“Tell me more,” Dirk said.
“The years went by. Fifi danced with Martin and Merlin, first on the street and then in cafés. Everyone thought that either Martin or Merlin was her beau so Fifi never had any gentleman callers. Sometimes I would find her crying into the tulle and silk of her dancing costume.
“‘What’s wrong?’ I would ask her. ‘Your dress will be so heavy with tears the boys won’t be able to lift you.’
“‘No man will like me,’ she said. ‘I’m such a cricket, an insect.’
“‘Don’t say those things,’ I scolded. I was afraid that somehow I had passed on to her the self-hatred my aunt had given me, although I was always telling her what a great beauty she was and that her size only added to it. Still, she did her stretches diligently, hoping they would make her taller. She wore the highest heels she could find, although I warned her about her feet, and did exercises to increase her bustline.
“I told her that I thought people believed she was engaged to Martin or Merlin, that she might not encourage that so much, but she wouldn’t hear of it. She always held their arms when they walked down the street and let them introduce her as their fiancée sometimes. It was her way of protecting them, you see. In those days their feelings for each other weren’t something people talked about. Of course, it was quite obvious to me. When they performed they would hand her back and forth between them like a love letter.”
“Like a love letter,” Dirk said.
“Yes. They loved each other.”
“I know,” said Dirk. “What do you think about that?”
“Any love that is love is right,” Gazelle said. “It’s the same as me touching myself when I was a child. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” Dirk said. “I understand.” Something in his body opened like a love letter. He wondered if Fifi would understand about him…. Maybe she had all along.
Gazelle went on.
“Fifi always played along with being engaged to Martin or Merlin, depending on whose relatives were at the show. But it enforced the feeling that no man would love her the way she dreamed of being loved. She became more shy, staying home all day drawing and painting in the parlor. Sometimes we went to the countryside where she set up an easel and painted the fields full of cows, the wildflowers and redwoods. She loved color. She used to say how she would paint everything if she could, eat orange or green porridge, cover the ceiling with flowers, make her hair pink or purple.”
“Fifi the original punk,” Dirk said. “She just needed a man as wild as she was.”
“Well, she found him. One night she was performing at a supper club. As she left the theater in her gold brocade coat, peach roses in her hair, she was stopped by a tall, dark, sad-eyed man. He tipped his hat to her and a hundred fireflies came swarming out, surrounding her and lighting her up as if she were still on stage.”
“‘How did you learn that?’ she gasped.
“‘I’m an entomologist,’ he said. “But magic like this only happens when you meet your true love. My name is Derwood McDonald.’”
“McDonald,” Dirk said. “My grandfather. He was a bug guy?”
“That’s right,” said Gazelle. “I wouldn’t call him a bug guy. He was a magician really.”
“That’s what the bug ambulances are about, I guess,” Dirk said. “When Grandma Fifi finds an insect in the house she gets an old yogurt container or something and makes this siren noise. She puts the bug into it and takes it outside. She calls it a bug ambulance.”
“That’s my daughter,” Gazelle said. “Anyway, just then her partners appeared and took her arms.
“Derwood McDonald introduced himself to them and added, ‘I was going to ask you to dinner, Fifi, but you look as if you already have plans.’
“She told him she didn’t have plans, that she saw Martin and Merlin every day and every night.
“‘It’s true,’ they agreed, nodding in unison. From all their performances they had become accustomed to moving as one.
“‘Fifi might enjoy some new company.’ They bowed and walked off, side by side.
“By the time Fifi and Derwood got to the restaurant there were so many ladybugs on Derwood’s jacket collar that they looked like red polka dots.
“‘You must have very good luck,’ she said.
“‘I am having it now,’ he answered.
“They ate pasta and drank red wine. She told him about her dancing, how she loved to draw and had started to take art classes.
“‘I won’t always be able to do those adagio tricks,’ she said. ‘I’m trying to plan for my future.’
“He told her, ‘You will probably dance when you are ninety years old. You remind me of the fairies I saw in the countryside when I was a boy. My father—he was a naturalist too—pointed them out to me as if they were just another form of insect so I never understood why people thought they were made up. They had wings like large honeysuckle blossoms and were finger-size, but otherwise you look just like one. After I grew up I thought I’d never see another fairy,’ he said. ‘Until I laid eyes on you. Are you a fairy, Fifi?’
“Fifi giggled. Derwood laughed too but his fairy-filled eyes remained sad.
“He walked her home. She came into the house flushed and happier than I had ever seen her. I thought of the night the stranger had come to my door.
“‘What is it, Fifi?’ I asked.
“She knew even then that she loved him, that she wanted to marry him.”
“On Sundays Derwood took Fifi to the countryside. They caught butterflies in a net, studied the beautiful paintings of their wings and set them free. When Derwood found dead butterflies he would take them home and make collages that he framed behind glass. He and Fifi looked for fairies too, but never found any.”
“‘It doesn’t matter,’ Derwood said as she came back with dirt on her hands and leaves in her hair from searching through grottos and barrows. ‘You are my fairy.’
“In the evenings Derwood came calling with honey from his bees. It tasted like nothing less than nectar made for the love of a golden queen by a hundred droning drones. We slathered it on homemade bread, drizzled it over rice pudding, let big shining drops fall into our teacups and blended it into sauces for the salmon we ate on Fridays. I played the phonograph and Fifi danced. Sometimes Martin and Merlin came over too and they all performed for us. Derwood sat on the jade-green sofa among the rose-and lavender-stuffed pillows wringing his hands during the most precarious balances, clapping and stomping when a trick had been executed.”
“But as much as Fifi loved Derwood I could tell something was wrong.
“Finally, after Fifi had known him for a few months and he still hadn’t kissed her, she asked him what it was.
“‘I have a heart condition,’ he told her. ‘The doctors tell me I only have a few more years to live.’
“Fifi wanted to run away from him.
“Derwood said, ‘I will understand if you don’t want to see me anymore.’
“Fifi broke into tears but her sobs sounded like the flicker of crickets. Hundreds of ladybugs flew and landed on her hat. Cocoons opened and butterflies were released in a storm. She held on to Derwood in the forest of wings, and a golden powder covered their faces. Fifi was afraid they would be suffocated, but the butterflies only seemed to be kissing their cheeks.
“‘I want to be with you, Derwood McDonald,’ Fifi said. ‘No matter what.’
“A golden ring slid down out of the air and moved across the picnic cloth toward Fifi. She gasped when she saw the two tiny ring bearers.
“‘These are my pet spiders, Charlotte and Webster,’ Derwood said. ‘They want to know if you will marry me.’
“Not wanting to waste a moment, Fifi and Derwood were married the next day. Fifi wore the dress I had made for the stranger. Hundreds of pink doves flew alongside Derwood’s car on the way home.
“Derwood and Fifi lived in a gingerbread house a few blocks away from me. It had two tall columns in front and
cherubs bearing garlands over the windows. It was painted lavender but it was like a greenhouse full of flowering plants, butterflies, crickets, doves. Thin sheets of tin, pressed with the patterns of ribboned urns full of cascading leaves, covered the walls. Derwood studied his insects by the light of the Tiffany lamp. Fifi, who was still taking art classes, drew the insects Derwood loved, and made them dance—balletic butterflies, tangoing tarantulas, waltzing caterpillars and tap-dancing bees.
“Fifi and Derwood hated to be separated, even for moments. Wherever they went they held hands. At night Fifi danced for him, swirling around in her glittery dresses, bringing tears of joy to Derwood’s eyes.
“‘I knew you were a fairy,’ he said.
“Fifi peeked at him from behind a lavender ostrich-feather fan.
“‘Then I can make all your dreams come true.’
“He took her in his arms and kissed her as the pink doves watched from the rafters and ladybugs and spiders and butterflies sang silently along with the radio. Fifi knew, though, that she and Derwood had only one dream and that she could not make it come true. It would take a much more powerful fairy than Fifi to cure what was wrong with Derwood’s heart.
“At night she put her head on his lean chest and heard it ticking like an explosive. Fifi did make many of her dear Derwood’s dreams come true before he died.
“‘You make my dreams come true every night,’ he whispered into her wispy hair as they fell asleep, fearless from the wine of love.
“And one night, Fifi knew that she was pregnant.
“‘I’m pregnant,’ she almost shouted.
“‘You mean just this second?’
“‘Yes.’
“‘How do you know?’
“‘I know. I’m a dancer. I’ve always known things about my body.’
“Derwood put his hand on her flat stomach. Her narrow waist and hips didn’t look big enough to hold a baby. Fifi listened for Derwood’s tears in the darkness. Instead she heard the soft, damp crackle of his smile.
“So she had made another of his dreams come true. His son, Dirby McDonald, your father.
“Dirby was born a very serious little boy. His father was afraid to get too close to him because he knew their time together would be so short. Fifi was so busy worrying about Derwood that she didn’t give the child the attention he needed. I tried to care for him but he was always far away in his own world. He was a mystery to me.
“Finally one day, while Fifi and Derwood were out on one of their excursions to the countryside, Derwood sat down by the bank of a shallow, shimmering creek. A giant white butterfly flew past, and Fifi ran after it. She wanted to show it to Derwood. Maybe, she thought, the butterfly is really the fairy we have been looking for. But she couldn’t catch it. When she got back to the creek Derwood was lying on his back. His face was covered with butterflies. They seemed to be trying to get inside of him or maybe they were coming out of him. But Derwood did not struggle. By the time Fifi had run to his side the butterflies were scattered and Derwood was dead. Fifi drove Derwood’s car back to the house and collapsed on the front step before I had time to open the door with Dirby in my arms. There was Fifi lying in a heap. For a moment I didn’t recognize her. Her hair was completely white. Dirby didn’t cry. He just stared like an old man who has seen many deaths, his face tight and drawn. I put his white-haired mother to bed. She wouldn’t eat for days. She seemed to be shrinking.
“‘I never really believed he would die. I don’t want to live without him,’ she said.
“‘You have to live, for Dirby and me,’ I said, holding up her son for her to see. Oh, your father looked like you, young Dirk. He looked like his own father too.
“It made Fifi weep to see Derwood’s eyes in that young face but she reached out for him, and when she did the doves in the rafters sang again, and the peonies in the arboretum unfolded layers and layers like Renaissance ruffs.
“‘You see,’ I said, ‘you must hold on.’
“Her art school teacher sent her work to an animation department in Hollywood. They wanted to hire her.
“‘I don’t want to leave you, Mama,’ she said. ‘I stayed alive so I could be with you and Dirby.’
“I told her she had to go. ‘There are groves of orange trees—you can pick your breakfast every morning—fountains in the hillsides, starlets in silk stockings driving colorful jalopies with leopards in the passenger seats, sunshine all the time. The sun will be good for Dirby. He’s as pale as his old grandmother.’
“‘You should come with us,’ Fifi said, but I couldn’t. I was afraid to travel and besides, what if my stranger returned and I was gone?
“So they prepared to leave, Fifi and Dirby with Martin and Merlin in a big old automobile with the glitter-and-paint dance backdrops of swans and heavens and circuses and fairylands fastened to the top.
“I gave Fifi the stranger’s lamp as a good-bye gift. I still didn’t believe I had a story to tell. A self-imposed shroud of silence had covered me long before the real shroud of death made it impossible for me to speak. But my daughter would have a story, I thought; Fifi would fill the lamp.
“She didn’t want to take it from me but I made her promise. Just before she was to leave, the story that I still did not believe was mine came to an end.
“And now it’s time for you to dance with me,” Gazelle said softly.
Dirk stood up slowly, aware of how light he felt, and held out his arms. She was like Fifi’s feather boa—not only that weightless but she brushed his skin with ticklish flicks of softness. She smelled like his grandma too—cookies baking, roses, almonds. Gently, gently Dirk and his Great-Grandmother Gazelle danced around the room while the peach tree tapped at the window and the moon made a shadow forest on the floor. Dirk saw the story of her life repeated now with the sway of the white dress, the pleatings and swishings of satin.
“Thank you, Dirk,” Gazelle said, when the dance was over. “Bless you. You listened. You listened.”
Death came for me, Dirk thought. She was fading away as she had come and he thought he would dissolve with her, molecules shifting without substance into veil of spirit.
Be-Bop Bo-Peep
And that was when the guitar in the corner began to play by itself.
Dirk opened his eyes. The guitar seemed to be floating on its side, strings trembling with music. Strands of smoke were flying out of the golden lamp and whirling around the guitar.
“Daddy,” Dirk said out loud, remembering something he had lost a long time ago.
And Dirk’s daddy Dirby McDonald’s face appeared out of the smoke just above the guitar, as handsome as James Dean, not much older than Dirk, eyes soft with love like a lullaby behind his black-framed glasses. Lullaby eyes.
“Dirk,” his father said, “hang on now.”
Dirk nodded. He could taste blood in his mouth like he’d been sucking on a dirty metal harmonica.
“You came back,” Dirk said.
“You want a story. A wake-up story. A come-back story.”
“Yes. Please,” Dirk said. “Please tell me who you are. I’ve always wanted to know. I feel like I don’t exist. I feel like I’m spinning through space losing atoms, becoming invisible, disintegrating. I…”
“Shhh, now,” Dirk’s father said. His voice was gentle. It was like his guitar. Like his eyes. Dirk thought, His eyes are guitars.
“What do you want to know?”
“What you felt. Who you were. Why you died.”
“I always felt lonely,” Dirby said. “It was just who I was born to be. I felt more like a part of nature than like a boy. Do you know what I mean?”
Dirk wasn’t sure.
“I’d look at the stars in the sky or at trees and I’d want to be that. I worried Fifi. She was always trying to get me to be normal—play with the other kids, laugh more. She took me to her bungalow on the studio lot and showed me how she made the limbs of creatures move by drawing them again and again on clear sheets with light shining
through. One of her projects was a story about herself and my father. The fireflies had devilish grins, the ladybugs had long eyelashes, the honeybees sang like Cab Calloway and the spiders danced like Fred and Ginger. She tried to get me to laugh, but I just asked questions about how butterflies hatched from cocoons and how spiders made their webs. I wanted to walk in the hills at night and get as close to the moon and stars as I could. I wanted to lie in the dark grasses of the canyon and listen to the wind play them like the strings of a guitar. I wrote poetry from the time I could write. That was the only way I could begin to express who I was but the poems didn’t make sense to my teachers. They didn’t rhyme. They were about the wind sounds, the planets’ motion, never about who I was or how I felt. I didn’t think I felt anything. I was this mind more than a body or a heart. My mind photographing the stars, hearing the wind. My forehead was lined before I was sixteen and I was always thin no matter how much Fifi tried to feed me.”
Dirk looked at his father’s body in the black turtleneck and jeans. Dirby’s frame was just like Dirk’s with the broad shoulders, narrow hips and long legs, but Dirk weighed at least fifteen pounds more and was lean himself.
“When my father died and I saw my mother’s hair turn suddenly white I decided I was going to be like the clouds passing over the moon or the waves sliding up and back or the birds putting sounds together. That was the only way I could go on, accepting the way life was, being in the world.
“Then one night when I was sixteen I hitchhiked down into Topanga Canyon. I loved it there—the wild of it so near the sea, the thickness of trees and the smell of salt water all sharp and clean. I had to get away from the sugar smell in Fifi’s kitchen and the roses; as much as I loved her I felt like I couldn’t breathe—like it wasn’t my world in any way.
“I walked inside this canyon bar and for the first time in my life I felt at home with walls around me. There was a cat onstage playing saxophone and chicks in black stockings sitting around watching him. There was beer and smoke—not just cigarettes, the kind of smoke that helps ease you into trees and wind. I knew I’d be coming back here.
Beautiful Boys Page 14
