In the Bag (23 page)
“Here,” she said, handing me her wet toothbrush while rolling her eyes.
“Thank you,” I said, only slightly my gritting teeth. “Don’t you want to take your hair stuff or lip gloss or—”
“If I
wanted
to take it, I would’ve given it to you. Can we just
go
already?”
S
o first you name me after a guy who writes dopey songs. And then for my middle name, you pick a guy who lived in a church? Way to go, Dad.”
Dad rubbed my hair. We were exploring the Sagrada Família, the most famous church in Barcelona.
“Jimmy Webb wrote brilliant songs,” Dad said. “You’ll appreciate them more when you get older. As for Antoni Gaudí, yes, he lived in the Sagrada Família when he was working on it.”
“So he was basically homeless?”
“He was obsessed with his work,” Dad said.
“And you think that’s a good thing, don’t you?”
“I guess I do,” Dad admitted. “I admire artists who fall in love with their work. There’s something noble about an obsession if it leads to something like this. Webb, look around. The guy was a genius. An absolute original.”
He had a point. Being inside the candlelit church was like being inside a whale—except that everywhere you looked were scenes embedded in concrete honeycomb.
We’d spent the late afternoon visiting our favorite Gaudí sites: Casa Batlló, Parc Güell, and the little cottage Gaudí built for himself within the park. We saved the Sagrada Família for last. Dad rarely made me go to church at home. But places like this, he said, had spiritual lessons to teach. Sometimes I almost understood what he was talking about.
Being in the Sagrada Família made me feel absolved of the whole Coco thing. I felt like maybe I could be forgiven for lying to Dad about going to Paris. It had been such a disaster. Wasn’t that penance enough?
Dad and I found a pew in the center of the church and sat down.
“I think I sorta get what this place is trying to say,” I said, looking up.
“Tell me,” he said.
“It’s hard to put into words.”
We sat in silence. There was a holy smell in the church. It would’ve been the perfect time and place to tell Dad about my trip to Paris. But I couldn’t.
“I’ll tell you what this place says to me,” Dad said slowly. “It says, look what somebody can do when he’s focused. When he’s not multitasking.”
“
Daaad,
” I groaned. “No life lessons, please.”
He continued, undeterred. “It says to me, here’s a man who put himself out there and wasn’t afraid to look ridiculous.”
I thought about how ridiculous I’d looked with Coco and that whole stinky cheese saga. Why didn’t I just tell her I didn’t like cheese that tastes like puke? Or I could’ve said I was allergic to dairy. Why did I turn into such a sneaky jerk? Why did I pull the bag out of her hands like a seventh-grade bully?
Or if life had to offer such unpleasant moments, why weren’t we equipped with an Undo key? Couldn’t someone come up with an app that let you delete certain unwanted acts? I didn’t want to Ctrl/Alt/Del meeting Coco—just my dumbass behavior with the damn cheese.
Dad was still talking. “When Antoni Gaudí finally passed his school exams, one of his professors said: ‘Who knows if we have given this diploma to a nut or to a genius. Time will tell.’ ”
“Gaudí got the last laugh, huh?” I said.
Dad turned to me with a serious expression. “I want you to have a passion for something, Webb.”
“No pressure, right?”
“None.” He put an arm around my shoulder. “If you wanted to be a janitor, that would be fine with me, if that’s what turned you on.”
I loved Dad and his groovy lingo.
“I don’t think I want to be a janitor,” I informed him. “I don’t think I’m tidy enough.”
“Okay,” Dad said. “You don’t have to know what you want to be. That comes later. But I want you to
want
more than just having a job and muddling through life. I want you to find a passion you believe in strongly enough to risk humiliation and rejection.”
If Dad only knew the humiliation and rejection I’d found in Paris.
We continued the discussion in the cab to dinner.
“If you think about it, Jimmy Webb and Antoni Gaudí have a lot in common,” Dad was saying. “Both were hugely talented guys who could’ve taken the easy route, writing forgettable songs and designing adequate buildings that were easy to like. But they didn’t do that.”
“Uh-huh.”
Dad was on a roll. He went on like this for the entire cab ride, right until we pulled up in front of a restaurant.
“They took risks. Webb. I can’t tell you how important it is to take risks in life. To be bold. Because if you do that—”
I stopped listening. The air felt different. The night had changed. I felt it as soon as we stepped out of the cab and onto the sidewalk. I felt it before I could even see it. But as soon as my eyes focused, there it was: the oddly familiar swirl of colors in front of me, chest high.
The peasant blouse.
Coco.
Oh, God.
O
h, shit!”
“Coco!” Mom hissed, elbowing me in the ribs. Then she waved to Webb and an older guy. They were getting out of a cab together. “Andrew! Hello! I want you to meet my daughter, Coco.”
The man shook my hand. “Very nice to meet you. And I’d like you both to meet Webb, my son.”
He was wearing a navy blue jacket and jeans. “Hi,” he said blankly.
“Hi,” I echoed.
Jesus Christ. Was this really happening? No, it was a dream. It had to be a dream. Life wasn’t like this. But wait, Webb was in color! Everything was in color. So this was real.
“Do you, Coco?” Mom was saying.
“What?” I mumbled.
Why was I wearing these dorky black pants? I hated them. And I didn’t have on any makeup. Argh! I could kill Mom.
“Andrew asked if you were enjoying Barcelona,” Mom said in her be-nice-to-the-distinguished-old-dude voice.
“Sure,” I said. I looked again at Webb to see if it was really him.
How did he get here? How did Mom know his dad?
“We spent the afternoon at Casa Batlló,” Mom was saying. “Just like you suggested.”
“Webb loves that house,” the man said. “Don’t you, Webb?”
“Uh-huh,” Webb answered. He wasn’t even looking at me.
“Shall we see if our table’s ready?” the man asked. He held the door open for Mom and me.
“Yes, let’s,” Mom said, smiling and moving toward the restaurant entrance.
“Yeah,” I said, trying to remember how to put one foot in front of the other.
“What a pretty blouse you’re wearing, Coco,” the older guy said as I walked by. I spun around like a swivel head and looked at Webb. He was staring at his feet and grinning wildly.
I
loved knowing that whatever else Coco’s father was, he was a genetic lightweight.
Coco looked exactly like her mother. The same chestnut-colored hair. The identical thin nose. If I ever got to know this young woman, I would enjoy telling her that she needn’t fear getting older. Her mother was proof positive of that.
The maître d’ led us to a table and helped Daisy with her chair. I tried to send a message with my eyes to Webb that he could help Coco in the same manner, but it was pointless. He wasn’t even looking at her. He was staring at the napkins on the table with a vacant expression on his face.
“I like this place already,” Daisy said, admiring the stone walls. “Mmmmm, smell that garlic.”
“I was nervous choosing a restaurant for us,” I confessed. Then I turned to Webb. “Daisy’s a chef in Chicago. And I have it on good authority that she’s the best in town.”
Daisy smiled modestly. She looked gorgeous in a cream silk blouse. Silk blouses were clearly part of her uniform. I loved that she traveled light. My mind spun ahead to the trips we might take together. Rome. Edinburgh. Prague. Tokyo.
“I’m going to need some help translating,” Daisy said, opening the menu. “I don’t even recognize these words. Is this Spanish?”
“Catalan,” I said. “Webb knows more than I do. He’s been studying it on his own for a few years. Right, Webb?”
No response.
“And this really is a terrific restaurant,” I said. “One of our favorites, I’d say, wouldn’t you, Webb?”
Still no response. I felt like throttling him.
Try!
Connect! Join the conversation. Pretend these are people you meet on the Internet. Put yourself out there, for God’s sake!
I ordered a bottle of red wine for Daisy and me. “The seafood here is delicious,” I said. “Do you like seafood, Coco? I bet you have a more sophisticated palate than most of your classmates.”
No response from her, either.
This could be a very long evening.
C
oco,” I said, trying to sound nicer than I felt. “Andrew asked you a question. About your
palate
.”
“Do what?” she said.
Why is she acting like such a dope? She was usually at her best when she had an audience. So why isn’t she turning it on for Andrew and his completely adorable son?
“Your
palate,
” I repeated. She knew what this meant. She just wasn’t trying. Maybe I should’ve told her this was a date. For
me
.
“Oh,” Coco said. “My palate is . . . pretty average, I’d say.”
“I don’t know if I agree with that,” I said. “Remember the macaroni and cheese incident at school?”
“Oh, yeah,” Coco said, her face brightening. “I got sent home from school once because the macaroni and cheese in the cafeteria made me cry. But it
is
vile stuff.”
“I agree,” I said, studying the menu.
“What’s wrong with mac and cheese?” Webb asked.
I could see Andrew folding into his chair. “Is that the hideous orange stuff you make me buy?” he asked.
“I like it,” Webb said. “Especially with scrambled eggs. Dad, you like it, too.”
“I, um—” Andrew began. “I’ll admit that in a pinch, I’ve been known to—”
“Eat a whole box,” Webb said, smiling.
I smiled, too, but Andrew looked uncomfortable. I needed to change the subject—quickly. I leaned over to Coco.
“Did you know,” I began, “that Webb is named after Jimmy Webb? He was a songwriter who—”
“Yeah, I know,” Coco said. “ ‘Galveston.’ ‘MacArthur Park.’ ‘Wichita Lineman.’ ”
“I’m impressed!” Andrew said. “How do you like that, Webb? And you say kids your age don’t know who Jimmy Webb is.”
I turned to Coco. “How do you know all those old songs?”
She just shrugged.
The wine steward arrived and poured a taste for Andrew.
“Nice,” said Andrew, sipping the wine. He turned to me. “Okay, try this one. Webb’s middle name is the last name of a famous architect.”
“Wright?” I asked.
“Wrong,” Andrew said.
“Let me think,” I said. “Um . . .”
Oh, great. I’m blanking out. All the architects in the world and the only one I can think of is Frank Lloyd Wright.
“It’s not Buckminster Fuller, is it?” I tried.
“Nope,” Andrew said.
“Oh, wait.” I laughed. “Sullivan? As in Louis Sullivan?”
“No,” said Webb. “But good guess.”
“Van der Rohe?” I said.
“Nope.” Andrew was grinning. So was Webb. I was grateful for the generous pour from the steward.
“Come on, Coco,” I said, taking a sip. “Help me out here.”
“Is it . . . Gaudí?” she asked.
Andrew clapped his hands and knocked over the bottle of wine. The blood red liquid splashed all over my new silk blouse.
“Dammit!” he said, grabbing his napkin and aiming for my breasts. “I’m so sorry. Can I help you—”
“It’s fine,” I said, waving away the stain with a nonchalance that surprised even me. “Please, don’t worry about it.”
A
s she stared at her mother, Coco’s raised eyebrows reminded me that this was the woman who spent a ton of money on clothes
.
