Grace Grows (4 page)

“It’s okay.”

We were coming to our stop. He was probably regretting riding all the way up here with me now. “You don’t have to come, if you don’t want to. The downtown train should be here soon.”

“Why wouldn’t I? I want to hang with you and see the medieval art!” He seemed genuine, maybe even a little offended.

He looked duly impressed by the neo-medieval castle on the hilltop in Fort Tryon Park. Admission to the Cloisters was pay-what-you-can. I paid the full twenty dollars and saw Tyler give five dollars that he probably couldn’t afford.

As we climbed the long flight of stairs to the entrance I felt a twinge of excitement. I was so used to coming here alone, but since this guy was here with me, I might as well show him some of the things I especially loved.

I led him straightaway to the Unicorn Tapestries—seven large, intricately woven wall hangings that had probably decorated someone’s castle bedroom. We started at
The Hunters Enter the Woods
and I took him through all of them slowly, outlining the story of the capture and killing of the mythical unicorn.

He studied
The Unicorn in Captivity
. The gorgeous white beast is confined beneath a pomegranate tree inside a circular corral, surrounded by a millefleurs extravagance of dozens of varieties of colorful flowers and plants.

“This is my favorite tapestry,” I said. “He doesn’t get killed. It’s like the alternate ending. Although it looks similar, they think it’s probably not a part of the rest of the series.”

“He seems peaceful.”

“Supposedly he represents a happily captured bridegroom. See how he’s chained to the tree? That’s the ‘chain of love.’ ”

He looked more closely. “Are those drops of blood?”

“Pomegranate juice. See how the fruit above him on the tree is ripe and bursting open? The drops of juice may represent fertility.”

“Awesome.” He grinned.

He liked the guy stuff I showed him, especially the tomb effigy of the young knight lying beneath his sword and shield. But he also looked for a long time at the sweet, sad face of the grieving mother holding the body of Christ in the small Bohemian Pietà. He was turning out to be a very gratifying museum companion.

We went out to the Bonnefont Cloister and sat on a bench near the culinary herb bed, now dry and fallow. The sky was heavy, dove-colored.

“You should see this in the summer,” I said.

“My parents have a garden,” he said. “A big one, behind our house.”

“What do they grow?”

“Vegetables, flowers. They’re out there every spring, hoeing and planting.”

I was impressed. “Do they live out in the country?”

“It’s all country, pretty much, where I’m from.”

“That must be nice,” I said, “to garden together.”

“Seems to be working for them, they’ve been married thirty years.”

“Wow, that’s quite an achievement. My parents split up when I was four.”

He looked at me. “Who’d you end up living with?”

“My mom. I hardly ever saw my dad. Until I got older, that is.”

“How come?”

I shrugged. “He was an artist, wanted to devote everything to that, I guess.”

“What do you mean, like a painter?”

I nodded. “He’s kind of famous in the art world. Dan Barnum?” I didn’t really expect him to know the name. “The Cheesecake Series?”

He stared at me blankly.

“You know, the paintings of presidents eating dessert? The one of Reagan, with strawberry sauce running down his chin?”

“Oh, yeah!”

I could see he had no idea what I was talking about.

“So where did you and your mom live?” he asked.

“A tiny apartment in Queens, near the Steinway piano factory.”

“Steinway. Cool.”

“Right. Cool. My mom had no job skills. So she waitressed and finished college and went to law school.”

“She’s a lawyer?”

I nodded.

“Where?”

“New Jersey.”

“So you visit her, sometimes?”

“I see her pretty often.”

“What about your dad?”

“Once in a while we get together.”

“That’s good, he stayed in touch at least.” Tyler nudged me with his elbow and smiled.

“Yeah, I guess.” I looked at the sky. “I think it’s going to snow.”

We were silent, looking upward, and he started lightly drumming two fingers on his thigh and humming under his breath. He just zoned out, staring at the sky, making quiet music. As if nothing else existed.

He resurfaced, pulling a scrap of paper out of his jacket pocket. “Do you have a pen?”

I felt around in Big Green and handed him a Bic and watched him scrawl something on the paper, fold it up, and tuck it back in his pocket. He held up the pen. “Can I keep this?”

“Sure,” I said. “Compliments of Spender-Davis Education.”

“What’s that, your work?”

“Yeah.”

“Where is it?”

“Midtown. Avenue of the Americas.”

“That’s not too far from my new job. Come by sometime, eh?”

“Okay, I’ll try.”

He looked at me for a long moment, then softly sang a few words. About Christmas coming, and trees being cut down, and wishing he could skate away on a river.

Joni Mitchell. The saddest song, ever. I’d never been personally sung to before, let alone by someone with a voice like that. So I didn’t say anything. I’m sure I looked a little dumbstruck.

“Where’d you meet your man?” he asked.

“An alumni picnic. We, uh, we went to the same school. Not at the same time.”

“You live together?”

“Yes.”

“How long?”

“Eight months.”

“No kidding. That’s solid.”

Big flakes floated down on us and I caught one on my gloved palm.

He leaned over and breathed on it. We watched it melt.

book lady Boo Radley and warm vanilla

I brought Tyler home with me and found that Steven had gone out. I supposed it would be okay.

Tyler wandered around the living room looking at my books and Steven’s records while I made tea. I set out cups, sugar, milk, sliced lemon, and cookies on the dining room table and invited him to sit while I went back into the kitchen for the teapot.

“You got any honey?” He helped himself to a handful of Piroulines.

“I think so.” I came back to the kitchen doorway. “Would you like a sandwich? It’s almost suppertime.”

“Yes, please.”

“Ham and cheese okay?”

“Awesome.”

I sliced the ham thick and made him two sandwiches on the crusty sourdough that Steven had made in the bread machine the night before. I brought the honey, tea, sandwiches, and a big bag of Doritos and sat with him at the table.

“Do you have a kitchen in your apartment?” I asked.

“Kitchenette,” he said, around a mouthful of food. “It’s gross.”

“Rash is not a good housekeeper?”

“It’s gross since me and Bogue got there. She threatened to kick us out. Bogue is supposed to be cleaning it up today.”

“Bogue and I.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“It’s not ‘me and Bogue,’ it’s ‘Bogue and I.’ ”

“Are you gonna eat those?” He pointed at the crusts I had just peeled off my own sandwich. I watched him devour them, along with everything else on his plate, three-quarters of the bag of chips, the remaining cookies, and two cups of Earl Grey.

“So, what will you do if things don’t work out the way you’re hoping?”

He shrugged. “I don’t have a plan for that yet. I’m just thinking about the music.”

The key turned in the lock and Steven came in, with snow in his hair and on his coat. He seemed surprised to see that I had a guest, a man he didn’t know. Come to think of it, a man I didn’t know. It did feel a little strange.

Tyler wiped his hands on his jeans and stood up.

“Steven, this is Tyler Wilkie. He walks Sylvia’s dogs.”

Steven came over and shook Tyler’s hand. “Nice to meet you.” He took off his coat and hung it on the back of one of the dining table chairs.

“We met a few days ago,” I said. “Do you want a sandwich, honey?”

“Oh, really?” Steven said. “No thanks, I just had a burger.” He pulled out a chair and sat down. Tyler sat, too, looking polite and subdued.

“Dog walking for Sylvia . . .” Steven mused. “Have you ever actually seen her?”

“No, we just talk on the phone,” Tyler said. “I got the keys to her place from the agency.”

“I’ve lived across the hall from her for almost three years now, and I’ve never seen her, either,” Steven said.

“Weird,” Tyler said.

I leaned toward him. “What does her apartment look like?”

“It’s nice, I guess. I haven’t paid that much attention.”

I sat back and smiled at Steven. “She’s our Boo Radley.”

Tyler smiled vaguely.

“From
To Kill a Mockingbird
,” I explained.

“Oh, yeah, I’ve never seen that movie.”

“It was a book first!” I said. “A great one.”

Steven patted my hand. “Grace has this thing about reading the book first.”

“Yes, I do. In fact . . .” I got up and went to the bookshelves to find my copy. I held it out to Tyler. “You can keep it.”

He took the book from me and looked at the cover.

“You’re scaring him,” Steven said. “Relax, Book Lady.”

I didn’t like that. One shouldn’t joke about
To Kill a Mockingbird
. “I’m giving him a gift. A beautiful one, if he’ll take it.”

Tyler stood. Probably eager to get away from the crazy people. “I have to get going. There’s an open-mic down at a bar in the Village, I want to try to get on the list.”

Steven stood. “Are you a musician?”

Tyler pulled on his coat and slid the book in a pocket and buttoned it. “Yeah.”

“Jazz, by any chance?”

“No, man, rock, soul, singer-songwriter stuff.”

“Oh, yeah,” Steven said politely. They shook hands again.

I followed Tyler to the door and opened it for him. He walked out into the hall, turned, and leaned in to speak to me conspiratorially. “Thanks for feeding me, Grace.”

“No problem!”

He patted his coat pocket. “And for the gift.”

Peg called.
Tie Me Up! Tie Me Down!
was in technical rehearsals at one of those big old theaters only a few blocks from the Spender-Davis building. Did I want to meet somewhere midafternoon for a quick coffee? I told her to meet me at Café Sofiya. Two birds and all that—I hadn’t run into Tyler in several days and was curious as to how things were going for him.

Peg had been my landlady when I first came to the city after college. Well, not so much landlady. I had rented a room in her apartment. Peg was in her late thirties then, very bohemian. No makeup, long, curling brown hair, flowing peasant blouses with jeans and Birks. Kind of Stevie Nicks-ish, without the big platform boots. She was a practicing Pagan. The five years I lived with her, if she wasn’t stage managing a show, she’d frequently disappear on the weekends upstate or to New Jersey to commune with Nature and her pantheistic Internet community.

Peg and I knew all of each other’s stories. I would have still been living with her if I hadn’t moved in with Steven.

When I got to Café Sofiya she was already at a table, huddled over a giant cup of coffee, a nubby, rainbow-hued muffler thick around her neck. The café was small and modern, empty except for a guy working on his laptop at the coffee counter. I threw my coat over a chair, kissed her, and sat down.

“What are you having?” I asked.

“Triple mochaccino. We’ve been setting light cues for two days, I needed a chemical cattle prod.”

I looked around. “Is there a waiter?”

“Yeah.” She craned around, searching behind the pastry case. “Back there somewhere.”

I got up and went over to pretend-peruse the pastries in the refrigerated case and peered into the open door that led into a back room. Tyler came out with an armload of boxes and dumped them on the floor next to the cash register. He saw me and beamed.

“Hey!” He was wearing the compulsory waiter uniform—white dress shirt, black pants and shoes, black apron. He came around the counter and enfolded me in an emphatic hug. He smelled like vanilla and baking bread.

“Thank you for coming to see me!” His voice seemed so loud—as if he had natural, built-in amplification. I patted his back and gently disengaged.

“Grace, I got a steady gig! And this guy offered to manage me. Someone who saw me at an open mic told him about me and he came to see me and asked me to come to his office the next day and play for him.”

“Wow, Tyler, that’s great!” I said. “It happened so quickly!”