by Lewin, Renee
“Do I know what about Joey?”
“Did you know that he’ll forgive you? He’s that kind of person.”
He chuckles. “Probably. Though I doubt it would make me feel any less guilty.”
“I was wrong about him.”
“Wow. Not too long ago he was, and I quote,” he clears his throat and imitates me with a high pitched voice, “Scary, nosy, rude and conceited.”
I laugh and roll my eyes. “Did I say that?” I ask innocently.
“What’s in those stories of his that made you change your tune?” he smiles.
“He doesn’t write stories. He writes poetry, surprisingly.”
“A troubadour! I should have seen that coming. He’s a charmer. So, a whole book of thoughtful poems?”
“No. A few sprinkled between his diary entries.”
“Diary entries?” He grows quiet. Before he can say more, the automated operator voice informs him he has one minute left on his call. “I have to go. I love you.”
“Love you too.”
“And tell Uncle Frank I love him and that I said thanks for his support.”
“I will.”
“Bye.”
I hang up the phone and get out of bed. I walk into the kitchen feeling the cool tiles against my bare feet. I pour myself a glass of water and carry it into the living room where I watch a few reruns of Frasier, followed by the nightly news and a late night talk show. It is 12:42 PM when I look at the clock. Uncle Frank still hasn’t come home. Worry flows and ebbs within me. As I ready for bed, I remind myself to relay Manny’s message to Uncle Frank tomorrow morning. In the bottom drawer of my nightstand, under a photo album, I place Joey’s journal. Hiding the journal wasn’t going to change the history of Joey’s feelings. It’s silly of me to hide it from him, but it feels so therapeutic to tuck the past away.
******
The next morning I walk into the bathroom and lather and rinse my face clean of sleep. I dry my face with a washcloth. The cloth has the comforting smell of the fabric softener my mom used and that I still use. Placing the cloth down on the counter, I look into the mirror. What did Joey see when he looked at me? What’s so special? I lean in closer to examine my features. I have a round face of a cinnamon or, I guess, an allspice complexion with high cheekbones, dark shapely eyebrows, and brown eyes. Full lips pout beneath a round nose. I’m average, cute at the most, which isn’t a complement when you’re twenty years old.
Once you hit your late teens, a girl is supposed to look more womanly, more sensual and appealing. That never quite happened. My body grew into it, becoming an overall pear shape on my trim frame, but the clothes and the shoes and the makeup never happened. Although with my hair down and without my glasses on I was heading towards a more mature look. Still, I see only plainness. In his mind, Joey put me up on a ten foot high ivory ionic Roman column with gold leaf in the molding, painstakingly built over five years. He hyperbolized my appearance and my personality to the point where once he really gets to know me, I will have terribly far to fall from that pedestal. It would leave a bruise. A twinge hits my stomach just thinking about it. After reading the entirety of his journal there is now a selfish voice inside me that doesn’t want him to wake up just yet.
The sound of silverware clanking together brings me out of the bathroom and into the dining area. A florescent yellow omelet so large it smothers half of the plate’s surface is on the dining room table.
“I made breakfast,” Uncle Frank smiles sweetly as he rests his arms on the back of the dining room chair. He stands barefoot dressed in a red Hawaiian shirt and khaki shorts. I wonder whether he’s changed into them or whether that’s his idea of pajamas. I frown at the omelette, hurt that he’s forgotten how much I hate eggs. I open my mouth to remind him, but smile at him instead.
“Thanks, Uncle Frankie. Nobody has cooked me breakfast in a long time. Usually I’m the one doing the cooking around here.”
Uncle Frank laughs. “It’s not for you! I know you hate eggs. Ah, you should have seen the look on your face!” he chuckles. “You’re too nice, Laney.” I watch him seat himself and dig in to his continental breakfast. As he gulps his orange juice he glances up from the glass to see me glaring at him jealously. “Oh,” he grins, “Your breakfast is on the stove.” I bat my eyelashes at him gratefully and find my plate. It’s laden with all of my favorite breakfast foods. I hereby pledge to start cutting back on calories, right after I eat the buttermilk and ricotta pancakes, crisp bacon, and golden hash browns that Uncle Frank prepared for me.
“Mmmm. These pancakes are so good, Unc.”
“I cooked them, didn’t I? Besides, you deserve a little pick-me-up.”
“So,” I pause and take a sip of my juice, then clear my throat. “Yesterday was your first day back in Cadence. What did you do?”
“First I walked up to Jeremy’s store, but it took me almost two hours to get there because I was making little stops along the way. I went over to #31, the Dorseys. Did you know their daughter Amanda dropped out of U of A ‘cause she got a job as a stripper? Claims she doesn’t need an education when she already makes two thousand a week. Her poor parents! Then I ran into Dina Rae and asked her about the new park manager, Jimenez. She’s been the gossip queen of Merjoy since I opened it eleven years ago. I knew she would tell me her flat out opinion. She tells me, “I got a bad feeling about the guy and Frankie, you set the bar and no one else has come close.” She’s been interested in me for years so I’m sure she was just buttering me up.
“I left Dina’s and ran into Carlito putting a new screen in one of his windows. I said to him, “Stop what you’re doing! You shouldn’t be doing maintenance, bro! That’s the park manager’s job!” I put the screen in for him myself. It ain’t right for him to do it. He tossed a Corona to me and told me Jimenez doesn’t do house calls. Can you believe that? What the heck does the guy do around here?”
“Did you ask Carlito why the screen needed to be replaced in the first place?”
He bites into his potatoes and shakes his head ‘no’.
“It costs money to replace a screen. Unless the screen was damaged from natural wear and tear, it wouldn’t be cost efficient for Jimenez to fix it. He makes the hard decisions. If Jimenez didn’t forgo his desire to be liked by all, then he’d find himself paying for people’s irresponsibility and needing to raise everyone’s rent to pay the park bills. Catch my drift?” I watch him stick out his bottom lip and shrug his shoulders. “Mr. Jimenez is doing a good job,” I add.
“Yeah, he’s keeping the park together, but he’s not keeping the neighborhood together. He’s not bringing the people together. That’s what a park manager should do.”
“That’s what you would do. You are a special type of person that can get along with anyone. You can find the good in people, even the ones who screw you over, and you can forgive them. That’s openness and caring that few people have. You can’t expect Jimenez to be just like you.” I study a bacon slice on my plate and then nudge it with my fork. “It’s hard for a lot of people to be open like that.” I pick up the bacon slice with my hand and bite into it. I glance at him and then quickly away, seeing his green eyes studying me. I look back up to see him soberly scratching at a gray sideburn.
“You’re right, Niece,” he says.
I nod and continue to eat my breakfast. He continues sharing how he spent yesterday afternoon and evening: running into a bunch of folks, reminiscing, and asking them how they and their families were doing.
Why didn’t he ever ask them why they and their families had been so cruel to me? Then maybe I would have gotten at least a hearsay apology instead of nothing at all. I wasn’t getting an apology because they weren’t sorry. Not even a little bit. Only yesterday had I truly pocketed that truth. A sudden warming of their hearts wasn’t the reason they backed off. They stopped torturing us because Joey threatened to screw up the winnings of the fútbol bookies, the bookies put some pressure on the bettors, and the bet plac
ers in turn told their children to cut it out.
“What were you up to while I was gone?” He picks up his cleared plate and mine and brings them to the sink.
“I visited Joey in the hospital. I ran into Miss Kinsley too and she told me some good news.”
“About Joey being let out of the coma?”
“Yeah.”
“I was talking to her about that last night.” He returns to his seat with a gentle look in his eyes. “Amelia is a courageous woman. She’s been taking care of things on her own for many years. She moved down here from Drexel with a broken wrist, a fourteen-year-old, and not much else. Still, she raised him to be the man he is. Even though her pride and joy lies in a hospital bed as we speak, her spirit is unwavering. She’s something else. I tell you, she is something.” He admires the simple blue sky in the kitchen window behind me.
“I never knew her name was Amelia.”
“Amelia Dixon.”
“I’ve been calling her Miss Kinsley all this time.”
“I’m sure she doesn’t mind.”
“Mason Dixon?”
“What?” Uncle Frank’s eyebrows furrowed as he stared at the kitchen window view.
“If Dixon is her married name, then her ex-husband’s full name was Mason Dixon.”
His eyes slide from the window to my amused expression. “No way.”
“I wish I were kidding. It’s so sad, it’s funny,” I smile.
“I don’t believe the guy’s mother would curse him with a name like Mason Dixon.” He smirks incredulously.
“I have proof if you don’t believe me! I have Joey’s journal. Oh! I talked to Manny yesterday. He says he loves you and thanks for your support.”
He nods. “What’s with you having Joey’s journal? I didn’t know you two were that close.” He takes a drink of his orange juice.
“Um, we’re not. It’s sort of a long story and it’s complicated. I’m not actually supposed to have the journal. I mean, Miss Kinsley or, um, Joey’s mom did tell me to read it for him, to him. I just took it home one day. It’s not like I stole it, because I intend to give it back, you know, when he wakes up and all. I just, it just…Like I said, it’s a long story.” Balanced on the ball of my foot, my right leg bounces under the table.
Smiling, he places his empty glass down on the table. “Why so flustered?”
“I’m not flustered. You asked me a question and I tried to answer it without going through all the lengthy details. Flustered? Are you, like, implying something about me and Joey?”
“Why so defensive?” he grins.
“Uncle Frank!” I whine.
“You know I can’t resist! I have to tease you at least once for having this secret crush on Manny’s friend!”
My jaw drops. “I do not have a secret crush! He’s the one…” A lump in my throat cuts off my sentence. Why am I getting so worked up? A few days ago when the nurse made little remarks about me and Joey I rolled my eyes at her. What Uncle Frank was saying was no different from what she had said and yet I was upset. What had changed? I definitely haven’t developed feelings for Joey. It’s just that, when I think of him now, the people I’d lost and the things I’d missed out on, all those emotions come to the surface.
During the times in my life I felt like I was alone in this town, Joey had actually been there; a silent ally. I know when Joey wakes up and we get the chance to really talk, he’ll see that a romantic relationship is out of the question, but we could still be important people in each other’s lives. We could be each other’s allies. Uncle Frank saying that I had a crush on Manny’s friend irked me because Joey wasn’t just Manny’s friend. He’s mine, too. And I don’t want any romantic connotations to sully that.
“I talk to Manny for only twenty minutes a day, I’m not ready to talk to Dad yet, and I spend most of my time either in this empty house or in the presence of an unresponsive coma patient. I haven’t been able to distract myself with writing, so I grew a little attached to Joey’s journal recently. Okay?” I lift my eyes from the table.
“Laney, I know I sort of left you here by yourself yesterday. I promised you I would come to Arizona and be there for you and I haven’t been”
“You don’t have to babysit me. I’m fine.”
“Laney, let’s hang out, just you and me today. What do you want to do?”
I give him a small smile and shrug my shoulders. “I’ve done all the things you can do in this town. What do you do to pass the time down there in Daytona?”
“Go out on the boat. Drink a few fish and catch some beers,” he purposely slurs his words.
I laugh. “I can tell.”
“We could go fishing at Amo Lake.”
I wrinkle my nose. “I don’t like fishing. They look so shocked and hurt when you reel them in.”
“You’re such a girl,” he scoffs. “Hmmm,” he crosses his arms across his chest, “I bet I know exactly what you’d like to do on a beautiful day like today.”
“Bet you five bucks you don’t,” I challenge playfully.
“Though I would rather relax by the lake, I will accompany you to the artsy fartsy and cerebral…Phoenix Art Museum.”
My eyes widen and I smile excitedly before I remember the bet and try to hide the eagerness written all over my face.
His shoulders shake with his deep laughter. “You owe me five bucks! Hurry up and get dressed. We have a long drive to the Valley.”
******
The Phoenix Art Museum is bigger than I had imagined. Thousands of square feet of immaculate seamless wood floors were the base for endless white walls and pedestals displaying the treasures of creative souls. Room after room we find new and different paintings, sculptures, animated light displays, fashion designs and when we turn the corner there’s more to see. The first exhibit we come to is the works of Caravaggio. I look up at “David Victorious over Goliath” and immediately think of that poem Joey wrote. I remember the verse: I conquered; brought down. A Davidian defeat. It is over, it is done…Yet I haven’t any peace.
Caravaggio’s painting depicts young David dressed in folds of white cloth having defeated the giant. Assertively, he pins Goliath down with a knee in the back as he tugs on a fistful of his hair. When Joey was young he had defeated his stepfather. The anger inside that spurred Joey to be victorious, to save his mother, had lingered and become a part of him. Now that I understand the architecture of his temper, his anger issues are less scary to me. I comment on the artist’s dramatic use of light and shadow. Uncle Frank nods only half interested. I smile inwardly, appreciating him taking me to the museum even though it isn’t his thing.
Uncle Frank walks towards a painting on another wall while I’m drawn toward Narcissus; another Caravaggio. The painting was inspired by the myth of a beautiful and vain young man named Narcissus who fell in love with his own reflection in a stream. A young man with brown hair leans to stare into the stream at his reflection. He props himself up with his arms on either side of him, one palm on the bank and one hand half in the water. The background of the painting is dark. There is no scenery. It is just washed over with a black oil paint. The white full sleeves of the young man’s shirt and his ivory skin contrast well with the darkness, but the picture is just too dark. Even the water was made murky, painted in a muted dark brown. I want to add some color to it. Maybe the man’s hair, instead of being a flat mousy brown, could be a head of red curls like Joey’s. Joey would have been the perfect subject for the painting. Not because he was vain or a narcissist. Just because he was overall handsome and has, or had, striking hair.
I frown. Why are all my thoughts circling back to Joey? “I should go find another exhibit to look at,” I think aloud. This is supposed to be a well needed break from worrying about Joey and Manny and Dad. Uncle Frank and I discuss a few of the black-and-white photos at the Richard Avedon exhibit and move on to the Dale Chihuly display.
Dale Chihuly’s beautiful multicolored glass sculptures inspired by sea forms are loc
ated in a dark room so that the light sources within each bowl glow supernaturally. It’s like being at the bottom of the ocean where sunlight doesn’t reach and observing iridescent ocean life. Even more breathtaking is the hall with the Chihuly blown glass ceiling. Rippling blue, yellow, red and green sculptures suspended in clear glass form a rectangular light fixture that creates the ceiling of the hallway. The white light behind it is transformed into a soft kaleidoscope splash of color against the walls. Even Uncle Frank has to admit the art piece is amazing. All he can utter is “Wow.” After walking through some other exhibits, we go to the museum’s courtyard. Outside stands a beautiful lighted fountain with streams of water that fall from the top and almost soundlessly into the pool below. As we sit outside admiring the scenery I sniffle and give him a smile. He pats me on the hand. “You’re welcome,” he says.
Uncle Frank spoiled me terribly this afternoon. He bought me a poster in the museum gift shop and then we went to Barrio Café for lunch. We both ordered the mango and shrimp ensalada and chicken quesadillas and he let me have a taste of his margarita. Next we drove to the Biltmore Fashion Park. We strolled through the mall window shopping until we came upon a Tommy Bahama store and Uncle Frank couldn’t resist going in and looking around. Rack after rack of Hawaiian shirts called to him. He bought a few things there and we continued window shopping until I came to Saks Fifth Avenue where a mannequin in the front window was wearing a black velvet equestrian style vest. I dragged Uncle Frank into the store with me and asked about the vest. Unfortunately, the only one they had left was the one on the mannequin and it was too small for me. Then a divine pair of boots caught my eye.
