~
Kyle walked up the path to Artie’s stoop, glancing down both ends of the street. He hoped the cover of night colored him less white. Although feeling conspicuous, something about venturing completely out of his element eased his anguish. Part of him hoped Leila might have called in sick for work, that he would see her and could explain how bad he felt for pushing her away, but a larger part just wanted to see Artie. He tapped the front door.
Artie cracked the door and then opened it wide. “Angel ain’t here, son. She’s working tonight.”
“Actually, sir, I came to see you.” He pulled the harmonica from his pocket. “I hoped you could give me a few pointers.”
Artie smiled toothlessly. “Well come on in, son.”
Kyle stepped into the dim room. It felt much different without the other old men and Leila. It smelled different, too—much more like the closet and Vicks and less like pot.
“Let me go get my teef,” Artie said.
Sinking into the sofa, Kyle waited.
When Artie returned with teeth and his harmonica, he sat beside Kyle. “Go on, then, let’s hear it.”
Kyle pulled himself to the edge of the cushion, inhaled and puckered, hitting all the notes of “Oh Susanna,” nearly flawlessly. Artie grinned wide, the kitchen light reflecting off his big choppers. After a quick pause, Kyle led into the second tune, “Home on the Range,” drawing out the notes with bluesy emphasis.
“Oh, you sure got some blues in your heart, son.”
Kyle smiled, though his spirits had not lifted. “Yeah,” he half chuckled. “You’ve got to teach me a song about being in love with two women at the same time.”
“Oh, there’s plenty two-timing blues.”
“I’m not exactly a two-timer. I’m in love with one, but can’t stop thinking about another.”
“Oh that’s a good one.” Artie set his harp aside, picked up his guitar, strings sticking out of the headstock, and put music to Kyle’s words. Kyle attempted to play along on his harmonica.
Artie sat back and sighed. “I sure been there before ….”
“Two-timing?”
“Oh yeah, but that ain’t what broke my heart—that ain’t what made me sing the bluest blues.” Artie wrestled himself free from the cushions and staggered toward a nearby dresser, supporting himself on chairs along the way. He chuckled. “Sittin’ too long.”
He pulled the top drawer. From an old shoebox, he lifted a worn square of paper and returned to Kyle. “Real pretty, ain’t she?”
Kyle took the small faded, black-and-white photograph from his hand and glanced at the tall and slender beauty. She appeared fair skinned and blond. Kyle returned the dog-eared memento.
“That were back in the day when no Negro man dared touch a white girl … but I sure did.” Artie gazed at the photo as if slipping back in time. As he stroked the image, his lips curled with sad longing, and he shook his head. “It caused some awful trouble … some things they just ain’t no fixin’, son. Sometimes love just ain’t enough … that’s why you sing the blues … ’cause that’s all you can do.”
Artie picked up his own harp and wailed on it, his eyes glistening. Kyle tried to play along, and even though he didn’t play well, it did make him feel better, like he’d had a good cry.
After a few minutes, Artie started to cough. “Get me some water, son, and then I’ll show you how to bend some notes.”
Kyle fetched water. As promised, Artie guided him through the ins and outs of pouring his heart into the blues.
“That, son, is the way you make your harp cry.”
Chapter 19
Leila pulled her bag of smuggled popcorn from beneath her parka and set it in the seat beside her. Only a handful of other movie viewers occupied the small theater. She didn’t expect any different. Often, when she and her father had spent Christmas Day at the movies, they’d had the place to themselves.
She sank into her seat, reading the local ads and celebrity trivia flashing across the screen. She picked at her popcorn, trying to make it last.
I couldn’t care less about John Travolta or Olivia Newton John!
Leila opted out on Saturday Night Fever—what self-respecting blues aficionado would be caught dead watching disco? And she couldn’t imagine sitting through The Goodbye Girl—Richard Dreyfuss was not the romantic lead she cared to stare at for two hours. Not that Mel Brooks was a hunk, but she liked Alfred Hitchcock and a parody might lift her mood, so High Anxiety won out.
After the movie ended, she remained in her seat as the theater emptied. A different few viewers trickled in. As the lights dimmed a second time, a lanky figure entered the theater. She did a double take. As Mr. Myles scanned the empty seats and then navigated toward her, a surge of conflicting emotions swelled her chest. Had he planned this or simply picked the same movie by chance? She wanted both to be true. She choked up as he carried a large bucket of popcorn and two Cokes. How could such an invasion feel so welcome? Without a word, he sat one seat over, setting the refreshment caddy between them.
“I could sit somewhere else, if you’d prefer,” he said.
She swallowed to repress a smile. “No, you’re okay.”
“How’s the movie?”
“If you like ridiculous, it’s pretty good—kind of clever in places.”
Second time around, Leila picked up on more of the subtle humor. To her amazement, Mr. Myles actually chuckled. She even caught a glimpse of a smile. Her stare drew his attention for a few tentative moments before they returned to the movie.
As the lights came back up, so did Leila’s apprehension. Would he now leave?
Myles sank deeper into his seat, crossing his ankle over his knee in repose. She stared at the screen but caught his glance in her peripheral vision. He likely hoped she would say something, but what?
“Rough month, huh?” he said.
She rolled her eyes, weighing gratitude against annoyance. “That’s an understatement.”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
She shrugged.
Myles said nothing, as if she would fill the silence.
She sighed. “I wouldn’t even know where to begin.”
“You could tell me what’s going on between you and Kyle.”
“Kyle seems to think I’m messing things up between him and Maryanne.”
“I see.”
“No you don’t.”
“Sure I do. You like Kyle and he likes you, and his girlfriend doesn’t like that.”
So, he did get it. “Why do I always have to get mixed up with unattainable guys?”
“This is a pattern for you, is it?”
“Apparently.”
Myles’ brow rose.
Leila chased a kernel around the bottom of the popcorn bucket.
“Well, I figured as much about you and Kyle,” he folded his arms, “but I’m more concerned to hear that you might not be running with the track team this spring, after all.”
“Where did you hear that?”
“In the staff lounge.”
Her eyes gaped.
“Oh yes.” His fingers drumrolled his arm. “It’s quite the rumor mill.”
“Who did you hear it from?”
“Why, Ms. Thorpe, of course. It has been her observation that Coach Brigham and you—I think the expression she used was—‘scarcely acknowledge each other.’”
Her posture drooped.
“I won’t ask if you’d rather I don’t.”
He had figured it out. Why did he bother to ask when he already knew the answers? “I’m not just some silly schoolgirl who goes around getting crushes on cute teachers, you know.”
“I would never—ever—associate the word silly with you.”
She didn’t doubt his sincerity, but defiance straightened her shoulders. She would test his reaction to a blatant confession, and looked him in the eye. “I’m in love with Ian Brigham.” Even as the words slipped out, she doubted the truth of it. On the other hand, if she wa
sn’t in love, how could it hurt so bad?
Myles said nothing, he simply studied her face.
“How pathetic is that?” she said.
“Love only feels pathetic when you can entertain no hope of seeing it through.”
Leila matched his folded arms. “Well, I guess that’s pretty much the story of my life.”
He blew out a long breath. “I’ll tell you what’s pathetic. Sitting in a movie theater with your math teacher on Christmas Day with an empty popcorn bucket.” He stood. “I’m going to make a pit stop and get refills.”
“I could use a restroom myself.” She followed him out of the theater. He seemed like a different man than the one who had walked in.
When she returned, Myles had already claimed his seat. She sat right beside him this time. For the first few minutes she squirmed, wishing she had kept their comfortable distance, but as the next set of previews began, she didn’t give it another thought. Every time he chuckled, it broadened her own smile.
“Well, I don’t know about you,” Myles said when the movie ended, “but I think if I watch this one more time I’ll be ready for the ‘Psycho-Neurotic Institute for the Very Very Nervous.’ Let’s get dinner somewhere.”
“Is that allowed?” she whispered.
“Why wouldn’t it be?”
“Because, you know. I’m your student.”
“So, you think that makes it inappropriate?”
“I don’t know—isn’t it?”
“I suppose if you wanted to get technical, some might find fault with it, though I’m not given to arbitrary prohibitions that don’t pertain to real life.”
“We wouldn’t get in trouble, would we?”
“Not unless one of us has a crush on the other, and I can assure you I don’t.”
“Yuck! Neither do I!”
“Then we’re good.”
“Is there even going to be a place that’s open?”
“Yeah, there’s a diner nearby that’s run by Jehovah’s Witnesses. They don’t care if it’s Christmas. Best part is, it won’t be decorated, and there won’t be any Christmas music playing. It’s the favorite Grinch hangout.”
“Yay,” she said, happy to have him follow her out.
~
The diner bell jingled as Leila and Myles entered together. She stifled self-consciousness, the thought of anyone drawing conclusions. Perhaps she and her teacher simply appeared as father and daughter.
“They serve an excellent quiche,” he said as she claimed a booth. The waitress arrived with a coffee carafe, unaffected at the sight of them. Myles turned his cup upright. “Please.”
Leila settled in. “I’ve never had quiche.”
“No?”
“I kind of grew up on burgers and pizza.”
“Feeling adventurous?”
“Of course.”
“Two quiches,” he told the waitress. “And a side salad.”
“Salad for me, too.”
Myles assumed his usual repose, his arms across his chest. He smiled faintly, deepening yet softening his crow’s feet, warming the blue of his eyes. He didn’t look at her the way her father sometimes had as if trying to unlock some hidden trove to which he had lost the key. On occasion, when she had lent him access, he had slammed the lid shut with impatience and judgment. Instead, Myles’ eyes coaxed her comfort, promising acceptance.
She matched his pose and stared, wishing he held the answers to all her uncertainties.
He studied her face. “Do you have something on your mind?”
Her gaze moved all around the table and then settled back on him. “Maybe.”
“Shall I get out my dentistry tools and extract it?” He continued his stare.
“It’s just that—” her eyes rolled, “—it’s not easy to talk about.”
“Just say it.”
“Okay. How come, you know—sex—changes things?”
His brow arched, but not as high as she expected. Now, his gaze moved all around the table but settled back on her.
“Oftentimes, the reality of a sexual experience does not measure up to the fantasy.” He paused, as if allowing her a moment to grasp his words. “Unfulfilled expectations can change a relationship. Even if initially fulfilled, expectations don’t always remain the same.”
She twisted her mouth, trying to understand.
“Think of it as an equation, with expectations on one side and reality on the other. Reality is the constant. If the fantasy and expectations don’t add up, one of them has to change.”
“But why would sex between two people change things with someone else?”
“Because that third party, whether she wants to admit it or not, may be part of the equation.”
Leila had inadvertently become part of Kyle and Maryanne’s equation—she understood that. “I’ll have to think on that.”
“Anything else?”
“Actually, yes.” She required no further coaxing. “Could I ask about your kid?”
He blinked slowly. “What did you want to know?”
“Did you have a son or daughter?”
He drew in an uneasy breath. “A daughter.”
She wanted to ask what happened to her, but didn’t want to throw off her objective. Instead, she asked, “Is that why you’ve taken an interest in me?”
He seemed to mull over the question. “I take an interest in you, Leila Sanders, because I like you.”
“You do?”
“Is that so hard to fathom?”
“I guess I was under the impression that you didn’t like anyone.”
He bit his lip. “Generally speaking, I suppose it’s true that I’m not a people person.”
“So, then, why do you like me?”
“Because, Leila—you are a bright and intelligent young lady. You have a great deal of potential.”
“Do all your bright and intelligent students with potential get this kind of attention?”
“No, but then, they don’t have a need.”
“You think I’m needy?”
“I think you have enough dignity and insight to know the answer to that question.”
“I don’t need your attention,” she said, her self-sufficiency wrestling her loneliness. “But I appreciate it. I think I might even miss you after midterms.”
“Are you sure you don’t want to move on to calculus with Kyle?”
“I won’t miss you that much. Besides, you can still torment me in homeroom.”
“Indeed,” he said as the waitress brought their meal. They ate in comfortable silence as Leila savored every bite.
“You like quiche,” he said blotting his mouth with a napkin.
Her lips smacked. “It’s amazing! Where has quiche been all my life?”
“Just waiting for your discovery.”
~
Ian elbowed his way through Karen’s crowded living room, making his way toward the bathroom. He flipped the light switch, unzipped, and relieved himself of more beers than he usually drank in one sitting. The shower stall to his side reminded him of the last time he and Karen had messed around in there. As he washed his hands, he ran cold water and splashed his numbing cheeks, hoping to cool off and sober up.
As he stepped back into the hall, Karen’s guests were counting down to midnight. She approached with a fresh beer and handed it to him.
“Three … two … one,” the crowd chanted and Karen moved in close and kissed him in that particular, irresistible way. He did resist, at least initially.
“Stick around,” she breathed in his ear and retreated.
‘Stick around’—Do I want to stick around? The taste of her lingered on his lips. He took a long swallow of beer to wash it away, but old images of her—of their lovemaking—lingered.
Setting his beer aside, he loosened his collar and then cracked the sliding-glass door of her balcony. Brisk air cooled his sweating forehead as he slipped outside. He’d had too much to drink. Just a few minutes of fresh air and a coffee should brin
g him around. He reentered the living room as guests began to thin.
“Mind if I start a pot of coffee,” he said as Karen ushered a few others out the door.
She smiled, “You know your way around—help yourself.”
He fumbled about her kitchen. Within minutes, the pot started percolating, and he headed for the living room. Tired and lethargic, he sank into the sofa, another place they had wrestled and tumbled. Across the room, Karen smoothed her little black dress over her hips as she bade her last guest goodnight. He intended to leave, but had he waited too long? The aroma of coffee brought him to the edge of the sofa, bracing himself to stand. Karen approached, unzipping her dress.
“I’ll get the coffee ….” Her dress slipped to the floor.
When he halfway came to his feet, she stood over him and pushed him back into the cushions.
He sighed. “This is not getting coffee—”
“What’s your hurry, Ian?”
“I’m not sure this is a great idea,” he said, his eyes all over her.
“A little one-night stand won’t hurt, for ‘Auld Lang Syne.’” She came down on top of him, kissing him on the mouth and then his neck.
He wanted her—wanted intimacy—so bad. He exhaled, “Oh, Leila ….”
She pushed herself up off him. “What?”
“What?” He suddenly realized his slip. “Oh, jeez, Karen, I’m so sorry, I didn’t—”
“Don’t you dare tell me you didn’t mean it!” She sprung from the couch and grabbed her dress, trying to cover herself. “Get out!”
Chapter 20
Midterm exams absorbed the second week of January. On the day that regularly scheduled classes resumed, Leila checked the short-term forecast. Wind, rain, and plummeting temperatures. She drove to school instead of running.
Eighty-one percent earned her a passing grade in trigonometry, officially ending her tutoring with Kyle. After homeroom, she proceeded to home economics where she hoped to learn how to really cook—perhaps even something as fancy as quiche. Other than that, her schedule remained the same, except for the last class of the day; her semester-long reprieve from gym under Ms. Thorpe had expired.
Portrait of a Girl Running Page 17
