Just Like a Musical Page 2

  I was at the front gate when Mrs. Wheeler appeared at her kitchen window reminding me not to forget our agreement. We were supposed to try out some new tea later that afternoon. She had also persuaded me to pick one of her dresses for Tanya’s party. I wasn’t sure whether it was a good idea to wear something so glamorous at a teenage party, but I didn’t want to make her feel bad by turning down her offer.

  I went to White Oak Park and took a couple of photographs before I sat on the bench. It was one of those quiet afternoons when everything seems to be indolent and all the colors are kind of melted. I closed my eyes, enjoying the warm air and pushing away all the bitterness that I was feeling after the one-and-a-half-minute conversation with my father. I was trying to find comfort in my great SAT scores that I’d gotten earlier that week, and for a moment, it really worked. I was dancing my way through the University of Los Angeles’ door when I heard someone giggling. I can’t stand those people who accost you in the park, always trying to make you talk about the weather, or shoelaces, or cheese, or trumpets, or just anything. Not that I’ve met many of them, but I’ve been interrogated by a few, and I try to avoid them when I can. So I ignored the giggling and drifted back to my sweet reverie. When I finally opened my eyes, after my dreamy ears caught a strange sound from the outside world, I saw a guy sitting on the bench opposite mine. There was no one else around.

  “Uh… I’m sorry,” he mumbled.

  I looked at him, stretching my shoulders.

  “Sorry for waking you up.”

  “Oh, never mind. I wasn’t sleeping anyway,” I said, jumping up from the bench and pretending that I was going to take some more photos.

  I have never been good at casual talk with strangers, especially with quite good-looking, tall strangers in black chucks and hand-painted T-shirts with laughing skulls and poppy flowers. That’s why I decided to take a particular interest in two pigeons that were waddling around. Sure, pigeons can be quite interesting. Way more interesting than good-looking boys who have just tried to strike up a conversation with you. I carefully approached the pigeon couple and took a photograph, when the guy in the quirky T-shirt popped right beside me.

  “Hi again!” he said cheerfully.

  I looked into his eyes for a moment. They were midnight blue and they were smiling and I was ready to fall in love. But then he did something really strange – he pulled his left ear very hard. So hard that it turned red.

  Then he blinked and said, “May I see them?”

  “See them?”

  He pulled his ear again. I was confused, embarrassed, and ready to turn around and run. But there was a tiny, giddy part of me that had tied my ankles to the ground and didn’t want to let them budge.

  “See the photos, of course. What did you think?” he said, laughing.

  “Oh, sure” I said, still not knowing whether I should go or stay. But his smile melted away the foolish stiffness of my limbs, and I handed him the photos.

  “I don’t often see people with Polaroid cameras these days,” he said, looking at the pigeon picture.

  “Yeah, me neither. But I actually like them. I like cameras in general... but Polaroid is my farovite… I mean, favorite.”

  I heard my voice quiver on vowels and trip over consonants, and I could feel my face turn red – redder than his left ear.

  “That’s why I’m using one, obviously,” I added sadly.

  Of course you don’t know how to talk to handsome boys! Goddamned cameras and pigeons and consonants!

  “It’s somehow romantic in an old-fashioned way, isn’t it?” he said. Then he winked at me twice. I stepped back. But he smiled and very politely asked, “Can I take one, please? I’ve never used a Polaroid camera before.”

  I opened my mouth to say “yes” when he winked at me again. And then… then he growled at me in the most horrible voice that I had ever heard, “Moron!”

  That’s right – he said I was a moron. A thousand little frightened voices in my head screamed to me, “Run!” And did I listen to them? No, I didn’t. I stood in front of that odd, odd guy with my mouth agape, my knees wobbling, and my limbs hanging ungainly beside my body.

  “Oh, I’m sorry!” he said, raising his eyebrows and scratching his forehead.

  That was all he had to say – that he was sorry.

  “You’re sorry for calling me a moron?” I asked, frowning at my own silliness for not letting me turn around and walk away like any normal person would do.

  “No,” he said hesitantly.

  “You’re not?” I nearly screamed. “What’s wrong with you?” I swear that I was about to slap him in the face once or twice, but he looked far stronger than me.

  “No, I am sorry. I really am. I didn’t want to call you a moron,” he said. “I have this condition… I have Tourette’s syndrome, you see.”

  “No, you don’t,” I said resolutely. I think I even put my finger up in the air, that’s how angry I was. My index finger often goes up when I’m angry and I want to prove that I’m right. It always makes my mother laugh.

  But then his eyes found mine, and in a heartbeat, I was disarmed. His dark eyes radiated honesty and silent apologies.

  “Oh, you do have it!” I said. “Well, that’s good.”

  “Good?” he laughed, now standing one step closer to me.

  Sometimes, very rarely, life endows you with a moment of sheer flawlessness when everything is just like it is supposed to be – the smell of the air, the softness of the light, the sound of birds perching in the treetops, and someone’s smiling eyes. You don’t even try to make that moment last longer, you just exist inside its depths, while everything outside becomes invisible. Then something cracks almost inaudibly; a sunbeam starts to shine a little brighter, or a dust particle changes direction, and it’s over. You can feel the pulse of the outside world again. And you don’t want to go back inside. You just feel grateful.

  A woman who was passing by pushed my shoulder slightly.

  “I’m sorry,” she said.

  That was it – we were back.

  “I’m not sure it’s that good,” the guy with Tourette’s said, sighing.

  “It's certainly better than being some kind of a weirdo,” I answered, “and that’s what I thought you were. So the winking was also…?”

  He nodded.

  “And that ear thing? Do you have any more delightful symptoms?”

  “I clear my throat loudly. Very loudly. Like this.” Then he demonstrated his magnificent ability to clear his throat. I was impressed.

  “Sometimes I get hiccups when I’m upset,” I said.

  “Lame! I win!”

  And there we were, walking around the park on a cloudy April afternoon, taking photographs, me – a clumsy girl with ginger hair – and a guy with Tourette’s syndrome. The former was staggering around while the latter was winking at the passers-by. Quite a couple. He told me why he loved instant cameras – it was because of their stark sincerity. A Polaroid photograph can’t lie – that’s what he said. I wasn’t sure I understood, but I was too reluctant to ask for an explanation.

  “Hey, how come you’re not at school right now?” he suddenly said.

  “I’m homeschooled,” I said, inwardly answering his next question before he even opened his mouth.

  “Really? I’ve never met a homeschooler before,” he said. “Why did your parents decide to homeschool you?”

  I told him it was a long story that had something to do with my knee. As soon as I said it, I started becoming more and more aware of how idiotic that could have sounded. My pulse quickened and I could feel the dark blush sweeping over my ears and gliding down my face for the umpteenth time that day. But he didn't seem to notice the stupidity of my statements or my blush or the tiny stream of sweat running down my neck.

  “That's kind of cool. I hated high school,” he said.

  He told me that he had graduated from high school a year earlier and had recently started working in an upholstery workshop, but he
hoped to make a living writing screenplays one day.

  A large raindrop hit the top of my head, followed by the sound of thunder.

  “Hey, let’s go to the movies!” he said, grabbing my hand and pulling me away.

  How could I confront him? He was tall. He was wearing black chucks and a badass T-shirt. He used “romantic” and “old-fashioned” in the same sentence. And his eyes were midnight blue.

  I wish I could say that we watched a good, meaningful, heartfelt movie with some quality dialogue and quiet dying, but no – we watched a B-horror movie with vampires and zombies. It’s the curse of a small town – you don’t really have many choices when it comes to anything. But in the middle of the slaughtering scene, he accidentally brushed my elbow, and I felt something warm besiege my poor heart, something I had never encountered before. It was a jolt of bliss amalgamated with sweet anticipation. Suddenly, I could totally understand and approve of the zombies’ behavior and vampires were the coolest creatures ever. Well… not quite, but I certainly didn’t want that movie to end anytime soon.

  When we stepped outside, I was feeling too overwhelmed to even look at his face. He cleared his throat. A couple of middle school kids gawked at us as they passed by. I tried to figure out what to say, but nothing came to mind. It was doubtless one of the freakiest moments in my life, and there were no signs that he was feeling more relaxed. My brain kept asking me questions – how did you get here, who is that guy beside you, what will you do next, but I was just shrugging my shoulders, speechless and muddled.

  We walked in silence for more than two minutes when he finally opened up and said, “It was a true masterpiece, no doubt about it.”

  The sound of his voice was soothing. I decide to be funny for a change.

  “I certainly hope your screenplays are better than that one,” I said, chuckling.

  He looked up at the sky.

  “It stopped raining,” he said quietly. “There’s something so sad about the moments after the rain. It’s like the beginning of the end.”

  “I’m not sure I get it,” I said. “What do you mean?”

  “Just look.”

  He pointed at the sky. My eyes followed his finger. The dark shade of the evening sky reminded me of something, and I had no idea what it was until an elderly woman brushed the back of my calf with her umbrella.

  “Oh, no!” I said, “What time is it? I have to go!”

  I’d completely forgotten about the promise I had given to Mrs. Wheeler. I should have been at her house two hours earlier.

  He put his hand on my shoulder, trying to stop me, but I wriggled out. A slight wince crossed his lips as if he wanted to say something but then changed his mind.

  “I’m glad we met,” I said, “but I really, really need to go. I’m sure I’ll see you around.”

  Of course I didn’t want to leave like that. Of course I wanted him to ask me for my phone number since I obviously didn’t have the guts to ask him for his. Of course I wanted to say something more memorable, something charming that would make him think about me for the rest of the day. But considering the state I was in, these seventeen words were more than what I had expected to come out of my baffled mouth.

  When I started running, it became obvious that there was nothing wrong with my knee.

  “Hey, what’s your name?” I heard him shout from behind.

  “Ruby! It’s Ruby!” I shouted back.

  Chapter Three

  I had been ringing Mrs. Wheeler’s doorbell forever before she finally opened the door. When I entered her hallway, I was exhausted from running. The strange guy’s voice was still ringing in my ears.

  “I’m so sorry I’m late,” I barely exhaled. “I met a friend in the park and lost track of time.”

  Mrs. Wheeler’s house was dark. That was strange: it was only 8 p.m.

  “Did I wake you up, Mrs. Wheeler?”

  “No, my dear,” she said. “I was so lost in thought that I forgot to turn on the light.”

  She settled her gaunt body in the rocking chair, switching on the lamp. Her tearful eyes rambled around the room before they landed on my face.

  “Have you been crying?” I said.

  I knew she had. I can recognize an after-crying face a mile off; it’s one of my many secret gifts.

  “Crying?” she said, making an effort to look surprised only a second after my eye caught the handkerchief that she was trying to hide under her blood red peignoir. “Why would I cry?” she said somewhat theatrically. She may have worked in Hollywood, but she was a lousy actress. I pretended not to have noticed anything.

  “Should I put the kettle on?” Mrs. Wheeler asked, getting up before I answered.

  “Sure, what new flavor are we trying today?”

  “It’s Drum Mountain White Cloud tea,” she said. “It’s grown by Buddhist monks on the top of the mountain.”

  “I love our tea routine,” I said. “It’s so poetic.”

  She gently smiled at me and disappeared behind the folding doors. I glanced across the room. Nothing was different from the last time I’d been there, but I could still feel something imperceptible but heavy hovering under the ceiling. It was as if the walls had been evaporating some strange, almost tangible sentiment that slowly filled the entire room.

  I heard Mrs. Wheeler blowing her nose in the kitchen. She came back a minute later with a teapot and two rose demitasse cups.

  “Shall we choose a dress for tomorrow’s party now?” she said.

  I followed her to her bedroom. She opened a wardrobe and gazed at me.

  “I think light green would complement your beautiful hair and skin.”

  Beautiful hair and skin? I have always considered the ghostly pale shade of my skin particularly uninviting. As for my hair, I had tried to convince my mother to let me dye it, but she claimed that hair dye was cancerous, and one serious disease was quite enough.

  “Try this one. It was worn by an actress whose name I forgot in a movie whose title I can’t remember,” Mrs. Wheeler said, giggling. “I’ll wait for you in the living room,” she added and closed the door.

  I put the dress on and looked into the mirror.

  Too skinny. Almost no breasts. Oh well, what can I do…

  When I came out, Mrs. Wheeler was leaning on the window sill.

  “Here I am,” I whispered.

  I felt rather uncertain in an elegant, open-back dress. Mrs. Wheeler turned around. A large teardrop slowly slid down her flabby cheek.

  “You look enchanting, my dear,” she sniffed and smiled.

  “Thank you,” I said, bemused. “Mrs. Wheeler, do you want me to go home now? Would you like to be alone?”

  “There is nothing I would like less than being alone now,” she said in a beseeching voice. “I’d rather you stayed for a while, please.”

  I sat on the sofa. Mrs. Wheeler turned toward the window again. Silence dense as a concrete block stood above our heads.

  “It’s her birthday tomorrow,” she said suddenly.

  “Whose birthday, Mrs. Wheeler?”

  “Oh, you can call me Eleanor,” she said. “It’s funny to address people by their title while they’re crying in front of you.”

  She sat next to me. Her wide-open, gray eyes were glowing like two lonely stars in the darkest time of night. Her dry lips quivered as she rubbed her forehead. For a moment, I thought that she was sick.

  “It’s my daughter’s birthday tomorrow,” she said, staring at me.

  “But you said that you didn’t have children,” I reminded her, becoming more certain that she was having a fever. My hand reached toward her forehead, froze in the air, and then lolled beside me again.

  She grabbed my shoulders in desperation.

  “Oh, I have a daughter!” she shouted. “I had a daughter!”

  A cascade of tears started running down her face. And I was just sitting like an idiot in a hundred-year-old dress, not knowing what to do with my arms. Speechless. Speechless again. Fortunately
, Mrs. Wheeler pulled herself together quickly.

  “I’m sorry,” she said wearily, wiping her eyes. “Will you get me a cigarette, please? The cigarette case is right there on the table. I feel too weak to stand up right now.”

  She cleared her throat, rubbed her left palm, and lit the cigarette I handed to her. I felt that I needed one, too, although I had never smoked before.

  “I had a daughter,” Mrs. Wheeler started after she lustily inhaled the smoke. “I was sixteen years old and I was in love, madly in love with Thomas Slade, who was three years older than me. I found out that I was pregnant two weeks before Christmas 1949. We didn’t plan to have a baby, of course, but once we imagined the three of us together, it painted our lives with the most wonderful colors. Well, mine at least.”

  She sighed and held her breath for a couple of seconds before she continued.

  “I knew my mother would disagree; she had other plans for me. She wanted me to go to college, and having a baby at the age of seventeen was something unacceptable to her. I guess it would be unacceptable for almost all mothers in the world, and I don’t blame her for that. But I do blame her for what came next, just like I blame myself. Tom and I made a plan to run away to New York. He was a mechanic, and I had some experience in sewing. We thought New York would be a good place for us to start a family.”

  Mrs. Wheeler scratched her temple. The space around us shrank and darkened. The only thing radiating from the darkness was her furrowed face bathed in some new kind of glow, lighter than the one before.

  “We were just a couple of hours away from a perfect life… I was packing my things when my mother furiously entered my room. She ran into our town doctor on her way back from the marketplace and he told her about my pregnancy. I can still feel the blaze of her fingers on my cheek.”

  She stopped talking for a moment, stood up, and poured us some more tea. Her hands trembled as she placed the teapot back on the table. I tried to picture her as a seventeen-year-old girl, full of bright plans.

  “My mother kept me locked in the house until the end of my pregnancy,” she continued. “No one was allowed to come and visit me. No one. I was only allowed to go to the doctor. With her, of course. She had found the adopters for my baby long before she was born. It was a couple from Oklahoma in their late twenties.”