by April Lurie
She laughs harder and twirls me around, which is not easy when you’re five-four and your partner’s six-three. Next is a slow, bluesy number. While the tattooed girl sings “Send me to the ’lectric chair,” I hold Angie and we slow-dance. I look into her eyes. She smiles at me. “You’re really something, Dylan, you know that?”
“Yeah.” Her lips are so close to mine. It’s now or never. And so I do it. I kiss her. The most amazing thing is that Angie kisses me back. I even hear a small, pleasurable moan escape from her throat. The double whammy of ginseng is really kicking in, and I don’t want to stop. But the next thing I know, Angie’s hands are on my chest. She pushes me away and walks out of the circle. I follow her. “Angie, wait!”
She marches up to Jonathan. “You guys…you planned this whole thing, didn’t you? What was it, some kind of a dare?”
Jonathan shrugs guiltily. “Um, not really. More of a…an experiment, I guess.”
I glare at him. The dude’s honesty is really starting to annoy me.
“Experiment?” Angie says. “Well, isn’t that nice? All right, I can tell you guys right now, that scene is not going to be in my film. In case you don’t realize, the whole beauty of this project is that nothing is staged or forced. The action is natural. I thought the two of you understood that.”
What I want to say to Angie is that kissing her seemed totally natural to me, but instead I hold out my hands and say, “Sorry, Angie. I didn’t mean to mess up your film.”
For a moment it looks like she’s about to say something. Instead, she grabs her camera from Jonathan and storms off.
“See, Dylan, what did I tell you?” Jonathan says. “The girl is obsessed.”
While Angie cools down by the dog run and Jonathan tries his luck against one of the chess hustlers, I stroll to the other side of the park, take a seat on a bench near the hangman’s elm, and try to figure out what just happened between Angie and me. After a few minutes, I decide that I’m still clueless when it comes to girls, so instead I focus my attention on this young, classy-looking black dude on the opposite side of the path. He’s playing an alto sax. At first I’m struck by his appearance—he’s tall, way taller than me, with broad shoulders, huge hands, and a headful of long, thick, silky cornrows. But after listening to him for a while I realize that the guy is a really good musician. In fact, he’s excellent.
After he performs an old blues tune that I vaguely recognize, he starts to play “Little Wing” by Jimi Hendrix. It makes me smile because it’s one of the songs Randy does really well on guitar. As I sit there listening to the deep moan of the sax, in my mind I fill in all the spaces with Randy’s intricate riffs. Soon I forget all the sucky things that have happened to me lately, including Angie’s latest stunt of pushing me away when I was so into kissing her.
When the song is over, I reach into my pocket and pull out a few singles, but as I walk across the path I realize that the guy doesn’t have his case open. He’s sitting down now, cleaning the mouthpiece of his sax with a cloth. I hold out the bills. “Dude,” I say, “that was awesome. Here.”
He glances at the cash and waves it away. “Oh, no, you got it wrong, man. I don’t play for money.” He goes back to cleaning.
“Oh, sorry,” I say, stuffing the bills back into my pocket. “I just…well, I really enjoyed hearing you play.”
He looks up and smiles. “Yeah, I know. I saw you over there, dreaming away on that bench. Are you a Hendrix fan?”
There is something so cool about this guy, I almost want to ask if I can shake his hand in the hopes that some of it will rub off on me. “Sure,” I say, “I like Hendrix, but my brother, Randy—he’s a huge fan. He plays lead guitar and performs a lot of Hendrix’s music.”
He nods, studying me. “How about you? You play?”
“Um, yeah, I do. Mostly classical guitar now, but I used to play a good amount of rock and blues.”
“Well.” He shrugs. “I’ve got time for one more song. Want to join me?” To my surprise, he reaches behind the bench, pulls out a guitar case, and sets it on the ground. “A friend of mine was supposed to show, but he never did. It’s a nice piece. Looks like your name is written all over it.”
I stare at the case in front of me. My stomach is filling with butterflies, and there’s a very good chance that I’ll screw up and make a fool of myself, but when I look into the dude’s eyes I realize that none of that matters. “Yeah, sure,” I say. “Why not?”
After I warm up for a few minutes, we toss around a few ideas and decide on an old Buddy Guy song called “First Time I Met the Blues.” Mostly I strum while the sax takes the lead, and even though I’m a little rusty, I do all right. While we play, I look around for Angie and Jonathan, thinking this would be a pretty cool thing to capture on camera, but I don’t see them anywhere. We wind up jamming for a long time, and when the song finally ends we shake hands and introduce ourselves. I find out that the guy’s name is Paul; he’s a music major at NYU.
“Listen, Dylan,” he says as we’re packing up the instruments. “Next Saturday my friends and I are having a jam session at the student lounge at Sixth and Waverly. Why don’t you come? Invite your brother, too. It’s a real good time. We start about seven-thirty, end about two.” He snaps the last buckle on his saxophone case. I hand him the guitar.
“All right,” I say. “Maybe I will.”
As he takes off down the path, I watch, committing what he said to memory. Next Saturday. Student lounge. Sixth and Waverly. Seven-thirty. Randy is invited. A minute later Paul disappears through the triumphal arch.
As I stand there in the middle of the park, I suddenly realize that there is a place in Greenwich Village I need to visit before I return home today. A place I should have gone a long time ago. It’s at First and Lafayette. Philippe LeBlanc’s studio.
“Dylan?” I turn around and see Angie. She’s standing several feet away, and she looks upset.
“Hey.” I walk over and gently take her hand. “What’s going on?”
She hangs her head. “Listen, about before…I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to say what I did. It’s just, well, everything happened so fast, and honestly, Dylan, I’m not ready for—”
“Whoa, whoa, Angie, it’s all right. Everything’s cool. I understand.”
“You do?” She looks up.
“Yeah, sure. And right now, I need to ask you, my best friend, for a favor. There’s a place I have to go, and I’d like if you’d come with me.”
Fifteen
ANGIE AND I GRAB JONATHAN, who’s already lost twenty bucks to the chess hustlers, and the three of us head south toward First and Lafayette. Along the way I think back to the last time I spoke with my mother. It was a few days before my arrest; she was getting ready for her trip to Paris and had called and asked if Randy and I would stop by Philippe’s studio. She wanted to say goodbye and to show us some of her pieces on display.
“You can’t be serious, Mom,” I said. “I mean, you’re the one who walked out on us. And now you’re off to Paris, and you want us to stop by Philippe’s studio? Just like that? I don’t think so.”
There was silence on the other end, and after a while a sniffle. She was crying. Good, I thought. Let her cry. “Dylan? Honey, listen, I know this is hard for you. It is for me, too, but please, try to understand—”
I didn’t let her say one more word. I slammed down the phone and walked away. She didn’t call back.
Now, as we reach First and Lafayette, I stop outside Philippe’s place and peer through the window. It’s a combination studio–art gallery where Philippe works and sells his paintings along with pieces by some other artists in the neighborhood. Inside, customers are milling about and the receptionist is answering questions. I don’t see what I’m looking for, so I continue through a winding passage that leads to a back room filled with more paintings. Angie and Jonathan follow. When I see my mother’s pieces hanging on the wall, I almost fall over.
There are three, and I recognize each
image from old family photographs. The first is a watercolor of Randy when he was six or seven. He’s sitting atop my dad’s car and plucking this old, beat-up ukulele with a look of pure determination on his face. The next is a pastel of me strolling through our little garden in the backyard when I was two or three. In one of my hands is a rusty watering can, and in the other a huge yellow rose.
But the one that really gets to me is the third piece. It’s an oil painting of my dad standing outside Jerry’s Ice Cream Parlor in Brooklyn. Randy, a toddler, is pressed up against his leg, slurping down what looks like a root beer float, and I, a baby, am seated on my dad’s hip with my mouth open, ready to take a bite of his cone. The way my mother painted it, you can’t tell where one of us begins and the other ends.
“Excuse me, miss? Please, put away the camera. You’re not allowed to take pictures inside the gallery.” I turn around and see Angie filming my mother’s paintings. She’s in kind of a trance and doesn’t seem to hear the receptionist. “Miss, I said put away the camera.”
I look at Jonathan; he shrugs. Next I hear a familiar voice saying, “No, no, Sarah, it’s all right. I know them.” There are footsteps across the wood floor. I turn and face Philippe. “Dylan? I…thought that was you.”
It’s kind of funny. I spent the past few months trying to hate the dude, but suddenly I remember how much I used to like him. Unlike Jonathan Reed, Philippe is the kind of person who could get away with being pretentious if he wanted to, since he’s this really great artist and a renowned professor and owns this fabulous studio to boot, but the truth is he’s pretty humble and a genuinely nice guy. I look around the room. It’s no wonder my mother left us for him. For this new life in the Village. Given the choice, who wouldn’t? “Yeah, well, I was in the neighborhood,” I say, “so I figured I’d stop by.”
He nods. “I’m glad you did. Your mother was so eager for you to see these pieces before we left. We would have taken them to Paris, but the show was strictly abstract. Anyway, she’ll be right back. She just stepped out for coffee. We’re both a little jet-lagged.” He motions toward the wall. “But tell me, what do you think?”
I look at the paintings and a hot lump wells up in my throat. They’re good—great, even—but I can’t help feeling betrayed. Why should my mother be allowed to paint us? Hang our family’s memories on the wall of Philippe’s studio for the whole world to see? It doesn’t seem fair. “Um, I don’t know, I—”
Suddenly I feel a hand on my back. It’s Angie. “Dylan,” she whispers. “Your mom’s here. Why don’t you talk to her? Jonathan and I will wait for you outside.”
I turn and see my mom standing in the hallway. She’s holding a tray with two foam cups. She’s dressed in clothes I’ve never seen before—a multicolored scarf, an alpaca sweater, suede boots with long fringes. No more doctor’s wife. Now it’s my mother, the hippie. She looks happy to see me and frightened at the same time. Angie and Jonathan disappear down the hallway. Philippe goes over and takes the tray from my mom’s hand. Before he leaves, he gives her shoulder a gentle squeeze. Suddenly, we’re alone.
“Dylan?” she says, taking a few steps toward me. Already I can smell her. Milled soap with lavender. When I was a kid and I had a fever she’d put a cool washcloth on my forehead that smelled of the same thing. Part of me wants to run over and hug her the way I did when I was little, when she and my dad would return from a long trip, but my feet are pinned to the floor. “I’m so glad you came, honey. I called the house earlier, but—”
“Why’d you do it?” I demand, pointing to the wall. “Why’d you paint us? You had no right.”
She stops and opens her mouth, but nothing comes out.
“What do you think, Mom? You can paint a few pictures and pretend like everything’s okay? Like we’re one big happy family?”
“No,” she says, in barely a whisper. “That’s not what I—”
“Face it, Mom. You left. You just picked up and left. And now, do you even know what’s going on at home? Do you have any clue?”
“I…think I might, but—”
“Well, just in case you don’t, let me fill you in. You see, Dad doesn’t really live with us anymore. He camps out at the hospital. But whenever he does show up, he sits for hours in your studio, petting your mangy three-legged cat and staring into space like a zombie. And then there’s Randy, who gets stoned all the time with his idiotic friends. He doesn’t draw anymore, doesn’t even write his own music. And then of course there’s me, the one who’s left holding it all together.” I can feel the blood pounding in my ears. It’s the most I’ve said to my mother in months, and it feels good.
“Dylan,” she says, taking a few more steps toward me. “I understand that you’re angry, and you have a right to be. I’m concerned about your father and Randy and you. But sometimes life isn’t so simple. People have to make their own decisions. We need to talk, work things out. All of us. I’m planning to come home next weekend. Maybe we can sit down and—”
“Forget it,” I say. “Don’t bother. Just…” I point to the wall. “Talk to your paintings. I’m sure they’ll tell you everything you want to hear.” I walk past her. “Hope you had a great time in Paris.” I race through the winding hall and out the front door. I hear my mother calling my name, but I don’t turn around.
As promised, Angie and Jonathan are waiting for me outside. “Let’s go,” I say. “I never want to come back here again.”
Angie doesn’t ask any questions. She just holds my hand on the train ride back to Brooklyn. The three of us get off at Ninety-fifth Street and walk silently along the water. “Call me, Dylan,” Angie says when we reach her house. “I’ll be working on edits tonight, but you’re welcome to come over.”
“Thanks,” I say. “But I don’t think I’d be much company.” I kiss her on the cheek and give Jonathan one of those lame slap-grip handshakes. “Later, dude,” I say. “Thanks for saving my butt inside the Cage.”
He nods. “Again, Dylan, the saying holds true. ‘A man’s errors are his portals of discovery.’”
When I get home I’m greeted by a cacophony of drums, guitars, and heavy-metal screeches thumping through the floorboards of our house. The Sewer Rats are in the basement, and their music is a perfect backdrop for the battle raging inside our kitchen. My dad, still in his scrubs, is pacing the floor and ranting about ungrateful teenagers and their asinine ideas while Randy leans against the refrigerator, arms across his chest. Vanya is waving around a teakettle, yelling, “Dr. Fontaine! Randy! Please, sit down! I’ll make tea!”
When my dad sees me, his eyes grow wild. “Dylan! Tell me right now. Did you know about this?” I don’t think I’ve ever seen him this delirious. He points accusingly at Randy. “Did you know your brother was planning to drop out of school and go on tour with those…those freaks in our basement?”
Uh-oh. Now the shit has really hit the fan. “Um…” I look at Randy, wondering who spilled the beans. Maybe Moser, but probably Headbone in a Heineken-induced stupor. Randy’s eyes meet mine for a second; then he does this fake yawn that really pisses off my dad. I’d like to tell my father that I think Randy is making a huge mistake, but right now I don’t think that will fly. “Well,” I say. “Yeah, I sort of knew. I guess.”
My dad throws up his hands. “You sort of knew? I don’t believe this!” He goes back to pacing the floor. “Well, that’s just great. I guess I’m the last one to find out. And now I have to tell your mother.” He stops and glares at Randy. “I must say, Randy, you picked the perfect day to drop the bomb. The day she returns from Paris. Right when she was looking forward to seeing you.”
Randy snorts and mumbles something under his breath. This really sets my dad off. “What was that?” he demands. “What did you just say?”
My stomach tightens. No, Randy, don’t.
Defiantly, he looks at my dad. “I said, ‘Yeah, right.’ As if Mom really cares. Like she really wants to see us. You know, for once, I wish someone in our screwed
-up family would just come out and say the truth. That Mom left us for some hotshot artist in the Village so she could pursue her career, whatever that means. And that you, Dad, hate being around your own kids, so you hire a maid to cook and clean and make sure the police don’t show up at our front door.”
“Watch your mouth, Randy!” my dad says.
“Oh, no,” Randy goes on. “I’m finished with that. I don’t have to listen to you. Remember? I’m leaving. And now”—he gestures toward me—“you’ll have one perfect son. The kid who does everything right. The one who never screws up. You think I’m stupid, Dad? You think I don’t know how much you’d love to get rid of me?”
My dad is so angry, he’s shaking. An animal noise rises in his throat. He bolts toward Randy and smacks him across the face. “Get out!” he screams. “Get out of here, now!”
Vanya gasps in horror.
“Dad!” I say, pulling him away. “Stop! Don’t!”
It takes Randy a moment to register what’s happened. My father has never hit either one of us before. Randy touches the side of his face and blinks a few times. The room is quiet; all you can hear is the water beginning to simmer in the teakettle. In the basement the music has stopped, and the next thing I hear are feet pounding up the stairs. The door swings open and out walk Moser, Headbone, and Nick, followed by four members of the Sewer Rats decked out in black leather, chains, and thick eyeliner. “Get out, all of you!” my dad yells. “You’re not welcome here!” Quickly they file out the back door.
Randy glares at my father. Randy’s fists are clenched. It looks like he might strike back, but he doesn’t. He grabs his jacket and bolts. The door slams behind him.
