dreams and awakened several times to the idea that her arm was being bitten through by a tiger's teeth, or caught in a door. She woke up cranky, groggy, slightly hung
over from the painkillers. She flirted with the idea of calling a sub, but needed to get to school to pick up assignments for Crystal anyway and decided to just get through it the best she could.
The phone rang when she was on her second cup of coffee. She could always sense her sister, and it wasn't her this time. "Hello?"
"How's the arm?" Robert asked.
She closed her eyes, shutting out everything so she could just listen to that lilting tenor. "I have a bright blue cast to my elbow."
A hint of laughter as he said, "Mmm. Sexy. You can wear it with that dress."
Sexy. The word, low and edged with amusement, made her think of his hair. She cleared her throat. "How's Crystal?"
"Safely under Louise's wing. She's done double duty on the mother front lately."
"Good. Do you want me to collect her assignments for the next few days so she doesn't get behind?"
"That would be excellent. She'll be at Louise's until five or so. Might be a good idea to take them there."
Marissa thought of Crystal's measuring expression yesterday, the disappointment she'd sensed in the girl. "Okay."
He was silent for a long time, and Marissa wasn't sure what was supposed to come next. She twirled the phone cord around her finger, waiting, thinking of his hair. "Well, I just wanted to make sure you were all right. See ya around."
Ouch. "Okay. Thank you for calling, Robert," she said formally, and replaced the receiver gently, a thick taste of missed opportunity in her mouth.
But things happened the way they were meant to—Robert was right to put Crystal's well-being above everything else. As her teacher, Marissa had the same responsibility.
She just wished it didn't have to be a choice. Still, her sister would be here on Thursday, only three days away, and Marissa would have something to distract herself. In a few weeks, she'd forget about ever kissing the devastating Red Dog, count it as a sweet little something along her path.
* * *
Right after school, Marissa got a copy of Crystal's schedule and went to the teachers one by one to explain what was going on and to pick up her assignments. Most of them were harried—the seniors were as restless as wild mustangs, and the rest of them had spring fever—and simply scribbled out assignments. The science teacher was more interested. "Poor kid," George Dugan said. "She's had a pretty rough time, hasn't she?"
"I think so. But she has someone in her corner now and that can make all the difference."
"She's smart as a whip, but has no self-confidence." He flipped open his grade book, ran his finger down a column of names. "Is she keeping the baby, do you know?"
"I haven't asked."
He scowled at the line of red marks behind Crystal's name. "You know, it's going to take a miracle for her to pass this class. She hasn't turned in homework, and refuses to participate in the group experiments." He tapped the line with his finger. "Not sure what we should do."
"What if she created and carried out an experiment on her own? Is it possible she could at least pass?"
"I'm open to that." He closed the book and put his hands on his hips. "Tell you what. I'll give her till the end of the week to come up with a hypothesis and experiment, anything to do with the earth sciences."
Marissa beamed. "Terrific. Thanks."
"It's nice you took an interest." He smiled. "I wasn't sure about you when you started, but you're a good teacher, Marissa. Whatever your reasons for coming to slum with us here, I'm glad you did."
She tried not to mind the taint to the compliment. "Thank you. I love it."
The last stop was the English teacher's room. Marissa tapped lightly. Marianne Wollinski was intimidating. Tall and bosomy, with a wealth of silvery blond hair she wore in a French twist, she had the commanding presence of a general, and the same standards. She insisted upon calling all the teachers by their titles, and expected the same in return. "Good afternoon, Ms. Pierce. Is there something I can do for you?"
The room was as neat as a diagrammed sentence. "Yes. I'm collecting assignments for one of our students who is going to miss most of the week, thanks to a problem with her pregnancy."
"Crystal Avila." A tight, hard smile. Mrs. Wollinski did not approve of pregnant girls being allowed in school.
"Yes." Marissa squared her shoulders. "Do you have assignments for her?"
"I don't know what the point would be, since she never completes them." A heavy silver cuff fell forward as she adjusted a blotter on her desk. "I have a good many students who are hungry for what I offer and I don't know why I should waste my time with one who is so obviously uninterested."
"She is hardly uninterested." Marissa crossed her arms. "Yesterday we watched Cruel Intentions, and she dissected the entire underlying structure of tragedy, comparing and contrasting the modern, watered-down version with the original Dangerous Liaisons."
She waved a hand. "Movies. Yes, I know all about her passion for movies. I am not a film instructor. I am engaged in teaching literature."
"I see." A thick burn heated her throat and chest. "Where, exactly, was she going to find books?"
"Oh, please, Ms. Pierce, even poor children can go to the library."
"Not if the library is across town, and in order to get to it you have to get on a bus because your mother doesn't have a car, but getting on that bus means you have to cross through the gang territory of three rival gangs."
Marissa made it up, but only a little. The fund-raiser she had attended earlier this week had been to raise funds for a desperately poor area of Denver. She knew the generalities of Crystal's situation, if not the specifics.
"She couldn't go to the store without crossing those paths. The school she attended was riddled with the fights and violence that was part of her daily life, so she didn't go." Furious now, she took a step closer. "She locked herself in her room and watched movies because she was desperate for the transportation of story, and she found those stories where she could—on a stolen cable box one of her mother's boyfriends rigged up. That room, with those movies, was the only place she was safe. And if you'd give her ten minutes of opportunity, you would be amazed what she knows about structure. You would be astonished at her command of literary concepts. She might not know what to call them, but she might gain the vocabulary from someone like you, if you don't dismiss her."
The discreetly penciled brows rose. "What would you like me to do?"
"Give her a chance. That's all."
"Very well." She crossed her arms. "Have her write me a paper, fifteen pages, with footnotes and sources, on that subject you mentioned. Let her analyze the tragedy in Dangerous Liaisons." The lips pursed. "I'll give her twenty points free on grammar mistakes, and allow some informality in writing style. But make it plain that I do not want a single word of reference to that awful melodrama Titanic."
A soft, clear bell of recognition rang in Marissa's head. They always think I like it for the wrong reasons. Delighted to have this new puzzle piece, she smiled beneficently at Mrs. Wollinski. "Thank you." She moved forward, shook her hand. "You won't be sorry."
"We'll see."
* * *
At the restoration site of the old mansion, Robert stepped back and admired the new plasterwork on the receiving room ceiling with pleasure. He held up a black-and-white photograph of the original ceiling, and the new one matched perfectly, in every tiny swirl. "Great work," he said to the plastering crew.
"Thanks, boss."
He glanced at his watch. It was almost four—no point to starting anything new so late in the day. "Go ahead and knock off if you want."
"Robert," Tyler Forrest said, stepping carefully around a scaffold. "Can I talk to you for a minute?" He held a clean manila folder in his hand, and Robert figured it was more original photographs. Tyler's wife, Anna, ran a museum in town, and had been ceaselessly working to come up with photos of the original mansion.
"Sure. Find some more pictures?"
"Yeah." His grin was infectious. Whatever it was was good. They stepped
out on the porch where the light was better, and Tyler handed over a picture of the stairway, terrifically well detailed. It was beautifully worked wood, amazingly detailed. "She found them in some file in the basement of the Tacker House."
"Fantastic." Robert ignored the giant stained-glass window, though he found himself intrigued once again by the mythological aspects of it. "You've got your work cut out for you, I'd say."
"Yeah, well." He took out another photo. "I'm hoping you do, too. Here's a close-up of the original window."
Robert took the photo, already formulating objections. He whistled softly. "It's a beauty."
"Anna said it's Demeter."
"Such a loss," he said quietly, thinking of the scores of windows he'd seen in Europe, many of them hundreds of years old.
"Can you do it?"
Robert raised his head and grinned. "I keep telling you no way. Not this big, man."
"You've done church windows. This can't be any bigger than that. Jake said there's one you did in some little New Mexico town that's bigger."
"Indian churches. A different thing. They wanted an Indian artist, didn't matter how good or not."
Tyler inclined his head. He wasn't a man given to grinning, but the amusement shone in his eyes. "Give me a break."
Robert shook his head. "I'm flattered, man, but I'm not the artist for this job."
"Will you at least think about it? We've made inquiries, and no one can do the work for at least seven or eight months."
A car pulled in, and Marissa jumped out, waving her blue-casted hand. She wore a simple white dress today, a completely ordinary, straight, sleeveless sheath with a demure neckline, and yet he felt a sizzle straight through his body.
"Maybe," he said to Tyler, forgetting him as he stepped down to meet her. She looked radiant, her cheeks rosy, her hair mussed a little by the wind, but quickly smoothed down. "Hi," he said, and heard the warmth in his tone. "What are you doing here?"
"It's Titanic, isn't it?" she asked. "Crystal's movie of movies."
He grinned, putting his hands on his hips. "And I thought that big smile was for me."
