The Field (13 page)

“No, I'll go with Will and Bonnie to keep an eye on the wildman and drive him home if I need to.” He's breathing heavily and pushes his sweaty hair back from his face. “The pool's open all afternoon tomorrow if you want to come by.”

“Sounds good. I may be over. And thanks.” I indicate Will outside on the porch.

“Hey, I'm nothing if not loyal.”

We can still hear the music as we walk across the lawn towards my van, but it's much quieter. The air is wonderfully warm, not oppressively hot like during the day. I reach for Renee's hand and pull her to me for a kiss.

“Do you need to get home right away? We could go to the lagoons for a while.” I encircle her with my arms and hold her against me.

“Hmmm, I don't know. What do you have in mind exactly.” She smiles up at me, arching her eyebrows.

“Oh, no, that's not what I meant, really. It's just a cool place to hang out, and maybe you know, make out, but that's it, I promise. I'm not like that.” I've never had a girl be so candid with me before. It's pretty cool not to have to guess about what she's thinking. Or to have those expectations put on me. I really like Renee and I think she's totally hot, but I think all those sexed classes must have had some effect on me. I've definitely had my share of experiences, but never all the way. It just hasn't seemed right. There's this idea that all guys want is to get in a girl's pants, which is probably true for some guys, but not for me.

“Then I would love to go with you to the lagoons. I guess I'm just a little cautious. Some of the American boys I've met think that because I'm French I drink red wine all day, wear sexy lingerie and am always ready to jump in the sack. I'm sorry. I'm glad you're not like that.” She squeezes me around the waist.

“You mean you don't wear sexy lingerie?” I say and pretend to peek down her shirt.

“That's my secret—for now.” She laughs and pushes me away.

That gives
me
something to think about as we climb into the van and I pull away from the curb, but I'm also wondering about what other American boys she's talking about. Is she seeing other guys, too? It gives me a queasy feeling in the pit of my stomach.

“So, what are the lagoons?” Renee asks, breaking into my thoughts.

“A long time ago it was a big marshy area that the Indians called the Chewab Skokie, which means ‘big wet prairie.' Back in the 1930's the Forest Preserve bought it and made it into a nature preserve with lakes and waterways. Now people use it for hiking and stuff. I like to go running here.” I pull into the parking lot and there are several other cars already there, scattered at a good distance from each other—probably couples like us with the same idea of being alone.

“Come on, I want to show you something.” I open my door and motion for Renee to get out, and I take her hand when she comes around to my side. Cones of white light fall from the street lights above, creating regular rows of bright circles on the asphalt. I lead Renee towards a path in the woods that runs parallel to the road. As we pass through one of the circles of light, it suddenly goes dark. Not that I'm surprised. Practically every time I come here one of the lights goes out when I go under it.

“Oh!” Renee exclaims and looks up at the now darkened light. “It happened again. That is really odd.”

“This is one of the places where it happens a lot.”

“I wonder why? Is there something special about this place?”

“You'll see.”

The half moon is partially risen, but its light doesn't penetrate the leafy branches overhead, so the woods are dark. We hold hands as we walk along the path not talking, just enjoying the velvety grey shadows and the quiet of the sleeping forest. As we round the last bend, I watch Renee to see her reaction to the scene before us. Her eyes widen and her mouth forms an ‘O'. She looks at me and smiles. “C'est magnifique.”

I can't help but smile back. I'd really hoped she'd appreciate it as much as I do. We step beyond the edge of the trees and before us is one of the larger lagoons completely encircled by woods. Moonlight shines down on the calm surface of the water making it shimmer. But it's the massive boulder jutting out of the otherwise prairie-flat shore of the lagoon, rising 20 feet into the air, that's so arresting.

“Isn't it cool?” I ask. “It was left behind when the glaciers receded. Let's climb to the top—it's fairly level and we can sit up there.” Over the years hundreds, maybe thousands, of kids have made a sort of stairway up the sloping side of the rock. I go first to show the way and help Renee clamber up behind me. At the top we stop to catch our breath. Renee looks out over the water and says, “I'd like to come back here during the day to paint. I bet the colors are wonderful. And now, at night, it's magical.”

“My mom says the rock is on one of the earth's energy lines, or ley lines. Some people think all of the ancient sites like Stonehenge and the pyramids in Egypt are aligned together on the ley lines so the ancient people could access higher sources of energy.”

“Really? That almost sounds like a way to tap into the Universal Energy Field.”

“You're right, it does.” I pause to consider this. “My sister Marcie calls it the ‘star-watching rock,' like the one in those
Wrinkle In Time
books, where the stars sing to each other. I guess that's sort of like communicating through the Collective Unconscious.” Renee sits down on the rock and pulls me down next to her.

“Do you believe we can really communicate with our thoughts?” I ask her.

She leans back on her elbows and turns to me. “Yes, I do. I think it's something we can learn. I know I have good intuition and I'm good at listening to my gut feelings, but I'd like to be better at it.”

“Maybe we can work on it together.” I lean forward to kiss her. She puts her hand on the back of my neck to pull me closer. The top of the rock isn't the most comfortable place to make out, but I'll take what I can get. I pull away and rest my forehead against hers. “Remember the other day when Stephen asked if we were a couple? Well, I was wondering what you thought about that. I mean, would you like to be a couple?” The question stumbles out. I feel like we're a couple, but I want to be sure about how she feels. Her breath flows gently against my chin as she breathes in and out. It seems to take a long time for her to answer, but then, to my relief, she says, “Yes, I would like that very much,” and kisses me again.

I
USUALLY TRY
to avoid going to school on Saturdays, but Renee is working in the art studio and she asked me if I wanted to come by and see her paintings. I've never been to any of the art rooms, so I'm not exactly sure where the painting studio is and Renee couldn't give me very good instructions. I guess I'll figure it out.

I've got my tunes on random shuffle and when I pull into the parking lot “Strawberry Swing” by Coldplay is playing, adding to my already good mood. I crank it up and listen in the car until the song is over.

The door to the art department is propped open with a piece of wood, just like Renee said it would be, so I slip inside. The hallway is crowded with pieces of wood and paintings and rolling shelves filled with ceramic pots lining the walls. Artwork in progress. Dabs of paint or clay and a fine, chalky dust cover most of the exposed surfaces. The first room I pass has a few people sitting at long tables drawing, but I don't see Renee. Music is coming from somewhere down the hallway, so I follow it. As I get closer, I realize the song is “Strawberry Fields” by the Beatles.
Another strawberry song? Another coincidence?

Renee is on the far side of the room with her back to the large floor-to-ceiling windows working on a big canvas on an easel in front of her. She doesn't see me right away, so I can watch her for a moment. I can't believe how lucky I am and how right it feels to be with her. The beginning of a relationship is always exciting, but there's usually an awkwardness or uncertainty while you're getting to know each other. I don't feel any of that with Renee. It feels easy, like we've already gotten through that stage.

She's concentrating on her painting and chewing on her lower lip as she tilts her head to one side. Her hair is different than she usually wears it, up in a loose pile on top of her head. She steps back from the painting like she wants to get a different perspective and then she sees me standing in the doorway.

“Bonjour!” She calls out and puts the brush she's using in a cup on the table next to her. She wipes her hands on the smock she's wearing and beckons for me to come over. “I'm so glad you came. I want to show you what I'm working on.”

I walk over to her and she kisses me on the cheek. I get a faint whiff of her perfume mixed in with the smell of turpentine and wet paint.

“It's not finished yet, so you have to imagine a little bit.”

I turn to look at the painting and at first it just looks like a lot of color splotches and shapes on the canvas.
Maybe flowers?
I don't have any artistic talent and probably not much of an eye for art either, so I'm a little nervous about this. “It's very colorful,” I venture. “What is it?”

She gives me a gentle shove. “Silly, you're not supposed to ask an artist that. It's an impressionist painting of my mother's garden at our house in France. It's for a school project, but I'm also doing it as a gift for her since she had to leave her garden
behind.” She shows me some photographs spread out on the table. “See, here are the flowers and the tomatoes and beans.” I pick up the photos and look at them and then at the painting. Now I can see that the bright blobs of purple and yellow are flowers and the red splotches are tomatoes. “What are these?” I ask, pointing to clusters of small red triangles near the bottom of the painting.

“Strawberries,” she answers.

“Really? That's weird.” I put the pictures back down on the table.

“What do you mean? Why are my strawberries weird?” She looks puzzled and slightly hurt.

“No, your painting is beautiful. It's just that driving over here ‘Strawberry Swing' was playing on my iPhone and when I came into the studio ‘Strawberry Fields' by the Beatles was playing. A weird coincidence.”

“Oh, I don't believe in coincidences.” She picks up a tube of green paint and replaces its cap.

“You don't?”

“No. I think things happen for a reason. Maybe the Universe was telling you something.”

“About strawberries?”

“No.” She replaces the caps of the purple and yellow paint tubes and says slowly, almost shyly, “About us.”

“I like that idea.” I put my arm around her waist. “That the Universe is on our side. I really like your painting, too. Your mom will love it.”

“Thank you. Careful, I'm covered in paint.” She pulls away from me. “Here, I'll show you some other things that I've already finished.” She unzips a large, rectangular portfolio case and pulls out some drawings and paintings. She's very animated,
and I can tell this is what turns her on. Some of the drawings are of people and some are scenery and even I can see that she's really good. “These are great. You're very talented.”

“Merci. I love doing it, too.”

“So, what about taking a break now and coming with me to Cole's pool?”

“You go. I really need to stay here and finish this painting for class on Monday. It's easier here than at home—not so many distractions. The light's better here, too.”

“Okay, I'll be there all afternoon. Text me if you finish and want to come over.”

I
T DOESN'T GET
much better than hanging out at Cole's pool. I'm floating on a raft, dozing in the sun, with my cold drink conveniently placed in the on-board drink holder. Cole just dove off the diving board and is doing a few laps. I get enough exercise during the week. Weekends are for chilling.

“You boys want some lunch?” Rhoda, Cole's mom calls from the back porch. She keeps us plentifully supplied with munchies from her well-stocked pantry, or as we call it, “The Motherlode.”

“What's on the menu?” Cole's stopped at the end of the pool, stretching against the wall.

“I could do pizza or corndogs or turkey sandwiches,” she replies through the screened door.

“I vote corndogs!” I call out while keeping my eyes closed and my supine position on the raft. “Thanks Mrs. Rosenberg.”

“Yeah, corndogs sound good.”

“Okay. They'll be ready in about 15 minutes. Are you boys wearing sunscreen?”

“Yes, mom. You can go now,” Cole says in an exasperated tone.

My raft has floated down to where Cole is still stretching. “So how'd last night end up?” I ask quietly. Mrs. R has acute hearing.

“Not bad. We stayed another hour or so. Will had run out of beer by that time, and Bonnie was driving, so we didn't have that to worry about. He wasn't acting totally stupid.”

“That's cool. He's never wanted to hang out and party with that crowd before. I think it's still pretty rough for him at home.” I take a sip of my drink and shade my eyes from the sun to look at Cole.

“Who knows what makes Mr. Asplunth do what he does. He seems to be keeping it under control, though.”

“I guess,” I reply, but I'm not convinced.

Will arrives while we're eating our corndogs at the table by the side of the pool. True to form, Mrs. R has made enough to feed the entire soccer team, if by chance they should drop by, so there's plenty for him, too.

“Gotta love your mom, Cole. This is awesome,” Will says, as he loads up a plate with chips and a banana and several dogs and pulls out a chair to join us.

“She has to stay true to our Jewish cultural heritage by plying us with food, although I'm pretty sure these corndogs aren't kosher,” Cole replies.