All You Need Is Love (11 page)

This makes me think of Mable’s critique of me, how I choose not to know certain things, too. “Maybe he wasn’t ready…”

“Whose side are you on?” Chris asks. We sit on the Science Center wall, underneath where they showed Grease and look at the wet fields.

“The gay side,” I say and shake my head. “So then what happened?”

“Haverford’s a waste of my time. I don’t want to be anyone’s turning point in their sexual identity — at least not now. It’s too much pressure. So Haverford’s back with the lacrosse crew, ignoring his impulses and taking out his frustration on the field.”

“And what about you?” I ask.

“Poor me,” Chris says and looks so sad for a second I think he’ll cry. But then he instantly reverses emotions and does a smile-nod combo. “I have a boyfriend!”

“That was fast — way to get over one guy and under another,” I say but Chris shakes his head.

“Not yet.”

“Who’s the lucky lad?” I ask. Chris shrugs. “Come on — tell me.” Chris locks his mouth with a pretend key and chucks the non-existent key onto the wet grass. I jump down from the wall, pretend to search for the thing and once I find it, pull Chris down onto the grass with me and unlock his mimed-closed mouth.

“Okay, okay, it’s Alistair the American!” Chris says as we roll around fake-fighting in the mud. “There is and I quote from the email he sent me announcing his intentions to start — or continue — a long-distance relationship, ‘an ardency to his feelings that he can’t ignore.’ You can read the letter next time you come to my room.”

“I don’t mean to interrupt your mud-wresting,” Lindsay Parrish says from above us, her hands on her hips, her clothing immaculate despite the heavy rains and earth-caked sidewalks. “It does looks like you have a future in the world of professional bar entertainment.”

“Nice to see you, too, Lindsay,” I say. “And if I haven’t said congratulations on your position as co-head monitor, please accept my heartfelt well wishes now.” And please accept my lips on your buttocks.

I say this all from my place in the mud, so she thinks I’m groveling, but it’s mainly because I just don’t care. What kind of hell can she further inflict on me, really? She can’t touch my grades, I’m not a Hadley student right now, and since I’ll be a senior and I’m a day student, she can’t govern my every move in the dorms like she does with her minions.

“Thanks for that, Love,” Lindsay says in her ultra-fake voice. “Chris — here’s your check. I support your cause and hope the walk goes well.”

“Thanks,” Chris says and I nod, further caking my head in mud. I’ll be gorgeous after I shower, right? Isn’t mud supposed to be some natural cleanser with healing blahs blah blah? Or maybe that’s sand to exfoliate. Or only Icelandic mud. Oh well.

“However, in the future, if you could go through ME rather than my mother, I would be most appreciative,” Lindsay lets her anger show through, her words seething.

“Of course,” Chris and I say in unison.

Chris tells me again how he called Mrs. Parrish and convinced her how important a donation would be, what a statement it would be if Lindsay were to contribute the money from her own monthly stipend that comes from her trust fund.

I figure it’s no big deal — when would I need to go to her mother again? For an urgent appointment at an elite spa in Manhattan maybe. Or the next time I need a Hamptons rental — e.g. never. And there’s no reason why Lindsay would attempt to go through my dad to get to me. Lindsay humphs off, bearing her fancy umbrella as a shield against rain, its point seeming like weapon.

“Great idea,” I say to Chris when Lindsay’s sloshed off to dried pastures.

“Yeah,” Chris sits up in the mud, his arms around his knees. “Let’s just hope it doesn’t come with too much revenge.”

“Hey, Asher, it’s me — um, love just checking in…saying hi. I wasn’t going to leave a message but then I figured I may as well — I mean I’ve already been connected by an international operator — if they still use those for connecting purposes. I don’t know, I’m not a phone worker but…so…just…I hope you’re well. I got your email. It was — brief. Not just brief, but nice, too. Oh, well. Anyway, just give me a call when you get a second. I was looking at air fares and it seems like there are some good ones…bye!”

Not one of my better messages. I really expected him to pick up — I mean where would he be at eight in the morning on a Sunday except asleep in his own bed. But he wasn’t there, and I’m not about to chase him down on the gallery line because then I’ll just seem pathetic and lame. Plus, it’s late here, three in the morning and I need to get some rest. I spent the earlier part of the evening finishing my last history paper for the last of my drama credit in London — with my persuasive skills I managed to get them to give me partial credit if I wrote an essay that detailed the history of theater and its political and cultural reflections in modern day society.

Now all that’s left is a few more taping sessions and that damn project for PMT. I don’t know what else I can throw together for her — I have no novel to write, no poems to spew, no songs unsung (okay, I have lots of songs unsung but I’d like to keep them that way — at least nor now).

I check my email one last time before going to bed just to make sure Asher didn’t send another note — the one I received yesterday was all of one line:

Love — am planning a visit at the end of June — does that work for you? — Asher
He didn’t even say he missed me in it. And though I hate to be a whiny girlfriend, I’m kind of annoyed. What’s the point of having a long-distance relationship if you can’t at least have deep longing and passionate correspondence. But maybe I’m just wrapped up in the Jane Austen fantasy of letter sealed with melted wax, bundles of love notes bound with silk ribbons. Nowhere in that historic fantasy are there one line emails that eschew grammar and capitalization.

But before I despair, I have something in my mailbox that’s new. I don’t immediately recognize the name M. Eisenstein, but it’s the subject “Voice Work” that doesn’t sound like traditional spam of the penis enlargement/work from home variety so I open it.

Hello Love Bukowski!

Sorry to hear you had to head back to the states…

It dawns on me that I am reading a personalized email from THE Martin Gregory Eisenstein, the Indie film producer. Either he must have been very bored to email me or I’m very lucky or both.

As you probably guessed, we’ve finished the film for which we needed dubbing — so no need to bother on that front.

And thus my shot at stardom and hearing my voice in the coolest new release are gone…

However, I’m heading to LA for the summer and might have something for you there. Any chance you’ll be out that way? My wife Teeny and I will be having our annual summer fete in Malibu, feel free to come along to that or call my assistant and tell her I told you to set up a meeting (code word is Mercury so she’s knows you’re not bullshitting — it’s also the password for the party).

If you do find your way out to the sunshine, please do look me up.

Yours,

Martin

He includes his email and phone number and address like I even deserve to have it — I am now one step away from all famous numbers in Hollywood and worldwide. How bizarre.

And do I plan to be in the California area this summer? Why yes, yes I do. I don’t know how or when, but there’s no way I’m going to miss another opportunity. Mercury. I commit the code word to memory and go to sleep.

Dad is manic. He runs from one side of the room to the other, getting everything ready.

“Dad, you’re freaking me out,” I say.

“We have to be prepared — it’s a long way and a big day…”

“Hey — you rhymed!”

“Not funny.” Dad looks around in case he forgot something — his sense of humor? “Did you bring the energy?”

“I think I have them,” Louisa says and pats her bag. “They’re really good, Love — made with soy nut butter and wheat crispies…”

I nod. “They sound great, really. I’m sure they’ll be like homemade Cliff Bars and everything. But I think we should go.”

Chris saves the day by announcing the time and suggesting traffic and parking problems so Dad finally takes a breath, checks for his wallet, water bottle, and then grabs an extra blanket.

“I think I’m all set,” Dad says.

“Great,” I say and head out the door with Louisa.

Normally, my father wouldn’t be a mess — he’s a calm planner. A fastidious planner, but a calm one. What’s thrown him off his game (oh, sporting analogy) is that Mable was just a few days ago given the clearance to join me and Chris for the Avon Walk. The Avon Walk is the length of a marathon or more over two days. You can walk for the whole thing or just part but Chris and I are prepared to go the full distance, meaning twenty-six point two miles in one day and thirteen point one the next. Can you say blisters? Can you say dire need of foot rub? Can you say glad to do it?

We’re allowed to push Mable for exactly one mile at which point my dad will bring her back to Massachusetts General Hospital where she will be checked out by a team of doctors and put back to bed. She was spending a lot of time out of bed last week but got tired again this week, so her oncologist switched one of her medications around to see if it helps her feel better. Still, her spirits are up and she’s psyched to walk with us (walk=ride). So Dad’s nervousness is mainly connected to Mable and his feelings of responsibility and probably sibling guilt about being well while she’s sick (something I’ve felt, too, sometimes).

But there’s something else — like he’s preparing to tell me something but can’t quite bring himself to do it. Arabella and I made a list while instant messaging yesterday and the clear cut winning guess is that Dad is about to announce his engagement to Louisa but is scared of what my reaction will be.

“This is crazy!” Mable yells from her wheelchair. The crowds are a mass of pink-ribbon sporting walkers in of all ages and shapes. Husbands who have lost their wives, kids with their moms, friends linking arms with friends, grandmas and even a couple of dogs wearing pink bandanas walk along with us. I push Mable and wave to random people.

“I feel famous!’ Chris says.

“I know — it’s like being on the red carpet but with this awesome group of people who are all doing the same thing for the same reasons!” We’re so into it that Chris doesn’t even question my lack of red carpet experience. Instead, we just march and sip water and sing when other people sing and don’t cry — because even though it’s a walk born out of loss, it doesn’t feel that way right now.

“Thanks for this, guys,” Mable says and swivels her head so she can smile at us. She pats my hand while I grip the wheelchair’s handle and we keep moving forward, our own unique story, but part of the larger crowd.

Song of the moment: Cuts like a Knife by Bryan Adams. It’s on my Cutlery and More Cd Mix for Jacob. Sure, mixes are just like love letters for the modern age but they can also be a token of friendship, right? Plain and simple — not so over-interpreted? Let’s hope so because it’s in this vein that I am collecting songs. Jacob, who still has his old email DrakeFan email address emailed and asked what I’ve been listening to lately. He’s into a bunch of French songs from the sixties that I don’t understand but try to sing along phonetically to and make Chris laugh. Jacob tried to come up with a random theme for a music share and decided I had to make a “cutlery” mix (he had just been in the dining hall at the time) and he had to put together a mix of songs with only one word as their titles. So far I have The Lovin’ Spoonful, the Brooks Williams tune “Knife Edge”, and the Bryan Adams song — I’m hoping Jacob won’t start picking apart the words, wondering if I’m sending a message like
“I took it all for granted, how was I to know what you’d be letting go…”
and so on. I’m making a mix and talking to Arabella, two of my favorite things.

“I guess we could be friends,” I say to Arabella. “Even though Jacob’s beautiful and being purely platonic would be a slight challenge. I mean, not now because of Asher of course, but I mean in general — you know that sexual tension thing that can ruin everything.”

“Or heighten it!” Arabella says.

“Whatever, it doesn’t matter now, the school year’s almost finished and once I’m on the Vineyard I’m sure I won’t be thinking about Jacob.”

“No, you’ll be too busy hooking up with that boat boy,” Arabella suggests and I know her well enough to know she’s got her eyebrows raised.

“Put those eyebrows down, Piece. I will be doing nothing of the sort. First, in case you’ve forgotten, I have a boyfriend.” That said boyfriend is her brother is apparently of no consequence.

“Who’s not there,” she interjects.

I ignore her and say, “Second, Boat Boy, who has a real name by the way — Charlie — Charlie Something…stood me up and no one stands me up. Oh my God, how Dirty Dancing was that? Anyway, Charlie has nothing going for him.”

“Bollocks. He’s gorgeous, witty, and had that earthy man of the sea appeal.”

“Earthy and of the sea? Have you been drinking?” I ask.

“A little,” she says. “Ohh, and I almost forgot. What about the lovely Henry. Now he’s a tuna sandwich.”

“Huh?”

“I was going to say he’s a lovely piece of cake but then I remembered that you don’t really like cake so I picked something you do like, and it was very quick thinking. Sorry.”

“Great, now I’ll forever think of him as a tall, blazer-wearing tuna salad sandwich.”

“Hang on a sec,” Arabella says. I can hear her chatting away on her cell phone while I wait on the land line. “Sorry. That was Toby.”

“Really?” I ask. “I didn’t know you two were on speaking terms.”

After they broke up, Arabella swore off boys, figuring she’d go on a boy-bender this summer and have her fill of Americana. Tobias vacationed in Nevis and slept with Lila Lawrence, my formerly of Hadley friend who now goes to Brown. I don’t want to bring her name up though, just in case it causes Arabella to unleash unfriendly remarks. Plus, the last time Tobias’s name came up I believe her words regarding him were in the realm of
screw him if he thinks I’m ever speaking to him again
. And yet…