Grace Grows (2 page)

“Hold on,” I said, and went back upstairs. I grabbed a cheap umbrella from the pile of extras in our hall closet and a box of zipper bags from the kitchen, and rooted around in our junk drawer until I came up with an assortment of rubber bands and a roll of masking tape.

I tiptoed back downstairs (the shoes), sat next to the guy, and bagged one of Blitzen’s meticulously pedicured paws while she tickled my neck with her beard.

Once I had just about successfully finished the first foot, I looked to see if the guy was watching and learning.

He lifted his eyes from my chest and said, “Oh hey, thanks!” He grabbed a bag and got busy on Bismarck.

It took the two of us about six minutes to double-bag all eight paws. Then I lurched back up en pointe, belted my raincoat firmly across my waist, and picked up my laptop bag. The guy stood too, handed me Big Green, and startled me with a smile that was blindingly sweet. I blinked and lost my grip on the strap, but he caught it and resettled the purse firmly on my shoulder.

“Thanks, you really saved me,” he said.

I held out the umbrella. “Here, take this. I think the rain’s just about stopped for now, but you might need it later.”

He smiled
the smile
again and tucked the umbrella in the pocket of his army/navy outerwear.

“I’ll bring it back to you,” he said. “What’s your apartment number?”

I waved a hand. “Don’t worry about it.”

He took up the dogs’ leashes and pushed the door open for me. Blitzen and Bismarck pulled him toward the park and I tippy-toed double time in the other direction, toward the subway.

“Hey!” I heard him call out.

I turned around. He was at the other end of the block. He mouthed the words
thank you
.

I smiled and shrugged. No big deal.

day zero continues and I encounter my doom, again

Damn. The Webbers canceled the meeting so they could go on a Hudson River breakfast cruise. They promised their approval over the phone, and I had dressed like one of Robert Palmer’s “Addicted to Love” video girls for absolutely no reason.

Ed came out of his office and saw me limping down the hallway. The shoes were killing me. “Oh, the fashion fuck-you!” he said. “Too bad they canceled, it almost works.”

“What’s wrong with it?” I asked.

“You’re about a foot too short. Not even a little intimidating.”

“And?”

“Your blacks don’t match. The suit is blue-black and the stockings are green-black.”

“Hm.”

“And I can see the lines of your granny panties.”

“They’re bikinis.”

“And they shouldn’t
be
there.” He patted my shoulder. “Grace, stick to your strengths.”

I was still mad several hours later when Edward and I went out for dinner at Herman’s Piano Bar. It was our Tuesday thing. My friend Peg would join us when she wasn’t working on a show, but now she was assistant stage manager of the new Broadway musical
Tie Me Up! Tie Me Down!,
with Antonio Banderas reprising his movie role. It was a big hit, so Peg wouldn’t be with us at Herman’s for a while.

I dragged a large fragment of greasy onion ring through the puddle of ranch dressing and ketchup on my plate. “So what is wrong with you Texas people, anyway?”

He looked at me darkly. “Are you associating me with those yahoos?”

“You’re from Houston. So are they.”

“And am I like them?”

No. He wasn’t, at all. It gave me hope that there were other sane Texans. “Okay, I’ll shut up,” I said.

“Yes, I believe you will!” he pretty much shouted. The sour was kicking in.

I slid his glass away. “Eat more, drink less.”

Edward barked his distinctive, walruslike bellow of a laugh, and the woman sitting on the other side of him turned around and shushed us. “We’re trying to hear the singer!” she hissed.

Ed and I looked at each other. Who listens to the singer?

Apparently everyone. The room had actually gotten quiet; hardly anyone was talking.

The voice . . . how to describe it?
Piercingly soulful
might be a start. He was singing a ballad I’d never heard before, and the words—something about trying to find home—combined with the quality of his voice, put a knot in my stomach. But not necessarily in a bad way. More in a
Jesus Christ, who is that making me feel this way?
way.

I stood on the rungs of my barstool and balanced against Ed’s shoulder so I could get a look at the singer. He was hunched over the keyboard, mouth on the microphone, eyes closed, moving his body the same sinuous way his voice was moving—all over the place, but never out of control.

He finished the song and people clapped. A lot. And said woo-hoo! And whistled. He looked out at us all, a little surprised, it seemed. People quieted down and he launched into another song.

Ed looked at me. “He’s amazing.”

“I know that guy!” I said, not quite believing it myself.

He wasn’t wearing the knit cap, and he had a terrible haircut—too short and choppy—but it was definitely him.

The dog walker.

He finished his allotted second song and I watched him squeeze through the crowd. He stopped a few times to shake an offered hand or listen attentively to a comment, but finally made it to the end of the bar, several people down from me. The next performer was up and talking into the mic, so the bartender had to speak loudly while he was pulling the guy a beer.

Bartender: You wrote those songs, man?

Dog Walker: Yeah.

Bartender: Awesome. You have more?

Dog Walker: Lots more.

The bartender leaned in closer to say something else and I lost the thread. I waited till they finished talking and told Edward I’d be back in a minute.

On approach, I studied him more closely than I had this morning. He was pale, rather gawky, all Adam’s apple and bad haircut. A kid, really.

I reached up and tapped him on the shoulder. He turned.

“Hi,” I said.

“Hey!” he said. “It’s you!”

He gave me that radiant smile and the gawk factor inexplicably transferred from him to me. Suddenly he was grace, and I wasn’t.

“You’re shorter than this morning,” he said.

“Oh, yes.” My face was getting warm. Annoying! “I had on those tall shoes.”

“Yeah, they were pointy.”

“Yes, I was trying to—well, I don’t usually dress like that.”

He nodded. “It looked hot, but painful.”

“What’s your name?” I asked.

“Tyler Wilkie.” He definitely had a drawl. “What’s yours?”

“Grace. Barnum.”

He lit up. “Like the circus?”

“Exactly.”

“Cool.”

We looked at each other and it occurred to me that he was autumn-colored. Auburn hair. Hazel eyes. He tilted his head and the corner of his mouth turned up, and I became aware that it was time to go. Edward had a late date and would want to leave. And Steven, my boyfriend, was probably home from work by now.

“Nice to meet you again, Tyler. I liked your singing.”

“Thank you, Grace,” he said courteously.

I turned to leave, but he tugged on my sleeve. “Your eyes are this color.”

I glanced down at my sweater. Yes, pretty close. Bluish gray.

“And your face is shaped like a heart,” he added.

How charmingly random! “Oh, is it?”

“Yeah. I noticed it this morning.” His finger traced the air, following the curve of my cheek.

“Well, I really have to go now.”

He shoved his hands into his pockets. “Okay, Grace Barnum.

See ya.”

I huddled under Ed’s arm as we headed down Columbus. The temperature must have dropped ten degrees since the morning.

“I don’t feel good about the health book, Ed. What if we were teenagers in Texas?”

“I was.”

“And how did you learn about condoms?”

Ed shrugged. “Word of mouth?”

“It just doesn’t make any sense. They don’t want people to have abortions, but they don’t want them to learn how to prevent pregnancy!”

“Baby girl, it drives me right up the wall too.”

“And
imagine
! I mean . . .
imagine
? How can we participate in this travesty?”

“I hear you.”

“And Bill. What is it with him? He’s so deadpan. Doesn’t he
feel
?”

“He’s just doing his job.”

“It’s disgusting.”

“If you’re not careful with Bill he’ll transfer you to the New Jersey office. And I would miss you.”

I sighed. “It doesn’t feel good, Ed.”

“Listen. It would be nice to try to save the children, but first we have to put the oxygen mask on ourselves.”

“Huh?”

“You know, when you’re on a plane and they give you those instructions—”

“Boy, you are really bugging me.”

“It’s just a fact, Grace. We can’t fix everything.”

His complacency was driving me crazy. But Edward grew up a gay black kid in Texas in the late seventies, and probably had a lifetime of sublimating injustices and sad things he couldn’t change. You’d think I’d be that way, too, from some of the hard stuff in my childhood. But I grew up watching my mother forge platinum out of rust. It was going to take me a while to accept this
imagine
thing.

We said good-bye at the corner of Seventy-ninth and Columbus.

“Grace!”

I turned around. It was Tyler Wilkie, half a block behind me. I waited till he caught up.

“Hey,” I said.

“Hey.” He was wearing his fatigue jacket and knit cap, and had a canvas guitar case strapped to his back. “Are you headed home?”

I nodded.

“You shouldn’t go alone,” he said. “I’ll walk you.”

“Thank you, but that’s really not necessary,” I said.

“I’m going this way anyway.”

I shrugged and started walking.

He caught up. I looked at him sideways. “You play the guitar, too?”

“Yeah. Mostly guitar. I play piano if they have one.”

I could see our breath. I wound my wool scarf around my neck an extra rotation and pulled it up over my ears. “Are you from Texas?”

He laughed. “No!”

“Then where?”

“The Poconos. Monroe County. Why?”

“You just sound kind of . . . Southern, or countryish, or something.”

“Maybe you’re mixing up small-town Pennsylvania with Southern.”

“Yeah, I guess so. And now you live in the city?”

“Yes, ma’am, for six whole days.” I looked up at him, probably kind of sharply, and he smiled. “You’re by far the nicest person I’ve met.”

I laughed. “Six days? Are you serious?”

“Dead serious.”

“Why’d you come?”

“To see if I can get people to listen to my music. Maybe get some paying gigs.” He looked at me. “How long do you think I should give it?”

“Gosh, I have no idea. . . .” How old could he be? Nineteen? “Maybe you should go to college first.”

“I tried that already.”

“Oh? Where’d you go?”

“Community college. For a year. I didn’t like it.”

“Well . . . maybe it just wasn’t the right school?”

He shook his head. “School’s not for me. Not now, anyway.”

The light changed as we came to the corner of Amsterdam and we crossed the street. I couldn’t imagine taking such a gamble, moving to Manhattan with no education.

“Well, I hope it all works out,” I said. “You’re certainly very talented.”

“Thank you.”

“You’ll probably need to give it some time.”

“I been thinking five years, and then I’ll know.”

“Oh, yes.” I felt somewhat more cheerful for him. “And you’ll still be young, you can go back to school.”

“I won’t be that young,” he laughed. “I’m twenty-eight.”

Twenty-eight? He couldn’t be my age, with that boy face. “I’m the same age,” I said. “For some reason, I thought you were a lot younger.”

“Really?” he said. “I figured we were about the same, or maybe I was older. When’s your birthday?”

Turned out he was older. By two months.

We came to Broadway and before the walk signal came on he took my hand and pulled me into the crosswalk. Halfway across we had to dash to the corner to miss being tagged by a homicidal taxi driver. It didn’t bode well for Tyler Wilkie surviving five more days, let alone five years.

My building was just a couple of blocks up. “I’ll be fine from here. Thank you.”

“Okay,” he said, blowing into his cupped hands and pulling his collar up around his ears.