Falling for Your Madness (20 page)

“Laura.” A woman reached out and touched my arm. She stood next to me holding the pole; earbuds were in her ears, and her eyes were closed. She looked like all the other thousands of students in this city.

“Do I know you?”

She opened her eyes. “Why do you have to cite your sources?”

“What?”

“Why do you have to cite your sources? You know the answer. You’ve done the reading.”

I trembled. “You have to back it up. You can’t just make stuff up to suit your own needs.”

She leaned over and gave me a quick kiss on the forehead and a big smile. “That’s why you’re his favorite pupil.” The train car stopped. We were at Kenmore Square. She got off. I didn’t see which way she went.

Thursday, October 24, 2012

332 Babcock Street

Brookline, Massachusetts

7:38 p.m.

“Can you get the shoes we picked out at Macy’s? I’ve changed my mind. The ones Molly had aren’t going to work at all.” My sister was on the phone. The wedding was a month away, and I was trying to be a good maid of honor while living a thousand miles away. The wedding planning was helping me to not think about David. Who was I kidding?
Every time I thought of Amy’s wedding, I thought of mine and David’s
. And I had the power.

Having power sucked.

I needed some support. “Is Dad there?”

“Sure. Hey, Laura, you didn’t ‘plus one’ yet.”

“I know.”

My dad came on the line. “Hey Princess! Are you filling up these days?”

“When I can. It’s busy.”

“You’re filling up on good things, right?”

“Yeah.” I had a knot in my throat. “I’m reading. I’m memorizing poetry. I’m collecting leaves.”

“But what do you see? Are you looking?”

There were tears in my eyes. “I’m trying.”

My dad snapped at me. This was completely out of character for him. “I don’t think you are, Laura. Look harder.”

Tears ran down my face. I wished I had a handkerchief with the initials DJAB on it. “I don’t know what to look at.”

“I think you do. Look at David.” What was going on here? My dad had never met David. How did he know? “Laura, you must look only at David. Don’t look at
anything
else.”

“Okay, Daddy.”

“You have to keep looking, Laura!”

Friday, October 25, 2012

332 Babcock Street

Brookline, Massachusetts

2:09 p.m.

This was a god-awful week. I didn’t get tea. I didn’t have lunch. Tonight I wouldn’t have dinner. No one gave me flowers.

This afternoon I was gluing felt hearts to a red thrift store tunic. It was my costume, such as it was. Among all the things I had to think about, I had to find something to wear. It used to be that I looked forward to this part of the party because it was fun to put on a nurse’s outfit or a black kitten costume and show off a little. But this year, all of the costumes looked trampy to me. So
unladylike.
So I improvised with what I had. Sparkly red shoes, black tights, long red tunic that hit me at the knees, covered with hearts and playing cards. I bought a red heart bobble headband and made a scepter. I was the Queen of Hearts. But I didn’t feel much like going to a party.

My phone rang. It was Ruby.

“Guess who I just saw on campus? I’ll give you a hint. Tweed jacket. Big feet.”

I squinted my eyes shut. “Did he see you?”

“He came over and kissed my hand. He gave me a bouquet of flowers. He said he wanted to apologize for ever coming between me and you. I told him it was my fault. I told him the flowers and the apology weren’t necessary. He insisted.”

“He is a true gentleman.” I couldn’t get the words out.

“This is the second bouquet of flowers I’ve had in a week. The girls in my classes are getting jealous.”

“Oh, you poor thing.”

“David asked how you were.”

“What did you say?”

“I said you were a mess.”

“That’s about right. Did he say anything else?”

“He said he wanted to give you some advice.”

“Of course he did. He’s always teaching me things.”

“He said, ‘Never underestimate the power of suggestion
.
’”

“What does that mean?”

“He said if you understand this, you’ll pass the class.”

“Okay.”

“And Laura?” she giggled. “You’re going to love the beard.”

Sunday, October 27, 2012

736 Cambridge Street

Brighton, Massachusetts

8:07 p.m.

I was at Jessie’s apartment for the Halloween party. I had started watching for the Crown Victoria twenty minutes ago. It was Sunday, and not even a Patriots victory had distracted me from what was on my mind. I still didn’t know what I had to do. All week these weird conversations had been fluttering around me, and I was too overwhelmed and confused and exhausted to gather them up like petals and see what it all meant.

My client, as I’d expected, rode out the storm. The bad press didn’t hurt him as badly as he thought it would. He had said, “I don’t like being called something I’m not
.
”
I had remembered the last time that had happened to me. It was when Trey told me on Charles Street that I was not a lady. But I was. David had told me I was.

The woman on the subway had asked me why we cite our sources. I had said it was to back up our claims. You have to have proof, academic proof, original sources, credible testimony and facts. What proof did I have that Fay was right? All I had was that school paper that David had written
fifteen
years ago.
She had said she had a file, but I never saw one. Most of her claims against David were disputed by Ruby. Ruby knew the original source. Ruby was the expert.

Grant was an expert too. That made David’s king of England obsession a little weird, but I had to believe in the man I love. How was David’s obsession any worse than his father’s?

In an unusually confrontational conversation with my father, he had asked me what I was filling up on. Until I had spoken to Fay, I had filled up on my smart, considerate sweetheart who loved me and defended me and was waiting patiently on me. But when I chose to fill up, even for a minute, on something negative and accusative, something dark and sinister, then what overflowed was more than tears. It was distrust and fear. Daddy had said, “Look only at David
.
”
That was my problem all along. I had taken my eyes off David. My sweetheart’s character, even though he made mistakes, proved he was a gentleman.

Yes, Dr. Bowles, I get it. Never underestimate the power of suggestion. On September 19, you suggested to me that I could be your bride, and I have been aspiring to be that ever since.

And you call me a
lady.

When the Crown Victoria pulled up, I ran out of Jessie’s apartment to the street. Merle got out of the car. He had a duffle bag.

“Where’s David? Why isn’t he with you?”

“How do you know he’s not?”

This
is why David can’t stand him.

I followed Merle into our apartment and thought, surely it won’t be but a few minutes, and David will come.

But it wasn’t. Our other friends showed up, and Jessie turned on the music. I got many compliments on my costume and chatted with everyone. I tried not to wince when someone asked me about my sweetheart. “He’s coming.” I told them. I didn’t know what else to say.

Sunday, October 27, 2012

736 Cambridge Street

Brighton, Massachusetts

10:11 p.m.

“Okay, Merle, I’ve waited long enough. Where is he?”

“I told you. He’s coming.”

I had been miserable the entire evening. I went from anticipation to worry to panic, and now, despair. I had slumped onto the couch with one of Jessie’s margaritas, and I decided that ‘was where I was going to stay until I saw David. Jessie gathered everyone into the living room. It was time, she said, for Merle’s magic show.

The first trick he did was the card trick he’d showed me in David’s apartment, the one with all the kings in the deck. Everybody applauded. I hoped and prayed that Merle didn’t show my friends all those photographs of David’s ex-sweethearts. He didn’t. He did the standard metal ring trick. He actually pulled a rabbit out of a hat. He brought me up to the front and extracted seventy-four cents in pennies out of my ear.

Then he handed me a box. It was the same size as my iPhone. It had a hinge on the side.

“Open it.” Merle instructed me.

When I opened it up, I realized that there was another hinge on the side. I hadn’t seen it before.

“Open that one too.”

I did. Another hinge appeared. The box was now quadruple the size it had been originally. It felt warm in my hands.

“Keep opening it, Laura.”

So I did. As the box got bigger, I had to put it on the floor. Then it was taller than me. Then the hinges formed a box, a box so tall that it almost touched the ceiling. It had four walls, but it was hollow on the inside, or at least I thought it was.

“Walk around it, Laura.”

I walked around it. I tried to
look.

I was back around at the front, where everyone was still seated, waiting for the big trick. This time I saw a door on the box. It hadn’t been there before.

“You may sit down now, dear.”

I did. Merle didn’t do anything until I was settled.

Suddenly the room got very dark.

“Ladies and Gentlemen of the Court!” Merle shouted. “Behold! King David the Magnificent!”

The door of the box opened with a brilliant light. I couldn’t see him. He stepped out of the box, and what I saw took my breath away.

My David stood there. At least I thought it was my David. He was covered in a brilliant silver suit of mail. On his chest was a breastplate with a red cross emblazoned on it. He wore a crown that was so tall it nearly touched the ceiling. His beard, his regal, perfectly sculpted beard, made him so distinguished. He was taller than I had ever seen him. He faced forward, soberly, with a courage and determination that was almost frightening. He held a sword—I assumed it was Excalibur—and the sword seemed to have a life of its own.

“Bow before your king!” Merle beckoned us.

Everyone bowed. We bowed? These were all good Americans. We don’t bow before anyone. But these good Americans had had too many of Jessie’s margaritas. I tried to bow too, but I couldn’t move. I couldn’t even breathe.
Who was he?
I gasped. David
was magnificent.

David stepped over his subjects and came to me. He stared at me in a way that was almost terrifying.

Then David stooped. He was on his knees. He laid Excalibur at my feet. He took my hand and kissed it.

“I am but your humble servant, dear lady.”

“Oh, David!”

Then he started another poem.

“Sunset and evening star,

And one clear call for me!

And may there be no moaning of the bar,

When I put out to sea,

But such a tide as moving seems asleep,

Too full for sound and foam,

When that which drew from out the boundless deep

Turns again home.”

I knew this poem. It was “Crossing the Bar
.
”
Tennyson considered it his epitaph and requested that it always be the last one listed in his books of poetry. It’s about the end.

“David, what are you doing? What are you saying?”

“Please let me finish, my darling.

“Twilight and evening bell,