Grace Grows (8 page)

“Oh, sure.” Then I saw the remote he was holding. He pressed a button and this time we were treated to the shriek of shredding metal. Like I imagined the
Titanic
striking the iceberg might have sounded. I covered my ears till it was over.

He pressed the button again and it was crickets, in a summer, twilight meadow.

“I vote for that one,” I said.

He pressed the button again. Strange, high, trilling noises, and then this juicy, mucky, sucking sound. “That’s an elephant giving birth.”

“May I go now?” I asked politely.

“Absolutely not. For the next one hundred and eighty minutes, you’re mine.”

Dan had a major gallery exhibition coming up in Atlanta. He showed me the paintings that went with the sound effects. For a while now he had been into abstract expressionism—splattery, spiky,
what’s red, white, and black all over?
stuff. But these were gigantic, realistic paintings, of naked plastic doll parts. Disturbing. They made me think of a creepy Beatles album cover I saw one time.

“So, they’re looking at the dolls, and they push a button next to the painting, and in their wireless headset they get a random sound?”

“Yes. Maybe a nice one, maybe not.” He looked devilishly pleased.

“Dan. What does it
mean
?”

“My darling, what makes you think I am ever going to answer that question?”

“I don’t think you know.” Like that was going to make him tell me.

He laughed. “Maybe not.”

We went downstairs and he made us a cup of tea, then we sat together on one of the couches and exchanged gifts. His was a bunch of Calvin Klein gray tees. They’re all he wears, with khakis. He gave me a chic, black-leather belted coat to replace my worn old shearling, and an overly generous gift card to Shakespeare & Co. It was touching that he paid attention to what I needed and liked. And it made me squirm.

“Thanks, Dan,” I said, trying not to bolt. “That sure will buy a lot of books.”

“What’s wrong?” he asked. “You still read, don’t you?”

“Of course!”

He looked at me with his x-ray vision. I got up and wandered around the room and pointed at the sparkly, dangling ceiling lights. “Are you having a party later?”

“Oh, no, those are permanent.”

“They’re beautiful.”

“Do you and Steven have plans to celebrate?”

“We’re just going to watch the ball drop on TV.”

“Don’t take the subway home. I’ll call for a car.”

“I don’t think it will be all that crazy yet, at nine o’clock.”

He shook his head. “Don’t take the subway.”

Great. So something awful was going to happen in one of the stations. Or hopefully it would just be that a train was going to stall.

My dad is psychic.

About me.

He says he gets feelings about things all the time, but only tells me the really strong ones.

I happened to be visiting him for a month the summer I was thirteen and came home from Rollerblading to find a package of maxi pads sitting on my bed. Embarrassed, and despising him even more than usual, I shoved them in the back of my closet. Two days later, I got my first period.

When I was looking for a job in publishing he told me I was going to get a job in education. I scoffed, but a week later I got the call to interview at Spender-Davis. And one time last summer he called me at work and told me to get up and leave, right away. I didn’t tell everyone because I knew no one would believe me. But Edward and I went out for lunch, just in case. When we came back the building was cordoned off and people were filing out. There had been a bomb threat.

The next day I e-mailed my dad and asked him:
Why is it just things to do with me? Why not world events, or your own life?

I think it’s my guilt
, he wrote back,
in overdrive
.

I could smell curry. Dan cooks great Indian food.

“Can we eat soon? It smells so good.”

He got up. “Come on.”

Place settings were arranged on the kitchen island. I hopped up on one of the tall chairs and watched him spoon basmati rice and lamb curry onto a plate.

“Give me a lot,” I said.

“There’s raita and mango chutney in the fridge,” Dan said. “Will you get them?”

I was rooting around in the refrigerator when I heard my cell ring.

“Excuse me.” I went across to where I’d left Big Green and looked to see who was calling. twilk. A 570 area code.

“Hello?”

“Damn, Gracie.
Damn
.”

“Ty?”

Silence.

“Are you okay?”

“I just finished the book.” He sounded strangled. Was he crying?

“Are you okay?”

“No! Were you, when you finished reading this?”

“No.” I smiled, delighted. “It wrecked me.”

“In a good way?”

“Yes.”

“Man, Atticus was awesome.”

“Wasn’t he?”

“He
tried
, you know? Even when everything sucked and there was no way he was gonna win. Damn, that pissed me off! What a bunch of fucking idiot people, in that town.”

“I know! In that time.”

“He was righteous. A righteous human being. And the stuff at the end, with Boo Radley!”

“Yes!”

“Let’s try to be like Atticus, Grace.”

“Okay, let’s.”

“Tell me what else that lady wrote.”

“Sorry. That’s it.”

Long silence. “No fucking way.”

“Yes. She wrote one genius book.”

“Damn. Why?”

“No one knows. Maybe she scared herself with how good this one was. Or maybe she only had one story she wanted to tell.”

“It’s a mystery,” he said.

“It is.”

He blew his nose loudly. “Are you at your mom’s still?”

“No, actually, I’m at my dad’s. For dinner.”

“Okay, I’ll let you go. Sorry.”

“No, it’s all right. Where are you?”

“At my parents’ house. Heading back to the city tomorrow night.”

“Oh.”

“While we’ve been home I got Bogue to help finish the Facebook page.”

“Oh, that’s great!” I was so happy to be off the web-geek hook. I peeked over my shoulder at Dan, who was sitting at the island, watching me, waiting patiently.

Tyler was quiet.

“Are you there?” I said.

“Damn
,
Gracie.”

His response to the book was so completely gratifying. I knew exactly how he was feeling.

“I think I’ll read it again,” he said.

I laughed. “Okay, well, happy New Year, Ty. Be safe.”

“ ’Kay, Grace. You, too.”

I returned to the table.

“Who was that?” Dan asked.

I helped myself to a big spoonful of chutney. “A friend.”

“Must be a good one.”

“Huh?”

“Well, you changed, when you were talking on the phone. Your face. It was like you woke up.”

“Have I been asleep, all this time?”

“Let’s just say you’ve been typically enthused to see me.”

“Dan—”

“Never mind, dear.” He patted my hand. “What’s your friend’s name?”

“Tyler.”

“Five Words.”

I smiled. “Oh, come on.”

Five Words is a game my dad made up when I was a sullen teenager, to force me to communicate. As clever parental manipulation goes, it bordered on the diabolical. With my thing for words, I could never resist. And there was cash involved, if I managed to make a small poem.

“You come on. Give me five words about Tyler.”

I laughed and shrugged. Easy money. “Warm . . . smiling . . . shining . . . autumn . . .”

My dad leaned toward me as I reached for the last word.

“. . . song.”

“Ahh,” my dad said, as though I had just painted a fascinatingly comprehensive verbal portrait. He got out his wallet and handed me a five. All the while piercing me with his extrasensory Dan Barnum eyes.

“I barely know the guy,” I said as I tucked the bill into my pocket. “He’s just . . . really nice. And I am glad to see you, Dan, please don’t think I’m not.”

“Susannah Grace Barnum.” My dad smiled and patted my arm. “All is well.” He passed the basket of fragrant bread to me. “Naan?”

sad, inevitable, winter wedgie

It’s winter in New York, and you do what you have to. You hunker down, pay your holiday bills, and try not to freeze your ass off schlepping to work and home again. You drink lots of hot tea and put full-spectrum lightbulbs in all the lamps. You watch
What’s Up, Doc?
three times in one weekend for some medicinal Madeline Kahn. You decide that now is the time to take that trip to Cancún. You go online and choose a vacation package, but no one else can go with you right now. You seriously consider going by yourself.

You vacuum out Big Green and restock all items. You set aside the Toni Morrison you are reading and pick up Janet Evanovich. You think about dyeing your hair blond. You think about going back to therapy. You hijack your boyfriend’s Wii and play
Dance Dance Revolution: Hottest Party
, ignoring the downstairs neighbors’ complaints, until you are sidelined by a pulled groin muscle.

You time your comings and goings to minimize the possibility of running into the dog walker. You only run into him a handful of times, and you keep the interactions friendly but brief. You let him leave messages on your cell and leave him a quick reply in return. This gentle weaning strategy goes on for four whole weeks, and seems to be working.

Then he leaves you a note on the doormat:

Hey Grace are you alive? I miss you. I wrote a new song. Check it
out. I will play it for you if you come Monday.
TGW

calling

well the time has come for calling

and I know that your in town

I heard you cry the other day

and I think I’ll try and tell you

I love you, do you love me

lets get together again

well I never could stop falling

and I know that your around

I saw you smile the other day

and I think I’ll dial and tell you

I want you, do you want me

lets get together again

where did you go to, baby

who did you run to see

why in the world did you leave me, honey

aint you glad to see me again

now the time has come for calling

and your somewhere around

I caught your eye the other day

I was dumbstruck. Did he actually mean me, with the crying? When could he have heard that? Oh, I realized. Just about any January weekday morning, before work.

Why was he doing this? He had volumes of girls fawning over him. Did he really need another conquest? It was exasperating. There was no way I was going to go hear that song.

Then Peg called me. “Do you want to go hear Ty Monday night? You’ve missed a lot. He has a band now.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, a drummer and a bass player. And the crowds have grown exponentially. I got there a little late last time and almost didn’t get in.”

“Wow.”

“He keeps asking where you are. He thinks you’re avoiding him.”

“I left him a message. It’s just been too cold to go out at night.”

“I think his feelings are hurt.”

This was crazy. “What’s the big deal? We’ve only known each other for a couple of months!”

“Well, you know those artistic types. They’re very sensitive.”

I sighed. “I’ll see if I can come for a while.”

“I’ll try to save you a seat.”

I hung up. There were predictions of a massive winter storm late Sunday into Monday. I crossed my fingers.

Those people on the Weather Channel are liars. It barely snowed at all. So I went. When I arrived at the bar Ty was already playing with his band. The place was packed. Peg waved to me from the back of the room and I squeezed my way toward her, peering over my shoulder at Ty. I was hoping he’d register that I was there so I could leave soon.