Blue Rose In Chelsea (30 page)

     “These gems look real.”  I run my fingertips over their prismatic surfaces.

     “Perhaps because they are.  This belonged to a great Auntie of mine, a Duchess, and in the great tradition of Harry Winston, I’ll be accompanying you to guard the family jewels.  I’ll be sure to remove the brooch before night’s end and take it home again.  As for removing any other items from your lithesome figure, we’ll leave that lovely task to Alexander the Great.”

~~~~~

     “I’m not coming back to New York.  I’m going home for good.  It’s time.” 

     The only thing that steadies me is that I’m in Evan’s arms when this news is dropped on me.  In Evan’s arms, it seems any news can be borne. 

     Sinclair and TJ, Careen and Mr. Palmer are in the outer room of the café, taking their time over their dessert and coffee.  Dylan and Brandon left before dessert, off to secure more plans for their tour.  The Cowboy Junkies “Blue Moon” plays languidly on the jukebox, and, at Evan’s request for a dance with me, we’ve moved on into another room, where the lighting is dim, where the floor is a midnight blue like some deep sea that has never touched shore.  He takes my hand and we move to the windows overlooking a quaint cobblestone street in the Village.

     “My brother and I had a plan.  I would accept the scholarship and come to New York, and send money home.  My brother would try to save what he could, and after a few years I would return and we’d rebuild the ranch to the way it was when we were kids, before our father died when we were eight years old.  But after a few years here, I didn’t want to leave.  I didn’t want to go home.  I loved it here.  I loved my job.  I loved the traveling.  The truth is, I was happy to get away.  I wanted excitement.  I wanted to get as far away from that small broken down old ranch as possible.  And when my brother died, I told myself I could do more for my family by remaining here, by maybe going into acting, where the sky is the limit, money-wise.”

     We’ve glided over to the French doors.  I feel the need for air, and move out onto the terrace.

     “How did your brother die?”

     “An asthma attack.  He was working outside on one of the barns, and I guess he was too far way from his medicine.  You remind me of him, Haley.  When he would come to New York to visit he would get claustrophobic too, like you.  He felt he couldn’t breathe on the subways or in the crowds.  He needed big spaces.  Big spirits need big spaces.  He called me Evan-lier, the way you do.  No one but the two of you has ever called me that.  The first time you said it, it freaked me out completely.”

     Evan seems to recall some amusing memory of his brother.  “He loved the big open spaces.  He wanted to be a pilot.  He wanted to go to school to learn to fly, and to some day build his own planes.   He probably wanted to fly as far away as possible from that ranch and all its problems.  But he couldn’t do it, not while I was here in New York.  Not until I came back.  But I never went back.”

     “Of course you didn’t.  Do you know how many dancers would give their right arm to have a job with ABT?  Nobody would just walk away voluntarily from that.  There’s nothing wrong with wanting to live your own life.”

     “When I was in the ballet company, I lived with someone.  She was quite a few years older than me.  I guess you could say that she took care of me.  That enabled me to send most of my salary home to my family.  But when my brother died, I went downhill and started drinking.  I was fired from the company, and that’s when I met Wanda.  She promised me the world.  I would’ve done anything to not have to go back home, and I did do anything, didn’t I?  I’ll never forget the look on your face when you asked me if I was sleeping with my agent.  I realized at that moment what I had become.”  Evan’s handsome face is a kaleidoscope of emotions.

     “You haven’t become anything.  You are what you have always been: the most amazing creature to ever have crossed my path.”

     “You say beautiful things, Sylvia,” he says, bowing his head as if in shame.

     “Forget what I said that night in the courtyard.  I had no right to ask you that.  It was none of my business.”

     “But it is your business.  At that moment everything changed.  Something inside me just snapped.”

     “I don’t care about anything you have done in the past, none of that matters.  You don’t have to tell me anything else.  I only care about this moment.  I only care what happens from here on.”  I’m consumed with panic, at the thought of losing him again.  I wish I could travel back in time to that night of the black tie dinner and rewrite events.

     “There comes a time when you can’t run away from things anymore.”

     “But you never were running away.  You were running toward something, toward your own life and dreams.  What is wrong with that?  Nothing!”  I am adamant.  “Maybe you could help your family more by staying here in the city, and finding more acting work.  There’ so much money to be made here, more than anywhere else.”

     He shakes his head.  “It I stayed here, I’d be doing it for me, not for them.  I’ve made some serious cash from the television series and commercials and print work.  If I stay here, who knows when the next job will come along?  I could end up pissing it all away waiting for the next big break, but if I go now, I have a shot at really doing something for my family.”
     “But there must be a way that you can do both.”

     He watches me with a childlike faith, as if hoping I can figure out how he may do both.

     “Remember when you told me you heard that song “Danny Boy”, how you felt something push you hard from behind to help you escape from Randolph?  My brother’s name was Danny.  I can’t help but feel there’s some kind of connection there.  The day I was going to leave for New York for the first time, I got cold feet and almost changed my mind.  My mom and sisters went all soft on me, like, ‘oh, you don’t have to go if you don’t want to, stay and we’ll cook up some breakfast for you, don’t go off to the big city.’  But my brother got behind me and gave me a shove, a good hard shove forward, and he said, ‘Go!’  He helped me escape.  Maybe he was there with you, that day, maybe he gave you a shove and helped you escape.”  Evan’s expression is the chaos of anguish.

     “Take me with you,” I say ardently.

     “What, banish you to some broken down old ranch in the middle of nowhere?  That’s what I did to my brother, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to do that to you.  This is where you should be.  This city is where all the best and the brightest come.”

     “Which is why you belong here.”

     “My time has passed.  I’ve gone as far as my limited talents can take me.”

     We’re sitting on a wooden bench.  In his hand Evan holds mine, pressing it to his mouth, running his lips over my knuckles, deep in thought.

     “I don’t believe that for one moment.  And neither do you.  You’re the incarnation of confidence.”

     “I’ve failed.  When you fail, you have to face it and go in a different direction.”

     “Failed?  You couldn’t fail if you tried.  You would fail at failing,” I ramble.

     Evan laughs.  It’s such a relief to see Evan laugh again.

     “You’ve gone as far as your limited talents can take you?  That’s not even the way you construct your sentences.  That is something the Wicked Wanda must have said to you.”

     He smiles and rises from the bench, bracing his arms behind him on the terrace railing, and, leaning back, he looks up to the sapphire blue night sky as if for oxygen.  “If I go home and rebuild the ranch, I’ve got a shot at making it the way it was once, or maybe I can make it even better.  Build it up so that my little sisters have some kind of future.”

     “Maybe they’ll get scholarships themselves, and make their own futures.”

     “That would be great,” he says, with a disbelieving sigh.

     “But then you’re living your father’s life, not your own.”

     “Maybe so,” he says, but he is not swayed.

     “I want to come with you.”

     “Haley, after a few weeks of watching me shovel shit in the scorching sun, believe me, your fascination with me will wear off fast.  I’m not that person anymore, the guy on the big screen, the face on the billboards.”

     I fervently explain that I never wanted him to be that person, that half the reason I held back from him was because I was afraid that a Hollywood life would take him away from me, to a place that I couldn’t follow, to a world I could never fit into.  I tell him my reasons for dashing out of the costume party that night with Sinclair.  “I told Sinclair that everything would be so much easier if you were a plumber in Canarsie.”

     He laughs.  “Well, you might just get your wish.”

     He pulls me to him and holds me there, pressed against him, although the Madeline Goddard collar does not invite closeness.  He releases me and looks into my eyes, and then gently kisses the stitches above my eyebrow.

     “There’s always something keeping us apart, isn’t there?” he says, patting down the collar, amused, as if it was the latest culprit.

     “Yes, mainly ourselves.”

     “I’ll be inside in just a minute.”  He motions toward the dining room, but he doesn’t take his eyes off me.  The night sky seems to be moving, as if it were composed of blue smoke. 

     “Hey,” he calls, gently.  Turning away, I glance back at him.  “
Just you wait
,” he says, with the lopsided smile.

     But he never does come inside.  He slips away into the night.

~~~~~

     “We’ll discuss this in the car.”  Sinclair shepherds us all into the street, where the gutters of rain spray over our shoes as Mr. Palmer screeches his car to a halt at Sinclair’s berserk beckoning.

     “She must go after him, and give him a night that he’ll never forget,” Sinclair declares with the authority of a Count addressing his subjects.  We pack like sardines into a four-door Ford Fairmont.  The Joseph politely details the quickest route for Mr. Palmer, whom he refers to as, “my good man.”

     “But it’s always who a man
doesn’t sleep with
that he remembers forever!” Careen hugs her shawl sewn with seed pearls about her.

     “That is true,” The Joseph concurs.  When Sinclair’s shaggy eyebrows shoot upward, TJ backpedals with, “Not in my case, but I’ve heard that from other men.”

     “We’re not aiming for memories!” Sinclair scolds.  “Our goal is a cancelled plane ticket to Texas, people!”

     It occurs to me that we’re all lustrous as we await the light change at the intersection.  Prisms of raindrops have settled over us, making Careen’s seed pearls shine.  Joseph’s stiff hair sparkles as if held immobile with an invisible hairnet.  Sinclair’s satin lapels gleam.

     “Perhaps he’s right,” Careen credits Sinclair.  “You must go in there and ignite a fire that cannot be put out, not even by distance.”  She whispers into my ear some provocative sexual advice, which comes off sounding classy with her British accent.

     My eyes grow wide at the image of she and Mr. Palmer engaged in such an act, but she simply shrugs as if it were old hat.  Suddenly we are on Evan’s street.  Either Joseph is a genius at shortcuts through the city, or we’ve jetted through a wormhole in Gotham’s space-time continuum.

      “What’s the state of your underwear?” Sinclair drills me.

     “What?”  I’m indignant, as we spill onto the street.  The amber light of Evan’s parlor is like spilt honey on the wet pavement.  “Satin, like you ordered me to wear.” 

     “Madeleine Goddard would’ve worn silk.  Black?”

     “Yes!” I hiss, exasperated.

     “Legs shaved?”  He rummages in my velvet bag, nabs a bottle of
Anais Anais
perfume and yelping, “heads up!” begins to spray crazily as if exterminating wasps.  “Walk into the scent!” he orders.

     Everyone has piled out of the car, except Mr. Palmer who is double-parked.

     “Look away, mates!” Sinclair croaks, as he reaches for my manufactured cleavage, seizing the pads from the pockets he’d sewn into the dress.  “We don’t want any lawsuits for false advertising.”  He stuffs the pads down his trousers.

     I adjust my newly deflated décolletage.

     “You must do your best to obliterate all memory of Wanda’s big bazoombas,” Careen commands, with a wink of warning that I heed her earlier wanton advice.

     “Torpedo tits ain’t everything,” Sinclair assures.

     “Personally, they do nothing at all for me,” Joseph interjects, which gets a laugh.  “Perhaps Evan is a leg man.”

     “I don’t believe there is such a thing.  I think that’s something men say to be polite,” I say wearily, touching up my lip-gloss in a hand mirror that Sinclair eagerly holds for me.

     “Mr. Palmer, do leg men exist, or are they just an urban myth?” the 32A Careen demands, her elaborate coiffure in profile looking like the leaning tower of Pisa.

     When Mr. Palmer takes the fifth, TJ pats his shoulder.  “Good man.”

     “This better work, or I’m joining a convent.”  I take a deep breath.

     “Ah, Sisters of the Divine Chic,” Sinclair quips. “I believe they are cloistered on Christopher Street.”