Walk on Water

by Garner, Josephine

  Inspecting myself carefully in the bathroom mirror at work I felt very prudent and thought I looked good. Luke had told me that his mother was getting an award for her museum patronage tonight, making the event even more special. Supporting the arts was a family tradition with them. I supported Public Television, but Mommy had cable so it was hard to get her to even go to the movies. She talked about Broadway plays, musicals mostly, but she would never go to the theater when the road shows came to town. She had her favorite Gospel singers but she was content to play their CDs in the privacy of her home.

  I wondered what it would be like to see the Sterlings again. Since I had never measured up to Betty Sterling’s standards, honestly I didn’t expect to tonight. Luke had e-mailed me the event ticket and instructions for accessing the reserved parking deck at the museum, and although I already knew how to get there, I had nevertheless programmed my GPS with the museum’s address. Leaving the office at six-thirty meant that I would have to rush to make it to the museum by seven, when Luke was expecting me. Traffic could be unpredictable, but I didn’t want to arrive exactly at seven anyway, although I didn’t want to be very late either. As a rule, Luke was punctual and I didn’t want to make him wait for me, but again I must not look too eager.

  The parking instructions worked without a hitch and by 7:05 I was parking my Corolla at the end of a row populated by luxury cars and SUVs. Walking towards the garage elevators I passed by Luke’s Mercedes in one of the handicap spaces, so yes, as expected he was already here.

  I rode up to the main floor entrance to the museum with an elderly couple who smiled at me and said hello. The woman wore a fur stole—mink I guessed—and too much perfume, reinforcing my devotion to Juniper Breeze. Bright red filled the crevices on the woman’s cheeks and drew attention to her thinning lips. My own makeup was much lighter providing hardly any color at all, and the wrap I wore against the November night was some kind of rayon/wool blend that could be machine-washed on the delicate cycle. When the elevator doors opened the woman stepped out, but the man, who was very courtly in his demeanor, waited, holding the doors open for me.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “Enjoy your evening,” he returned.

  The couple proceeded ahead of me to the coat-check counter, where the man helped the woman take off her stole. He gave it to a young woman in a server’s uniform, who then gave him a numbered card that he slipped into his pocket. Perhaps I should do the same with my wrap. Under normal circumstances, that being a regular afternoon at the museum, when I would most likely be wearing jeans and loafers, I would have tied the wrap around my waist. This, however, was not a normal circumstance. I could already hear the live music coming from the center lobby, strings mostly playing a classical piece. I checked my wrap.

  “Enjoy your evening,” the woman said with a smile.

  “Thank-you,” I replied.

  I would tip her when I returned to claim my wrap at the end of the evening. Skipping one last check in a bathroom mirror, I walked quickly passed the women’s restroom and came into the center lobby, where a number of well-dressed people moved about or stood in clusters talking. I didn’t see anyone to take my ticket, but after all it was a very high-brow affair, the ticket was probably only a formality in case someone looked out of place, and apparently I had cleared the unseen security.

  The museum did look more elegant with the autumn night filling the floor-to-ceiling windows for a back-drop and the impressive ice sculpture in the center of the well-laid buffet table. Not of dolphins—thank God. There was a small stage set-up in the middle of the room with a podium and a table covered with a red table cloth and red bunting. On the table were a number of crystal trophies and plaques.

  It wasn’t just the setting however, the people made the event elegant too. Tonight there were no elementary school children filing through the lobby wearing their matching uniforms and stick-on name tags. There were no tourists in tennis shoes wearing fanny-packs, or visitors in blue jeans wearing their sweaters around their waists. Everywhere there was the well-to-do, like the couple on the elevator, men in expensive suits and women in fine jewelry, and uniformed servers mingling among them carrying silver trays of wine and champagne. Perhaps I was too under-dressed. Think office-chic, I consoled myself.

  Luke’s was not the only wheelchair in the lobby; an older woman, who was wearing a long black dress and gold flats, sat in one, surrounded by a small group whose members kept bending down to hear her when she spoke. One of the annoying things about requiring a wheelchair, Luke had told me, was the constant need to look up at the world. “At least when you’re a kid,” he had said. “You know you’re going to grow out of it.” The older woman’s chair was one of the old-fashioned types with a high back, metal side panels, and separate footrests. The type you aged into. Luke’s chair was sleek and sporty, truly a part of him, and he had been thrust into it too young.

  I continued to scan the crowd until I spotted Luke’s chair from the back. I smiled. Corrine was still talking about his beautiful body. He was magnificent; even though I had thought I would either kill her or die of embarrassment when she had called him that. As Corrine had predicted, he was wearing a suit suitable for the office. It was a very dark gray, almost black. My green blouse and black skirt would complement what he was wearing nicely, and I silently thanked Corrine for that much.

  Luke was with his parents and another couple. Mr. Sterling’s voiced boomed over the sophisticated din and I could hear his laugh from across the room. I had always liked Mr. Sterling. Mrs. Sterling was wearing a flawless, knee-length, black sheath dress with long lace sleeves, and of course a pair of very high heels. Breathing deeply I walked confidently towards them. This was it, my re-entry into Luke’s high society, in a sense my second debut, and it was Mrs. Sterling who saw me first.

  “Rachel!” she called my name brightly. “Hello, dear.”

  I was reminded of meeting her in the mall that day. Would she hug me again? Pivoting his chair, Luke smiled warmly at me.

  “Good evening,” I said to everyone.

  “You made it,” Luke said catching my hand and pulling me down to him for the customary kiss hello.

  A kiss on the lips. In front of his parents. And their friends. It was so much better than an admission ticket, and he smelled wonderful too, woodsy, spicy. Standing straight again, I met Mrs. Sterling’s eyes. Her smile was so broad that I caught a glimpse of her bridge work. Diamonds shone in her ears. She wore a diamond brooch.

  “We were beginning to worry,” she said. “The traffic must have been terrible.”

  But I wasn’t really late.

  “No, it was okay,” I replied.

  “Oh well,” she continued. “Just a dedicated public servant then, I guess. You couldn’t tear yourself away. I hope there wasn’t a crisis.”

  Had I done something wrong? Luke had said seven. It couldn’t be later than 7:15.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Parker, Rachel Cunningham,” Luke introduced me to the other couple, who took turns politely shaking my hand.

  When I moved to shake Mr. Sterling’s hand, he refused.

  “Come here!” he ordered throwing his arms around me instead. “It’s so good to see you, Rachel!” Holding me out in front of him, he squeezed my shoulders. He was strong like his son. “How long has it been?” asked Mr. Sterling. “Twenty years? How’s your mother?”

  “Very well,” I replied, appreciative that he had remembered Mommy.

  The Sterling men had always been nicer to us. But perhaps I should have gone home and changed. My only jewelry was the office-sized gold earrings. I didn’t own any expensive jewelry. Robert had given me a diamond engagement ring and my wedding band had had diamonds too, but I had given the rings back to him in the divorce settlement. Although Mommy had been impressed with the rings, insisting that I get a French manicure for my wedding day to better show them off, I had just never liked them very much, so it had made sense to give them back to Robert. Perhaps one day he wo
uld give them to someone else who would like them, and love him.

  What had Christina done with her rings? I remembered that they had been extravagant, as was befitting the union of two such prominent families, but they had also been so out of character for Luke that I believed that Christina must have picked them out herself. Some women did that, preferring to choose all of the rings including the husband’s, but not me. It didn’t fit with my undoubtedly idealized notions about marriage. To me it made it too mercantile, like it was a business proposition. There might as well be a dowry.

  “Luke and Rachel were college classmates,” Mrs. Sterling was explaining to the Parkers.

  “She was my tutor,” added Luke, winking at me.

  “You were mine,” I replied, smiling at him.

  “Looks like we have us a mutual admiration society going on here,” observed Mr. Parker.

  “Lucas was an upper classmen when they became acquainted,” said Mrs. Sterling. “He was kind enough to take Rachel under his wing, and you became like a big brother to her, didn’t you dear?”

  Poor Little Orphan Annie. Luke didn’t answer, but there was no need to.

  “The years have been good to you, Rachel,” Mr. Sterling pronounced. “Just as fresh-faced as ever.”

  Yes, just another all-American-girl-next-door, except that I was not from the right neighborhood.

  “Thank you, Mr. Sterling,” I said as I stepped back and stood next to Luke.

  “It’s her trend line,” Luke said placing his hand at the small of my back for an instant before letting it glide lightly over my butt.

  I quivered fleetingly. Was that gesture intentional? I glanced down at Luke but he wasn’t looking at me.

  “What does that mean?” asked Mrs. Parker about the trend line comment.

  “Inside joke,” Luke answered.

  “You young people,” Mrs. Parker fussed. “Always speaking in code.”

  It was funny to think of myself and Luke as young people, but I supposed to them we were. Luke’s hand was on my back again.

  “And being of legal age,” he said. “How ‘bout a glass of wine, Rachel?”

  “That would be nice,” I nodded looking around for a server.

  “If you’ll excuse us,” Luke said to his parents and the Parkers, turning his chair.

  “Don’t go too far, Lucas,” Mrs. Sterling admonished him. “The ceremony will begin promptly at seven-thirty, and you’ll have to be down front in order to see.”

  “Don’t worry, Mother, I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” he replied as he wheeled away with me following.

  Once we had our wine, Luke led us to a spot where there was a padded bench so that I could sit down too. I handed him his glass.

  “Hope it’s okay,” he said. “But I made us dinner reservations for nine-thirty at the Grecian Urn.”

  “‘Fair youth, beneath the trees,” I recited John Keats wistfully. “Thou canst not leave. Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare; bold lover, never, never canst thou kiss, though winning near the goal—yet, do not grieve.”

  Luke was smiling.

  “Do you remember that?” I asked him.

  “If I told you yes what would you say?” he asked me.

  “‘Beauty is truth, truth beauty,’” I answered smiling back.

  “With a fresh face,” he replied.

  After all this time, was my face still fresh to Luke too?

  “We could eat here, you know,” I suggested. “It is a catered affair after all.”

  “I’d prefer to keep my hands free for other things,” said Luke.

  “Cheers,” he added tapping his glass to mine.

  Yes, of course, I thought. There was more than enough for his hands to do. Besides I wouldn’t have been comfortable enough to eat a thing here anyway, since I’d be too afraid of spilling something, or getting something stuck in my teeth.

  “So this is how the other half lives,” I said looking around. “Quite the shindig. A string quartet and everything. Your mother must be excited about getting her award.”

  “Seems a little over the top for Ansel Adams, if you ask me,” replied Luke.

  “’Course it’s not all about Ansel Adams. And don’t be a snob in reverse, Lucas Sterling,” I scolded him. “People like to have a reason to dress-up. I rode the elevator from the garage with a lady who was wearing a mink stole. I didn’t know people even did that anymore.”

  “It was probably fifty-years old,” said Luke. “And a gift for her 25th wedding anniversary.”

  “You’re awful,” I laughed. “She wasn’t that old.”

  “Look around us, Rachel. We are, in fact, the young people.”

  “We are not the only ones,” I reminded him. “And I think it’s very nice. Thank you for inviting me.”

  “Thank you for coming,” he said and grinned. “I wasn’t sure if Brian would let you.”

  “How’s Stephanie?” I immediately returned his serve.

  “Maybe about as good as Brian,” the ball swiftly came back over the net.

  “Then I guess she’s fine,” I said sending the ball back. “Even if you did choose your college protégé over her.”

  “Is that who you are to me?”

  The look in his eyes stole my breath.

  “Well perhaps former college protégé,” I quickly said.

  “Green is your color,” Luke said changing the subject.

  “This old thing,” I replied dismissively.

  “Is it?” asked Luke as if he already knew the answer.

  “Okay,” I replied. “Truth or dare?”

  “Beauty is truth, truth beauty,” he repeated my line.

  “I bought it for tonight. The shoes too,” I added looking down at my feet to admire them.

  The view also included Luke’s shoes. His were black wingtips, polished to a high gloss, and still. Always still. As the paintings on Keats’ Grecian urn.

  “Don’t you think they’re cute,” I said about my shoes. “Corrine says they’re frumpy, but I like them.”

  “Does that mean I’m your hot date?” asked Luke.

  It was my cheeks that burned while I sipped my wine.

  “The beautiful truth, Rachel,” he reminded me.

  I met his eyes again and answered.

  “Yes.”

  Luke was quiet.

  “You must think I’m silly,” I said.

  “Why would I?” he asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  He shook his head.

  “You really don’t, do you?” he asked.

  Turning up his glass, Luke finished the wine and set the glass on the padded bench next to me. Then he glanced at his watch. “We better go assume the position,” he said.

  By the time the museum director came to the podium, I was standing with the Sterlings down front. The older woman in the old-fashioned wheelchair had also been brought down front, one of the members of her entourage pushing her chair. Luke was too fiercely independent for that. He managed his chair by himself. I could tell he didn’t even like it when someone tried to hold the door for him. He navigated everything on his own, undaunted by high thresholds and uncut curbs. That one time in the parking lot had been a lesson, and now it was kind of a joke between us, just another one of Rachel’s goofy moments that seemed to endear me to him. Maybe I really was his comical sidekick.

  The museum director seemed to be trying to make quick work of the award presentations to give us plenty of time to enjoy the exhibits, although the museum was going to remain open until ten o’clock. Near the end of the ceremony, the director called Mrs. Sterling’s name, and she went up to receive her award, Docent of the Year. The director handed her one of the larger crystal trophies. As it had been for everyone, there was another round of applause and Mrs. Sterling beamed happily.

  Commensurate with the prestige of the award, she was permitted to give a short acceptance speech. As she was telling all of us what an important civic and artistic mission it was to lead people
through such an amazing place as the Dallas Museum of Fine Art, Luke’s left leg began to shake in a spasm. Mrs. Sterling stopped, mid-sentence, and stared down at him from the podium. The room was almost silent but for the sound of Luke’s heel tapping rapidly against the metal plate of his footrest. Usually he ignored these spasms, since they couldn’t be helped, but this time he gripped his left knee in an attempt to hold the leg still. Mrs. Sterling blinked and recovered, resuming her speech; her voice, however, had flattened and her smile looked forced. Luke’s facial expression was blank. Mrs. Sterling began to thank her fellow docents and all of the volunteers who were so essential to the successful operation of this wonderful place. There was more applause, and she returned to stand between her husband and her son.

  But something was wrong. Mr. Sterling put his arm around Mrs. Sterling’s shoulder and looked very proud as he admired the crystal trophy. She in turn smiled, but it did not reach her eyes. Luke, still gripping his left knee, looked straight ahead. I wanted to put my hand on his shoulder, but somehow it felt too intrusive, like offering to push his chair.

  By the time ceremony concluded, Mr. and Mrs. Sterling had received yet another award, the second one being a plaque for their Outstanding Patronage. It was after all an important civic and artistic mission, and of course money was as essential to the successful operation of this wonderful place as the volunteers were. The string quartet began to play again. A server offered us wine or champagne.

  “Champagne of course,” Luke finally spoke. “To toast you, Mother, our esteemed docent of the year.”

  “Hear, Hear!” agreed Mr. Sterling.

  Mrs. Sterling’s disconnected smile remained intact, and I had a vague sense of being at work when a family needed to talk about something looming among them but wouldn’t. Or couldn’t. Once we each had our glasses, Luke lifted his glass high and we lowered ours to meet his—arriving in that space between sitting and standing.

  “To Elizabeth Sterling,” Luke said. “If only we could live up to her standards.”