The Secret of Clouds
Page 18
I laughed.
“You look great,” he said again. “I mean it.”
“Thanks, you made my night.” I nestled my back against the wall. “I’ll be glad to put all this Y2K stuff to rest. It’s getting kind of old already.”
“Yeah, I know, but it did make me take a look at my life and force myself to stop waiting to do things I’m passionate about.”
“Like what?”
“Well, to start, I haven’t gotten out of my head the fact that your father makes violins.” His voice rose above the music. “I’m in the market for a new one. And I’d still love to see what he does.”
The image of my father exuberantly showing Daniel his work floated through my mind. I knew how much my father would enjoy it.
“You want to visit his workshop?” I was tickled by the thought of it.
“Yeah, I do. Am I stepping out of line?”
“God, not at all. My dad would love that, but you’ll need to put aside a couple hours. When he gets started on the art of violin making, it’s hard to cut him off.”
From the corner of my eye, I could see Suzie giving me a thumbs-up and moving sensually toward the dance floor as Sugar Ray’s latest song replaced R.E.M. In her red velvet and faux-fur-trimmed dress, she looked like a sexy Mrs. Claus.
“I love the idea of making a day of it.”
I know it sounds corny, but I felt as though I were in a scene in a movie. My skin tingled and my heart beat a little faster. I suddenly felt incredibly alive. That is until Suzie came over and pulled me onto the dance floor.
“I’m not letting you leave tonight without seeing you dance first,” she hollered into my ear.
With her arm thrust through mine, Suzie led me to a small square of flooring where she started spiraling me around to Britney Spears.
“Now that’s my girl,” she yelled over the music. Suzie was mouthing Hit me, baby, one more time when she gave me one more exuberant swirl.
But this time my lower and upper body seemed to go in opposite directions. I felt my knee give way, and suddenly I was sliding to the ground.
“Oh my God, I’m so sorry, honey.” She bent down and tried to help me up. But I sat there on the ground like fallen fruit, my ankle throbbing. I pulled off my shoes, silently cursing myself for wearing such impractical heels, and hobbled over to a chair.
I looked around for Bill but couldn’t find him in the crowd. When I raised my head again, Daniel was standing in front of me, pouring ice from a red plastic cup into a paper towel.
“You need some ice,” he said as he lowered himself to the ground and held it to my ankle.
It was funny that I would hear Yuri’s voice in my head when I felt the cold relief of the ice pressed into my skin. You take care of the people you love. As I was recalling those words, Bill was nowhere in sight.
* * *
• • •
HOW strange it all was. As my ankle throbbed, the rest of me felt numb. I was vaguely aware of Daniel and Suzie buzzing around me, but they seemed very far away. I made the appropriate responses. Told Suzie not to worry before she went in search of Bill. Thanked Daniel. When Bill finally arrived on the scene, I admitted to him that I had kind of lost the New Year’s spirit. And as I threw an arm over his shoulder, I asked if he’d take me home.
We made it into his car, and I pressed my face to the chill of the frosty window as Bill turned on the ignition.
“I’ve got a surprise to share. I wasn’t going to say anything until tomorrow. But now seems like a good time to tell you . . .”
“Sounds mysterious.” I forced myself to sound intrigued, despite the pain.
“I’m going to get a new car with my bonus. I’m thinking a BMW roadster. Maybe even red.”
I closed my eyes. “Really?” I forced my voice to sound excited for him, but truthfully, the excitement in his voice, something that I hadn’t heard in a long time, only made me feel sad.
47
MY leg propped up on pillows the next morning, I realized I was about to witness the execution of my six-year relationship. For weeks now, I had felt trapped. But my physical immobility now had triggered another sensation. I needed to acknowledge the truth: that Bill and I were not going to grow closer within the four walls of this cottage. Not even the most idyllic setting could mask the fissures of our relationship. Bill looked outward to find happiness; I looked inward. Suddenly everything that had seemed murky before now appeared crystal clear.
* * *
• • •
BILL walked toward the bathroom and turned on the shower. I heard the rush of the water, then the familiar sound of him closing the glass door. When he emerged, I was sitting up straight. My eyes focused on him wrapped in his towel.
“What’s wrong?” Bill asked. “You still upset about last night?”
“It’s a new year,” I said slowly.
“We were great in college,” I continued, the words falling flatly from my mouth. “But in real life, we’re . . . we’re just not working.”
He was quiet. The winter glare penetrated our bedroom. He looked painfully bare, standing half-naked.
“Mags . . . is this about last night? I didn’t even see you fall.”
“I realize that,” I said. “Suzie had to find you afterward. She said you were chatting up a storm with Vicki Di Piazzo.”
“You’re not being fair. She cornered me all evening.” He turned his back to me and pulled out a shirt from the dresser, rolling it over his chest quickly.
I didn’t answer him. The truth was I was actually relieved that he’d spent the entire night talking with Vicki Di Piazzo, the gym teacher. It made me feel less guilty that all I wanted to do was to cozy up to Daniel and talk about teaching, his love for the violin, and how he believed music could change a student’s soul.
“Come on,” he insisted and sat down on the bed.
I forced myself to continue. “I thought this cottage would be perfect practice for our setting up house together.” I looked around the bedroom, noticing all the touches I had brought in to make it seem charming. The floral bedspread, the framed photographs of us at a Michigan basketball game. But none of it had brought us closer. The simple fact was we no longer had college and campus life in common. We didn’t have the distractions of Manhattan, either. Real life happened, and we were each going in different directions.
“Maggie,” he said. “You’re not being fair. You’ve been in a rut ever since you started tutoring that kid Yuri. You and I both know that. This has nothing to do with us.”
I looked at him, incredulous. It had everything to do with us.
“The thing about my job, Bill . . . it forces you to change the way you see things. And with a student like Yuri . . . I see life differently because of him, and that’s a good thing. It’s not a rut.” I took a deep breath. “If anything, it’s an epiphany.”
“Maggie.”
“Please don’t,” I said, lifting my hand. “It’s a new year, a new millennium. It’s time for a fresh start for both of us.”
“And how are you going to pay for this place on just one salary?” His voice suddenly sounded steely.
“I have enough saved up to pay the rent by myself till the end of the year. Then I’ll look for another place if I need to . . .” I refused to let him think I had to rely on him to pay the bills.
“This is bullshit, Maggie.” He got off the bed and went to his sock drawer. He pulled out a Tiffany catalog that had been buried underneath his socks. He flung it on the bed.
“To think I was going to propose to you on your birthday!”
I looked at the robin’s-egg blue box on the cover, the satin white ribbon tied in a perfect bow, and none of it moved me. How many times had I imagined a perfect proposal? A velvet box offered on a bended knee. And yet, now all I wanted to do was fling the catalog back at him.
“You’re damn right!” he said, the palm of his hand slamming down on the top of the dresser.
* * *
• • •
HE had packed up all his things by the end of the week. The television was gone, too, as was the comfy chair. But there were still some dry logs in the corner basket. I poured myself a glass of wine, propped up my still-healing ankle on a tower of pillows, and did what I’d been wanting to do for some time. I made myself one hell of a fire.
48
AFTER Bill left, I went into overdrive paring down my budget, trying to live as simply as possible. I canceled the cable. I stopped ordering in delivery for dinner and stayed as far away as I could from the mall. At the same time, with Bill gone, I was throwing myself into my work even more. We were still reading Number the Stars in my class, a novel that takes place in Denmark during the German occupation. For most of my students, this was the first time they would be reading about the turbulence and horrors of World War II. Aside from discussing the touching friendship between the two young girls at the center of the story, Ellen and Annemarie, I wanted to explore the theme of heroism.
I thought that Yuri and Finn would have a particularly interesting discussion about it. The two of them had really taken to each other. They fed off each other’s enthusiasm, not only because of their mutual affection for the Yankees but because they also seemed to thrive on the personal and philosophical conversations we often had regarding the books we were reading. I noticed a difference in how Finn acted in my classroom compared to when he was with Yuri. In class, he seemed a little more self-conscious about how much he participated. It was as if he was keeping track of how many comments he made or how often he raised his hand, not wanting to come across as too bookish to the other kids. When he came to visit Yuri, though, he seemed to let his guard down, and I saw how much he enjoyed having free rein to contribute as much as he wanted to the discussion.
As I adjusted to the solitude of living in my storybook cottage by myself, one of the highlights of the New Year for me was seeing the two boys form a friendship of their own. When I reread the novel to prepare my class notes, I couldn’t help but think of Yuri and Finn replacing the characters of Annemarie and Ellen. Two friends, one more vulnerable than the other, whose friendship deepens in the face of adversity.
“Who do you think is the hero in the novel?” I asked the boys. The two of them had settled down after discussing the latest news about the Yankees.
“Well, there are a lot of heroes in the book,” Finn said.
“Annemarie’s parents are . . . They take Ellen in and hide her,” Yuri added.
“And don’t forget Peter, who’s in the Resistance.”
“The fisherman who takes Annemarie and her family to safer shores is a hero, too . . .” Yuri’s eyes perked up. I could tell the difference for him in having Finn joining the discussion. It added a bit of boyish competition to the mix.
For homework, I asked them to further ponder what it meant to be a hero. Did it mean only that you always acted bravely, or was the definition more complex?
Two days later, as I read Yuri’s notebook, I was overwhelmed by his response.
I don’t think you can be a hero unless you have something to lose. A lot of people in Denmark wished their King Christian was in charge instead of the Nazis, but being a hero is more than saying you don’t agree with something. To be a hero, you have to risk something. You have to feel danger. Annemarie and her family are risking their lives to hide Ellen. Annemarie also risks her life when she sneaks out in the night to get the false papers to the fisherman who is taking Ellen and her family to Sweden. Peter is shot in the end of the book because of his efforts to help others. All of these people are heroes in my opinion.
It was approaching the end of February. Nearly two months had passed since Bill moved out, and I had made myself into an expert at building a fire. I may not have been an Eagle Scout like Bill, but I was resourceful and determined to do it even more so now that I was single.
It had become a nightly tradition for me, so I carved out the time to do it. Every Saturday afternoon, I went to one of the local farms that sold firewood and loaded up my trunk with logs. Learning how to build something that could keep me warm and cast a beautiful light in the room made up for my lack of companionship.
And although the house was quieter than I liked, I managed to find company by hearing the voices of my students come alive in their writing.
Annemarie’s father is a hero when he pretends Ellen is his daughter. He came up with the idea so quickly when that Nazi asked him, he became an instant hero when he did that, Lisa Yamamoto wrote in her perfect script. She drew a picture of the interior of an apartment with Annemarie and Ellen hiding in their beds as Ellen’s father stood in the doorway, arguing with the German officer.
I thought Peter was the real hero in the book, Roland McKenna wrote. He actually died risking his life, so he was the biggest hero of all of the characters in the story.
Finn’s was the last notebook in the stack. I pulled it over and placed it on my lap. The decorations on the cover were mostly glued cutouts of athletes from Sports Illustrated and the sports section of Newsday. Derek Jeter at home plate. A team photo of the 1999 Yankees. Pictures of Wayne Gretzky skating and Michael Jordan dunking a basketball. But then I spotted a photo on the lower right corner that must have been a few years old of Finn with his baby sister on his lap—his arm draped protectively around her as she grasped a tattered stuffed animal.
I leafed through the pages from earlier in the school year before reading his response to this latest assignment.
I think in order to be a true hero you can’t think of yourself as one. A hero does the right thing by instinct. Annemarie’s family does not have a lot of time to think about whether to take Ellen into their home, but they do it because they know it’s right. Peter helps find safe passage for Jewish families because he knows they need his help. I think people who are heroes know what’s right and wrong. They won’t go against what they know to be the right thing to do, even if it means risking their own life.
I wasn’t sure what it was about Finn’s entry that touched me so deeply, but I found myself forcing back tears as I read it. He had drawn a medal of courage with red and black Magic Markers, and I had to put his notebook to the side, out of fear that one of my tears would fall and cause the edges of his drawing to run.
49
I had started to grow used to the sound of hearing only my own movements around the house, along with the banging of the old radiators and the wind whipping against the windowpanes. Although I found myself lonely at times, I didn’t miss the blaring of the television on all night or having to clean the sink of Bill’s stubble from his shaving. When I opened the coat closet, I was no longer greeted by a mass of down parkas and puffy vests, and I could find my trench coat with ease. But what I did miss—and I missed it a lot—was that easy and familiar conversation that pulls you out of the rut of a long day. As much as I loved lying in bed at night with a good book and the freedom to smear a face mask over my cheeks like war paint, there was the inescapable reality that I was spending all my nights alone.
Then, just after Presidents’ Day weekend, I found myself somehow trapped in the faculty room with Suzie when Daniel sidled up to our table.
“Maggie Topper.” He said my full name in such a soft, lulling voice that I noticed Suzie could hardly contain her Cheshire cat grin.
“People don’t use full names often enough . . . There’s a musicality to saying a complete name that I like,” he mused.
“Anyway, I’ve been trying to find a moment to ask you something . . .” The color in his face suddenly deepened, and it was hard not to find him incredibly charming. He paused
and now looked toward Suzie, as if she were going to help him find the right words to say. But she just pushed open her Tupperware of pasta primavera and gave him her biggest, brightest smile. As charmed as I was, Suzie was amused to see a grown man struggling to talk to me.
“So I know I mentioned this at Suzie’s party, but I’m wondering if I could take you up on your offer to visit your father’s workshop. I really want to replace my violin, and the more I think about it . . . the more intrigued I become about your father and his instruments.”
I giggled. “You have no idea how excited he’ll be if I bring him a potential customer. He hasn’t quite mastered the art of self-marketing yet.”
Daniel flashed another smile. Suddenly the deep red flush vanished from his face. He was beaming.
“So let’s plan a time to go. Speak to him and let me know what works for you, too.” He slapped the top of one of the empty chairs. “I’m excited about this, Maggie. I really am.”
“I’m happy, too.” I gave him a playful tap. “You’re going to make me daughter of the year if you end up buying one of his violins.”
Suzie grinned as he turned to head back to class. “Now what do you think the likelihood is that he actually buys one of your dad’s instruments, Mags?”
“I don’t know . . . twenty percent? My dad will be thrilled even just to have the chance to talk music and violin making with someone who’s as interested in that stuff as he is.”
“My guess is, it’s a done deal, one hundred percent,” she said as she replaced the cover on her lunch. “You amaze me, Maggie, if you don’t realize that Daniel has a huge crush on you.”
* * *
• • •
THE following Sunday, Daniel pulled up to my cottage in a red Honda Civic. I heard his footsteps treading on the gravel path before he even had a chance to ring the doorbell.