Falling for Your Madness (8 page)

I knew that she was trying to get me to laugh, but I didn’t feel like it.

“What are you going to do about tea on Monday?”

“I have no idea. But I do know this. He’s going to be sorry that he ever told me that I have power.”

Saturday, September 29, 2012

332 Babcock Street

Brookline, Massachusetts

11:22 a.m.

I was glad it was raining. This meant that when David Julius Arthur Bowles decided to take his Saturday morning walk, his plans would be ruined. Good. Every time I thought of that pompous, hypocritical jerk, I wanted to kick something. I had work to do that was due on Monday, and I didn’t have time to waste my mental energy on what had happened last night.

I couldn’t help it. I hadn’t slept well. I kept wondering if he went to the ER and if he really
was
okay, and that just made me madder. Why didn’t he have a phone? Why couldn’t he have some sort of way that I could track him down and ask him about his head and his shoulder and his foot and
then
give him a piece of my mind about the miserable way he treated me?

It didn’t help matters that when I came into the kitchen this morning there was still blood,
his blood,
on my kitchen table and floor. I had sat there and taken care of him. If I had known what was coming, I might have stabbed him myself. All that sweet talk, the chivalry, the gentleman act, was just that, an act. His intention all along was to get me on the couch underneath him. Had Ruby not come home when she did, things might have been much worse.

The more I stewed over this, and the more upset I got, the slower my computer seemed to work, the more mistakes I made on my project, the more I wanted to kick something, and the more I wanted that something to be David Julius Arthur Bowles, Ph.D.

My phone rang.
Mr. Baseball
lit up on the screen. It was Trey. Trey? I hadn’t thought about him in a long time. How long had it been, two weeks? There was no need think about Trey with David around. Grrr. Stupid David.

Trey was upbeat. “Hey you! What’s going on?”

I wasn’t sure how to answer that question. “Nothing. I’m working. What’s going on with you?”

“How’s work going?”

“Great. How’s work with you?”

“Regular season’s almost over. Not exactly the season we hoped for, but you know how it goes. There’s always next year.” This was one of the things that bugged me about Trey. His job with the Red Sox was administrative. It’s not like he actually played the game. When he traveled with the team, he carried himself with a new swagger that was impressive in April, but by the end of the season, I found it exhausting. “I’m home now and want a new distraction. Wanna go to dinner tonight?”

“I don’t know. I’ve had a rough couple of days.”

“What’s a matter Laura-loo?”

Should I tell him? When David asked me questions, there was no doubt in my mind that he was interested in me. I knew I was going to be heard. With Trey though, there was always this sense of him tolerating my answer and not really listening. What is wrong with me?
I’ve got to stop thinking about David!

“Listen. Let’s talk about it over dinner. I want all
the details. You want to go to that place on Beacon Hill? Indigo? Hey, maybe that waiter is there and we can pretend we’re tourists looking for Cheers again. That was hilarious
.
”

“Yes. Sure. Why not.” The first step in not thinking about David was getting back to the old way of doing things. Like having no rules and eating at different restaurants and having different conversations. “Pick me up at seven?”

“Yup. Okay. No wait. Can I meet you there, 6:30? I gotta thing. You know, stuff.”

“Fine. I’ll meet you there at 6:30.”

I put the phone down and tried to get back to my work. Then the doorbell rang. What I
didn’t
expect was to see Merle, under a brolly—I mean, an umbrella, with a bouquet of white roses and a letter.

“Miss Laura. These are for you. I am supposed to wait for an answer.”
He handed me the flowers and the letter; then I realized that I couldn’t open the letter and hold the roses at the same time. The roses were
gorgeous.
They weren’t a true white, but they had a yellowish tint. I didn’t know if I’d ever seen anything quite like them. Stupid David. Why did he have to send me such beautiful flowers? I gave the roses back to Merle and tried to open the letter, but I was standing in the rain, and he made no effort to lean the brolly over me to keep me dry. I was beginning to see why David hated him.

“Come in.”

I stepped into the hallway. The letter was sealed with wax.
Oh, you pompous, pretentious blowhard.
The seal was intricate, like a coat of arms. I broke the seal and opened it. The top of the stationary was embossed with his initials.
DJAB.
It was written in black ink, the very pen I drew my first drawing with. I had never seen a letter like this in my life.

121 Commonwealth Avenue, Apt 2

Boston, Massachusetts

September 29, 2012, 10:42 a.m.

My dearest Laura,

Words cannot fully describe to you how utterly mortified I am at my behaviour Friday night. While I do not regret protecting you from that ruffian, I do wish that I had fled the scene immediately, as was my original intention. Merle was late; he apparently thought that seeing a film
was a good idea. He takes a bit of the blame, but in my opinion, not nearly enough.

I once told you that I had a specific way of doing things, that I live by a set a rules. This code is not something that I made up; it is an ancient code of knighthood, and I am bound to it body and soul. The code makes the correct assumption that only married couples should have intimate moments alone. This is why I requested of you, when we first met, that I not ever come to your apartment, at least not until we were engaged, and even then, for only minutes at a time. If you recall, earlier in the evening, you and I had an interesting conversation about who has the most power in a relationship. You said men. I said women. Sadly, you proved to be right when I chose not to stop my odious behaviour. Dear lady, I was proved to be right too. You do have a power, and you have no idea how it controls me. It is this power that compelled me, in a selfish, beastly, arrogant and unchivalrous way to hold you and to kiss you, making the wrong assumptions about your desires. How I came to these conclusions still confuses me, but nonetheless, the responsibility is mine. All mine.

My behaviour, on all accounts, was completely unbecoming a gentleman. Neither friends, nor sweethearts, nor fiancés, nor husbands should ever believe that they can force themselves on a lady. After my visit to the local emergency room and a sleepless night, I have finally conceded that, much to my eternal regret, I will likely be none of these to you.

Please, dear one, forgive me of this crime. If you can bear to see my face, please release me of this relationship at tea on Monday. If not, my broken heart and I will suffer for our sin against you. I will always remember the tender way you cared for my wounds. I will try to forget, if I can, how I thanked you for them afterwards.

All my deepest affection forever,

David Julius Arthur Bowles

P.S. Please give my shoe and sock to Merle. If we should see each other again, please spare me the Cinderella jokes. He has told me enough already. It is bad enough to be teased by your driver, but to be compared to a fairy tale, a French tale at that, is too much to be borne.

I read it three times before I realized that Merle was still standing there.

“I need David’s things, if you don’t mind, Miss Laura.”

“Of course.” I went inside to get them. “He went to the emergency room?”

“Four stitches in his head. Nine in his shoulder. A hairline fracture on his toe. Slightly concussed.”

“It was that bad?”

“He called it his finest hour.”

“Is he completely insane?”

“That has not yet been determined.”

“What do you think I should do about him?”

“It’s up to you, Madam. If you release him, do it quickly. He needs time to heal.”

“He’s not in the car now, is he?”

“No. He wanted to come. I talked him out of it.”

“He doesn’t seem like he’s easily persuaded.”

“No, he isn’t. I turned him into a hamster. I’ll change him back when I return with his shoe.”

Merle looked like he was serious. “You’re both completely mad.” I could picture a hamster, with curly black hair in his eyes, in a tweed jacket and ridiculously large Italian shoes. If David ever asks for another drawing, that’s what I would do.
If.

“Here are his shoe and sock.”

“He’ll ask me what you think of his letter. He very much wants to please you.”

“Tell him he writes a very good apology. I’ll tell him the rest on Monday.”

Saturday, September 29, 2012

Indigo Bar and Restaurant

23 Charles Street

Boston, Massachusetts

6:42 p.m.

Trey was late. I was on time. I had caught the Green Line C train from Coolidge Corner at 5:45. I took it into the Park Street station, and by the time I walked through Boston Common to Charles Street, it was 6:31. I probably would have been there faster, but I was wearing my cute boots, and they’re not exactly designed for speed.

I waited outside the restaurant. Where was Trey? He hadn’t told me whether to meet him outside or in. It was getting darker. I rubbed my hands together, and I wished that I had brought my gloves. I was trying to decide what to do. Should I go in and get a table? That way I would be warm, but it felt weird. I shouldn’t have to get the table.
He should.
Trey should have anticipated my discomfort and taken care of it. David would have done that. But then, David would never have been late. Stupid, well-mannered David.

The letter and the roses changed everything. I never did get my work done because I kept going back to reading that letter. I was always holding it. I caught myself touching the paper to my face. I caught myself smelling it. I had run my finger over the phrase
you do have a power and you have no idea how it controls me
so much that the ink was fading. David
was
sorry. He didn’t want to lose me over this. I must be insane.

I was trying so hard not to think about David. I tried, instead, to
look
, to get filled up, as my dad would say. It was easy to do on Beacon Hill. The whole neighborhood, especially Charles Street, is old and quaint and romantic. Cobblestone streets, the street lamps around the edge of the Public Garden, the landscaping, the trees, the gleam of the dome of the state capital. This part of the city was so cozy and romantic and magical. I could stay here and look at it all night.

By now it was 6:48. I shouldn’t still be here. Where was Trey?

The sun had set, so the lampposts were glowing. The Victorian-age buildings were full of romantic detail. They were all three and four stories high, with restaurants and retail shops on the first floor and offices and health clubs on the higher floors. The Charles River was at the end of the street, and you could almost see Cambridge from where I was standing. This was the neighborhood of
Cheers
, and just steps away from the Public Garden mentioned in
Make Way For Ducklings.
Many things, both fact and fiction, had happened in this neighborhood. I liked the history, and I loved the stories.

Couples walked by, and I caught myself trying to identify where they were in their relationship. This pair were
sweethearts.
They were looking in each other’s eyes and laughing. The next pair were married. They were older, engaged with what the other one was saying, and appeared to be comfortable with each other. Then, there was a group of friends, but one young man, I could tell, was trying to get the attention of a young woman in the group. He was clumsy and a bit loud and went ahead to get the door. I secretly wished she would give him a chance.

This all reminded me of David. I was getting very impatient with myself. I was trying so hard not to think about him, but I couldn’t help it.