Sweet Thing (10 page)

We hugged and then Jenny asked me to be her maid of honor. I was surprised—Jenny and I hadn’t known each other long, but I was honored nonetheless. As the four of us talked about planning a wedding and setting a date, my mind began to wander to the current state of my life. I couldn’t help but fixate on the fact that Will was probably screwing a weird woman in our apartment.

It was quiet when I got home. I grabbed a beer, popped the top off, and began guzzling it. Will walked into the kitchen… shirtless. He stood right in front of me without a word. This time I looked directly at his chest and then slowly appraised every detail of his body. He stared motionless at me as I studied the large tattoo running down one side of his torso. It was a beautiful, abstract design that could have been a painting. He had another small tattoo, the words
Soul Captain
written in wispy script across his heart. I looked down at the angel wing on his forearm and decided it was the most intricate wing tattoo I had ever seen. He was wearing black jeans, the belt he always wore, and I’m pretty sure nothing underneath. I followed his happy trail down to his waist and let my gaze pause on his thin hips and low-slung jeans. I looked down a little farther, then lifted my head to the brazen expression on his face.

“That woman is old enough to me your mother,” I whispered.

“Keen observation.” He reached around me to grab a beer from the refrigerator. “I love women, Mia, and I love my mother. Teeny and I are just friends.”

“What does that have to do with anything? Bringing a sleazy woman you barely know back to the apartment to screw in the middle of day is not very considerate for her or me or your mom, for that matter.”

“Like I said, we’re just friends and she’s not sleazy. I’ve known her for a while—longer than you, in fact. She’s does a show in the theater next to the Montosh.”

“She a stripper?” I spat out.

“Performance artist.”

“Same. Thing!”

“No, it’s not the same and calm down. She went home and we were just goofing off earlier. It was hundred degrees in here so she took off her shorts.”

“Yeah, right.” I crossed my arms.

Will shook his head at me before leaving the kitchen. As he headed down the hallway he shouted back at me, “I didn’t have sex with her, not that it’s any of your business. I didn’t even kiss her. We’re just friends.” This time when he said
we’re just friends,
I couldn’t tell if he meant us or him and Teeny. Either way, I was wrong for criticizing him. He got in one last dig, “By the way, how’s Banker Bob?” Then he slammed his door before I could respond.

I knew it wasn’t fair to denigrate Will for having a friend over, especially when the night before I’d left the door open and basically dry humped the banker on my dresser.

Track 6: You Get That, Right?

Things were getting weird at the apartment and I knew I had to lay low for a while. Will must have felt the same because I didn’t see him for days. We finally caught each other on a Wednesday afternoon before he went to work. We played music together and he kept telling me to stop keeping time, to shut out the noise and just feel the changes. He played everything from his ear without regard for technique. Music was about feeling to him; it was purely innate. When I played the way he showed me, the sound was fuller and rich with emotion. I was learning a lot from his instinctive interpretations of songs. Even though I was classically trained, he was much more talented with no training at all. It was like a divine gift, or it was his passion that had manifested into the gift. After every session with Will, I felt like I had purged all the negativity or stress I was feeling that day. As I sat still tinkering on the piano, Will stopped next to me before heading out for work. He bent down, kissed the top of my head, and said, “You’re so good and you don’t even know it. Night, baby.” The minute he closed the door, my eyes welled up… My father used to tell me the same thing.

My mom flew in the following day. She took a taxi to Kell’s. I let her hold me in the café kitchen for what seemed like an hour. We’d missed each other. She looked the same with her light brown bob, not a hair out of place, and some variation of a business-casual pantsuit. She always dressed conservatively and mostly wore earth tones; she thought it softened her lawyer energy, but I thought it just made her look like the Republican that she wasn’t.

That afternoon, around a small table in the back of the café, my mom and I sat with Sheil and Martha and reminisced about my father. We told stories, laughed, cried and hugged each other over and over between cranking up the loud espresso machine and serving our short supply of customers. I gave my mother the key to my apartment and warned her about Will. I expected some kind of
inviting musicians to live with you
is
stupid
lecture, but it didn’t happen. She just took the key and said she’d see me in a bit.

When I climbed the stairs to my apartment that night, I expected to find her curled up on the couch with a book. Instead, as I reached the landing I heard the sweet sound of Will’s guitar and another sound, unfamiliar to me. I walked in to find my mom at the Wurlitzer playing, “I Feel the Earth Move.” She was singing horribly out of tune. Will nodded his head encouragingly as he accompanied her with some interesting funk guitar on the telecaster. I spotted the notorious bottle of Patrón on top of the Wurly. He looked up and shot me an errant smile. I rolled my eyes at him.

“Okay, lovely ladies, that’s it for me tonight,” he said as he put his guitar in the case. “Liz, it was a pleasure to meet you. I see where your daughter gets her beauty.” He kissed my mom’s hand. Her giddy look made my eyes roll again.

“Oh, thank you, Will. It was so nice to meet you.”

“Where are you headed to?” I asked.

“I have a gig tonight at nine.” He paused before heading out the door, then whispered back to me, “Night, Mia.”

I thought it was strange that Will said I have a gig and not we. I also couldn’t help but feel like it hurt him to be around me or maybe it just annoyed him.

“Mia, he’s cute.” My mom said, wiggling her eyebrows.

I scowled at her as if her comment was complete blasphemy. “He’s a musician!”

There was a long pause. “So are you, sweetheart.”

I had never had a serious conversation with my mom about men. She never lectured me on whom to date or live with. I’d made a strict set of rules for myself… guaranteed success… remember?

As I studied her silly, drunken expression, I recognized something real, something human… I saw her vulnerability.

The next day the girls covered me at Kell’s so my mother and I could see the city. We spent hours at the Guggenheim and then we strolled through Central Park.

I took her to Turtle Pond, where my father used to take me. It was a clear, warm day; the sun was low in the sky, peeking through the trees, casting large shadows on the still water. We found a bench and sat in silence, letting the natural sounds ruminate around us. I started feeling sleepy, so I rested my head on her shoulder, inhaled deeply, and let the mixture of Chanel No.5 and rose water pervade my senses as we watched a variety of birds dance about and play.

Turtle Pond has seen quite a renovation over the years; the great lawn was redesigned in ‘97, giving it a new, clean look, yet the vibe remains the same. Separate from the rest of the park, it’s a quiet zone, free from noisy activities… free from music… in the traditional sense, anyway.

There were times growing up during those hot summers when my father would seem agitated or confined. His need for escape from the city life, seedy shouts, and dirty sounds of the East Village, was tangible. He was always so jovial, but when the pressures of running Kell’s would get to him, Turtle Pond is where we would go. We would sit on the grass near the shoreline and he would say, “Can you hear it? Can you hear the music?”

I would always giggle and shake my head. “There’s no music here, Pops.”

“Then you’re not listening.”

As I sat there on the iron bench, nuzzling into my mother’s warmth, I stared down at my veiny, muscular hands, my long, bony fingers, and cringed. I balled them into fists. I hate the look of my hands, they’re void of any femininity; the skin is taut against bulging blue veins, my nail beds are wide, my knuckles are thick and heavy. My hands belong to a man, yet they are my most prized possession. I thought back again to my father on the shoreline. “I am listening, Pops. I don’t hear any music.”

“Quiet your mind, luv.” I could almost hear his voice in the memory: the faint remnants of an Irish accent, the husky depth when he spoke from his chest that always gave me the shivers. His memory ached in my soul, but his presence was still palpable in the silence. Tears began streaming down my cheeks. I stretched my hands as my fingers began to move on the illusory piano keys. I finally played the music my father had begged me to hear when I was a child; it was a song of peace and contentment and my ugly, obedient hands could play it flawlessly.

My mother noticed my movements and smiled as if she were acknowledging my father’s spirit in me. She took my hands in hers and spoke quietly, “Mia, my girl. You know I loved your father; I still love him. He was honest and kind and had a passion for life greater than any person I know. I loved his spontaneous, free spirit, and I loved how much he adored you. You know all he wanted was for you to be your most true self. He wouldn’t want to see you wallowing.”

In that moment I wanted to ask her about their relationship and why it didn’t work. I knew she respected my father, but her words were a surprise to me. I wondered why they didn’t even give it a chance after they found out she was pregnant, but I knew there was no sense in making her visit heavy by dredging up old, painful memories of their relationship when my father’s beautiful essence was still everywhere around us.

“I’m not wallowing, I’m just trying to figure it all out.”

Later that night as I lay in bed, my mother paused in the doorway before entering. Her eyes were distant as she studied the room; she was in a trance, locked in a memory, or a smell or sight that reminded her of another life a long time ago. I cleared my throat, causing her to glance down at me.

“Robert canceled our date this weekend.” I sighed.

“I’m sorry, honey. He sounds like a busy man.”

“Yes. I suppose it’s a good thing, though?”

“That depends on who’s waiting around.” She smiled warmly and then bent down and kissed my forehead.

“Good night, baby girl.”

My mother continued imparting her cryptic wisdom to me over the next few days, but she held nothing back when she finally gave me the lecture I was waiting for. I expected it, but I was thoroughly shocked at which relationship she warned me of.

“Taking on someone who is loaded with baggage is no walk in the park, Mia, just ask your stepfather. A stepchild and an ex-spouse is not an ideal situation, VP banker or not.”

“Our family worked,” I said, still shocked at her frankness.

“Yes, we were the lucky ones, blessed with two rare men who loved us despite the situation.”

“Robert and I have only been on one date, Mom. I don’t think you have to worry just yet.”

“I’m surprised that you can’t see what everyone else does,” she said as she cupped my face in her hands. Tears touched the corners of her eyes and then she smiled. “God, you remind me of him.”

When it was time for her to leave, she held me for a long time and said, “I know you’re mulling things over. Remember you are your own person and you are beautiful and gifted. I’m proud of you.” She squeezed me tight. “Learn to ask for help when you need it… learn to recognize when you need it.”

I stared blankly, trying to decipher what she was getting at without opening another can of worms.

“Have you thought about therapy, Mia, to help you get through this?”

Oh, so that’s what this is about.

I shrugged and blew out a long breath. “I have Martha. She’s like a therapist.”

She hesitated and then in a gentle voice said, “You’re right. Martha is a great listener and she has good advice. Sometimes it takes a while to figure out what she means, but it’s usually spot-on.”

I wondered how my mother knew that. Martha always gave these abstract one-liners, similarly cryptic to my mother’s. It was like they worshipped the same self-help guru.

As soon as she was out the door, I went to Kell’s and worked mindlessly, cleaning and oiling the wood.

I came home that night to Will sitting on the couch with two floozies. Upon further inspection, I discovered they were twins. How cliché, I thought. “Hola,” I said in a chipper voice as I eyed Will.

One of the girls jumped up and reached a hand out. “Hi, I’m Sophie.”

I smiled really big, then stuck my hand up in a motionless wave and said, “No habla ingles.” I headed down the hallway, calling back in perfect English, “Come on, Jackson!” I shut my bedroom door and sank down to pet my dog. When I heard Will and the girls leave, I went to kitchen and found a note:

DEAR LANDLORD, IS POLITENESS TOWARD MY GUESTS TOO MUCH TO ASK? I’M PRETTY SURE I’VE EXTENDED YOU THAT COURTESY. Will didn’t come home that night. It seemed like I hadn’t seen him for weeks. I would leave mail on his bed and it would remain untouched for days. If I saw Will at all, it was passing him in the hallway or I would see him walk past Kell’s toward the subway. I figured he was probably dating someone and didn’t want to bring her home to his bitchy roommate. When we saw each other our exchanges were polite but abrupt. He continued leaving me plenty of notes addressed “Dear Landlord,” telling me either he fed Jackson or took him for a run. One note mentioned that Jackson seemed lethargic and I knew it was another episode.