Dating da Vinci (22 page)

I LAY IN THE early light and swept my arms over Joel's side of the bed, sunken in where his body had lain. Joel used to joke he was climbing into his cocoon every night. I wondered if it would be weird just to move it to the garage to keep for old time's sake? Weird for a Normal, but perfectly normal for a Griever.

I'd progressed in leaps and bounds by adding a dog into our lives, but I couldn't get rid of Lumpy, even when I woke up with a backache because the mattress had given up support long ago. I'd had emotional attachments to objects before—my first designer bag in college, my grandmother's diamond earrings—but an ugly, worn-out, king-sized bed? I decided a marriage is a triangle made up of a man, a woman, and their bed. It was one of the last physical remnants of our union, and yet my back knew it was time to say goodbye; finally, so did I. If only I could gather the courage.

Da Vinci would've preferred Lumpy to the pull-out couch that became our regular venue for late-night romps. On Halloween night, after the boys had finally come down from their sugar high and gone to bed, I had slipped out to the studio, where more than two dozen candy wrappers littered his floor.

A few things began to bother me about da Vinci, high among them his trail of clutter wherever he went—this coming from the Clutter Queen. How could I tolerate it in myself, but despise it in others? Talk about a hypocrite. Used paper towels and wadded-up homework and wrappers of every size, shape, and color. Didn't they
have wastebaskets in the Italian countryside, too? He was worse than my boys, and I already had to pick up after them. I forgot when you get a boyfriend, you get more than a late-night body warmer. It wasn't just his mess, either.

His work ethic was questionable. While he was good at a lot of things, he didn't like to finish anything he started. After a few days on a temp job, he was ready to move on. If they kept him on too long, he just didn't show up, which caused reprimands all the way up the ladder, and ended up being reported to Panchal, who had high expectations of his immigrants:
on time, best effort, no excuses.

I dismissed it as his age, not knowing what he wanted to do with his life yet, or not yet feeling like he fit in, but the more time that passed, the more I thought it could just be da Vinci's personality. I wondered if he would wake up one day and see that I wasn't so interesting after all—just a regular woman with two boys and a mortgage she could barely pay.

And what was with that notebook? He carried it with him everywhere, but when I tried to find it, it was nowhere to be found. What could be inside? Sketches of me and the boys? Love poems? A journal of his new life in America? Da Vinci was still a mystery to me. On any given day, he went from incredibly simple to preposterously complex. He was both or neither or I was just overthinking him. Well, I had a right to, hadn't I? Wasn't he my boyfriend now?

Halloween night, after a quickie on top of the sheets, we lay naked on our bellies and ate more bite-sized candies. He threw his wrappers on the floor and I tossed mine on the side table.

“There are three trashcans in here,” I said, motioning to the one just a foot from where he was tossing the trash.

Da Vinci stuck a Tootsie Roll in his mouth. “You sound like my mother.”

Ouch. “I was just pointing out an obvious fact. Fine. Whatever. You're a grown man. If stepping on candy wrappers and getting
chocolate goo on your bare feet doesn't bother you, then why should I care?”

“You shouldn't.”

“Fine.”

“Fine.”

I tried to lighten the mood. “I guess you enjoyed trick or treating? From the looks of it, you really cleaned up.”

“Stop with clean house. Got lots of candy.”

“Sorry. That's an expression: ‘Cleaned up‘ can mean you really did well. As it, got lots of candy.”

“Yes, lots of candy. Candy bars very big in America.”

“Chocolate releases endorphins in the brain,” I said. “Mimics the feelings of love.”

“I don't need chocolate,” he said, playfully hitting my foot with his. “You are one big chocolate factory.”

I kissed him, one chocolatey kiss that had the power to pull me on top of him. “So I saw you writing in your notebook when you and the boys got back. What do you put in there?”

“I already told you. Things.”

“So it's like a diary, then? Anh thinks you write down observations about life, like your namesake did. Is that what it is? Borrowing an old trick from the old man da Vinci?”

In fact, Anh believed he could
be
da Vinci reincarnated, finally getting to visit America. I would not share this with him, or anyone else, for that matter. I liked to keep my friend's loopy ideas under cover. Besides, it wasn't reincarnation that gave him so many similarities with the genius da Vinci, but his name. Perhaps his parents, even in their small Italian village, fostered creativity and curiosity in their little da Vinci, hoping he might grow up one day to master any of the many things in which the genius da Vinci was gifted. Many people didn't know the old da Vinci had done everything from party planning to war strategy and everything in
between: scientist, horseman, astrologer, artist. I had never seen my da Vinci draw or paint anything, though I'd tempted him a few times when the boys were doing crafts, but he never did. Perhaps that's what I was hoping I would find in his notebooks: proof that he was or wasn't da Vinci reincarnate. Besides my da Vinci's skill at landscaping, horseback riding, and taking care of his body, the most obvious shared trait was his proclivity to leave projects half-finished. Hardly a way for him to make his own name for himself, let alone the old guy's.

Da Vinci shook his head and ran a finger down from my neck down to my belly button. “My notebook is personal. Now let's get it on so I can do my sit-ups before bed.”

He was nearly as fitness obsessed as my sister. The only difference was he ate whatever he wanted, but he made up for it with marathon workout sessions: jogging, biking, lifting weights, Pilates. Rachel had asked him to come on her show for the next taping, so he'd been even more obsessive than usual. His hundred sit-ups turned into a thousand. Not that I let his one-armed push-ups make me feel bad about my still soft body. Well, maybe a little.

“I thought you said America cared too much about TV? That we should get out and enjoy nature more?”

“This true,” da Vinci said. “But TV makes you star, no? And maybe I could be star.”

I picked up a pillow and threw it at him, hitting him in the head. “I already have one star too many in my family, thank you very much.”

The puppy whimpered from inside the house, his bark becoming more persistent, needy. Bellezza. Da Vinci had named him for beauty, but I was beginning to think we should've named him Cane Terribile for “holy terror.”

I grabbed my sweatshirt and sweatpants, thinking I must be an old, uninteresting girlfriend to not even wear sexy lingerie for da Vinci after only four weeks together. I made a mental note to pick up some when I went to the department store to look for a bed. Oh, God. I was going
shopping for a bed? I'd have to pop a Xanax just to get through it. For some reason, it felt like more of a betrayal than being with da Vinci.

“Don't go,” da Vinci said, tugging at my arm. “Puppy can wait.”

Another annoying trait: da Vinci could be selfish. Maybe a younger, more interesting girlfriend would've stayed with him, but I was a regular woman with two boys and a puppy, which was a lot like having a newborn. “Da Vinci, I've got to take care of Bellezza. I'll see you tomorrow.”

He sat up in bed, pulling the sheets over him. “Is that man coming tomorrow?”

I slipped on my house shoes. “Cortland? I have no idea. Why do you ask?”

“He's been over too lot.”

I rolled my eyes. “He's been over
a
lot. He's just helping with the puppy. He's being
nice
. I haven't had a dog since I was a kid.”

“I had six sheepdogs back home.”

“Well, Bellezza isn't a sheepdog, is she? She's a German shepherd, and if Cortland wants to help, I appreciate it.”

“Something not right about him. How you say, fishy? He's not welcome in house.”

“I can't believe this,” I said, grabbing the door, the sound of Bellezza's barks growing louder. “You're jealous of my sister's boyfriend? Do you know how crazy that sounds? And since when is it
your
house?”

He clicked off his lamp and turned away from me in a huff.
What a baby
, I thought, unsure of whether I should be flattered or turned off by his behavior. I decided to blame it on too much sugar and retreated to take care of my other baby.

She caught me off guard. Again.

I was walking Bellezza around the park when I got The Call. It felt out of the blue, though my heart had skipped a beat every time my cell
phone rang the last week and a half. This time, I was too preoccupied with waiting for my puppy to pee to think that it could be Her.

“Ramona? Hey, sorry it's taken me so long to get back to you.”

Her voice was unmistakable, like an angel's, though not a sweet cherub, but a powerful angel like Raphael or Gabriel.

“God, I did it again. Sorry. It's Monica. Blevins. I was going to call you when I returned from Japan?”

“Yes, of course. How are you?” I looked down to find Bellezza urinating on my sneaker. A half-acre to roam, and he picks my Nike. “Dammit.”

“Excuse me?”

“No. Not you. My puppy just peed on my shoe.”

Monica laughed. “I don't hear that every day. Shall I call you back?”

“No, no. Don't hang up. It'll dry, right?”

“Well, if you need to, call me back when you have your calendar in front of you.”

I imagined Monica was the type of person who couldn't live without her planner directing her every move, but my schedule was in my brain: Monday, Wednesday, Friday at the Panchal Center, Tuesdays and Thursdays volunteering at the school, and every day from 3:30 to 8 p.m. was booked with boys' activities, and then dinner, homework and bed. “Not at all. What works for you?”

Monica made exasperated noises on the other end: moans, sighs, ticks, as she moved through her frenzied days. She must be important to be so booked up. “Okay. Got it! I was nervous for a minute there, but I have thirty minutes two weeks from Monday.”

“Two weeks?” I'd already been a nervous wreck waiting for her to return and call me back. Now I had to wait two
more
weeks for her confession? For those huge Unanswered Questions she was going to hit me with?

“You're right. That's too long, isn't it? Let's see what I can move around.”

“Oh, you don't have to do that for me.”

“It's no big deal. Besides, Joel was special to me. It's the least I can do.”

I nearly dropped the phone. I wanted to say, “Forget it. Let's just get this over with on the phone. What do you mean by
special
? What
precisely
is your definition?”

“What about tomorrow then? Coffee at 8 a.m.? That Starbucks on 89th?”

The one where Cortland and I had our spat. “I might be a few minutes late. I drop the boys off at 8.”

“That's fine. I'll see you then.” And she was gone. I was left standing in the park, staring at Joel's bench, with warm dog piss on my shoe.

The next morning, I woke up with a racing heart as though I had anxiety even in sleep. It was 6:30 a.m., just enough time to look half as good as Monica. It would have to do. I would exfoliate my entire body in the shower and use the expensive lotion my sister got me last Christmas. I would even wear eye shadow and attempt to curl my hair.

Forty-five minutes later, when it was time to wake the boys, William wasn't in bed. My adrenaline still pumping, my voice rose an octave. “Bradley?” I shouted, shaking him awake. “Where's your brother?”

Then I heard it. Gagging noises from the bathroom. I followed the trail of spaghetti vomit down the hall and to the bathroom, where William sat hunched over the toilet, puking.

He looked up at me with those big, sad eyes, drool hanging from his mouth. “Mommy, I don't feel so good.”