Four Times Blessed, page 7
“Yes, I am.”
“Um, trust me. I don’t think you are.”
“How do you know? Is your name Cupid?”
Oh great. I’m confused again. Only really smart people and really not smart people can do this to me. I just can’t decide which this one is.
“No,” I give him.
“Hey, it’s a fair question. You never told me your name.” The guy shrugs, going back to smiling that fishing smile of his. Which I decide is evil.
“Have you ever met a real person whose name is Cupid?” I ask.
He hesitates. Ha.
“No.”
“Then it’s not a legitimate question, is it?”
“That doesn’t mean it couldn’t be your name, rosebud.”
I don’t like him.
“It’s very unlikely.”
“That means that it is a little likely.” He gives my hand a squeeze in his delight.
Great grandmothers. “Ok. You…are, I’m sure, very nice. But I don’t know you, and you don’t know me. Neither of us knows each other. Or our names,” I motion between him and me, although there’s not a lot of room for making it emphatic.
I notice I’m steaming hot. It doesn’t help that the one with the arm has a cloud of heat surrounding him. Remnants of the dreamworld again, I bet. Matter transformed into energy, heat energy, since it can’t just disappear and E equals mc squared and whatnot.
“Tell you what, buttercup, listen good because I’ll say it to you. You’re right.”
“I know,” I say. Because it’s not my fault, I just do.
He becomes wary, “About one thing,” he says. Then watches me for a reaction, so I don’t give him one.
He doesn’t appreciate this. In fact, he looks pretty mad. I feel like I should say I’m sorry. It’s on the tip of my tongue…
“You don’t know me. All you know is that I’m the, come on, let’s face it, very good-looking guy that just came running to your little rescue. Twice. You’re the one that should be saying that you worship me.”
I start choking on my own uvula at that convolution of logic.
“You have a massive ego,” I point out, just because I can’t not say it any longer. “And, like we both agreed, I don’t know you! Which is why I’m not declaring my undying love for you. And, you weren’t coming to my rescue once before, you were coming to help a bunch of little boys. Thank you, by the way. And lastly, it’s dark and I can barely see you. How do I know what you look like? All I see is a big shadowy blob!”
Now I’m the one squeezing his hand. His fingers are in the way of my fist.
I feel like screaming and stomping off, which I would definitely do if he were family. It takes all of my self-control not to. To give him the proper respect due to a guest.
“Wow, you sound like a flying rat,” he says.
My eyebrows go up so high, that they come back down again.
“No comeback, huh? Too bad. I was having fun.”
He brushes a piece of grass off of his sleeveless arm. With the hand that still has mine stuffed in it.
“Farewell, love.”
Great grandmothers.
His eyes are a funny color, as far as eyes go. The two thin rings of yellows, oranges, reds and browns are almost the same as the light spilling from the house. Warm. And waiting for me.
Gently, I tell those eyes, “Don’t be sad, love. I’m sure you’ll find another love tomorrow.”
“But what about you, oh worshipful princess?”
“Alas, I shall become an old spinster. Hey, maybe I’ll become a witch!”
“A witch?” He doesn’t look like he gets the genius of this idea. Though he does seem to be trying rather hard.
“Yes, a witch. And then I’ll make you love potions to give to any girls you want. How’d you like that?” It’s an excellent plan, if I do say so myself.
“Sure,” he seems pleased. “That’d be great. Let me know when they’re ready.”
“Ok, I will.”
That being done, I notice Hale working his way out of his button-up shift. Under it, he has a t-shirt that my zizi could use as a dressing gown. I assume he’s going to use the overshirt to clothe his brother which, as far as I’m concerned, would be awesome.
Instead, this Hale character comes towards me and tries to tuck it over my shoulders. I squeak some more. It makes my inaugural witch’s brew client chuckle.
I hitch up my shoulders and pull at the dizzying array of checks and lines and seams, trying to give it back.
“It’s ok, I’m not cold.”
Hale doesn’t register this, just takes the collar of the shirt and realigns it around my neck. It’s like wearing one of the unisex, one-size-fits-all-if-you’re-Hercules lab coats they gave us at the academy. I feel like I’m eight again.
“You’re covered in blood,” Hale says.
Confused again.
I frown and look down. Huh. So I am. Oh poor Benito, he can’t be feeling too good right now.
“Oh, now see, Hale? You’ve gone and spooked her. Don’t worry witchy-baby, it’s only blood.”
The one who still hasn’t told me his name pats me on the shoulder and gives me what I swear is a purposefully creepy smile. Then he abruptly aims a terrifying look at his brother, who does appear to be second-guessing himself.
I wonder if it’s necessary for all of us to stand so close together.
The boys start arguing. In a strange language I don’t recognize, but still. Given my family, I know these things.
I wince, “Please don’t worry, you guys. I’m not afraid of blood, it’s fine,” I brush at it and sigh. Then I think of something.
“I’m going to be in so much trouble for ruining this dress, though. My cousin’s going to kill me. Did you see her in there? The really pretty one. She does not like dirty ruined things. Especially dirty ruined things that are hers. Do either of you know how to get bloodstains out of this material? Feel it. I don’t even know what it is, it’s not cotton or wool, right? Is it dried in, do you think?”
I pull at the fabric, trying for a better view. Nobody answers so I check if they’re still there. Because I’m rambling and it’s totally understandable if they wandered off.
“No?”
They shake their heads. It makes them look like not just brothers but twins. I wonder if Milo and I are that disturbing to people.
“Um, Hale. Do you think I could borrow this for a moment? Just to get back inside.”
“Go ‘head.”
“Great, thanks.” I smile in real gratitude, and he studies his feet. So much for my charm. “I’ll be back in a minute.” I poke my head in the door. The coast is clear, just some ladies back here cleaning up.
I stroll in like nothing’s wrong, crossing behind the picked-over banquet, slip behind my Grandpa Stonington who just happens to be wandering towards the staircase, then slip my shoes off so my footsteps are nothing but dull pats on the staircase.
A tea kettle whines. That means dessert soon. Which I should serve. Dah.
All in all, that stealth training sure comes in handy in practical life situations. Just like the field instructor promised.
I put on a new dress, this one with little sleeves, and say I was getting chilly. Our Crusa is so sensitive to the cold, my zizi confirms when I find Andrew and her downstairs. I apologize for being gone so long.
“Dear, why don’t you take him around and make sure everyone’s met him.”
She takes a sip of the dark wine Andrew brought her. Her chest is already splotchy and I know she’ll be complaining about the heat in about five minutes, but she won’t like it if I tell her that.
Andrew stands and takes my hand. My zizi gives me a look that’s as good as a shove. I give her a what slash sorry kind of thing and go.
Since the whole downstairs is wide open except for the four walls, and even those are rather porous what with the doors and windows all flung open, I can’t say our path through the clusters of chairs and tables and children playing on the floor has much sense to it.
Which is why, as far as I can tell, every little group of my relatives hovers at an equal level of anticipation whose rise is dependent on both the number of groups and the area of the room. This state is seemingly characterized by alternating whispers and bracingly voluminous comments on the weather, up until Andrew and I approach and it’s time to try very hard to not notice us there.
I want to tell them all to stop it. But they’re doing it because they want this to go well, to make me happy. And when they finally allow themselves to acknowledge us, they all light up like our arrival is the most wonderful surprise.
So how can I be mad.
Instead, I think I’ll save my breath for telling them to stop touching my fiancé. Because they’re all over him. The women kiss his cheeks and squeeze him and the men clap his arms and shoulders, shaking him so only the soles of his feet don’t move. He has impressive balance, actually. Though I’m not sure the priest will care too much about that.
The boy also has good poker face. Yes, he handles it well. Meanwhile, I could die. I’m waiting until they won’t tell me my reaction is an overreaction.
Which, as far as I’m concerned, was a point we passed way back by the stove when my noni Laurie squeezed his bicep and asked what his exercise routine was.
I think we’re almost done now. We just have to say hi to the people out on the front stoop.
“Hello, everyone.”
I give them a few seconds.
“You guys? This is Andrew. Andrew, this is my cousin Berto, his wife, my aunt Tia, my cousins Penny Marie, Pia Marie, Benito,” I smile with my lips together and wink at him, happy to see he’s nicely bandaged and stuffing his face with fruit and cheese. “My other cousins Lia Marie, Gia Maria, Mikey, little Sal, my great aunt Diane, my uncles Trumbull and Groton, and…” something hits me square in the stomach. I’ve got to calm down. I almost knocked myself over.
“Oh, hi,” I say.
The brothers I just met out back are right out here on the steps. And, forefathers they do look similar. Half eating their suppers, half moving towards some kind of expression.
“Hi.” “Hi,” they say together. Slightly off in timing, like they’re in the echo chamber up in the sonics labs. It feels like mice running up my back and into my ears.
“Um, these are brothers, Hale aannnnd...”
“Lium,” the guy supplies.
Huh. Lium. Lium and Hale. Strange names.
“Yes, of course, I’m so sorry. Gentlemen, this is Andrew. He and I will be getting married in the fall.”
I’m surprised when they’re startled. They all grunt at each other and try to rip each other’s arms off.
Boys. I ignore them and try not to smirk.
After that, Andrew laughs with this chuckle of his that he’s been pulling out all night for my freaky relatives. I’m suspicious that it’s a nervous habit, but it has a nice ring to it. Doesn’t sound insane at all. Why does he get a good nervous habit? It’s really not fair. I’m glad he’s going to be my husband.
As Lium is the only one of the brothers not glaring at the ground right now, I smile at him.
“This is your party?” he asks.
“Mhm,” I smile some more and bob my head.
“It’s nice.”
“Thanks, it’s my aunt. She’s amazing.”
And that’s all we really have to say to each other. That’s all any of us has to say to each other, it seems. Andrew puts a hand on the dip in my spine and presses.
“So, Mets or Yankees?”
Hale. Surprising. Not the question but that he asked it. And I didn’t know other countries followed our baseball.
Andrew is a Yankees fan. Hale says they’re going to loose the rest of the season after what happened with that relief pitcher. Andrew says no way it will matter. My uncle Trumbull feels the need to add his own opinion, which is apparently backed by stats in the latest newspaper from Boston area. He darts inside to show them, and they follow.
I hated stats classes.
I’m glad baseball wasn’t my athletic concentration.
Hey.
Andrew just left me here.
I look around, feeling really awkward. I put my hands on my hips. Normally, I’d just plunk down, right there on the steps and watch the world go by until he came back or maybe something interesting happened.
Only I realize I can’t. Because there’s Lium. Sitting back and watching me. Waiting for me to do something, I guess. I bet he’s used to girls falling all over themselves, trying to entertain him. Hmp. Well, he’s about to be disappointed, then.
And I don’t feel bad about that at all.
I wait for him to remove his gaze. I’m very patient while this Lium guy lounges away, all spread out like he finds rocks comfortable.
I, however, am not. It’s too quiet. I feel a terrible compulsion rolling up in my chest. It wants me to say something. I’m reduced to listening as my mouth runs off on its own accord.
“So, you like tigers.” He kind of looks at me. I don’t blame him.
“I mean, you’ve got one on your arm. Right? It’s nice….I didn’t notice it before.”
“Oh.”
And then more silence.
“I like all your tattoos.” Forefathers.
Summer heat rolls up from my chest to my face. The boy raises his eyebrows. Then checks down at his arms. And then back at me.
Not smiling.
Oops.
Well, I’m sorry, but given that I was searching so hard for something and the first thing that came to my mind was absolutely nothing, what can I say? They’re worn but they’re there, all over him, plain as dust in a sunbeam.
“Do you have any?” he says.
“No,” I answer too quickly.
“How come?”
“I don’t know. Just never got one, I guess.” I shrug.
I really, really wish I could just walk away. But that would be rude. And odd. And I usually try not to be either of those things.
He tips up his chin and says, “Uh huh. My bet is, you’re just afraid of her.”
“Her who?”
“The lady in there.”
“Of my zizi?” I say smoothly. “Yes, I suppose so. I have a healthy fear of her. A proper, respectful, evolutionarily advantageous fear. Plus, she wouldn’t be mad.” I sigh, “She’d probably just drive both herself and me crazy by asking why I felt the need to get stabbed with needles over and over and over again. And then she’d cry and wonder where she went wrong in raising me.”
I guess Lium thinks this is funny because he laughs. I tip my own chin towards the door.
“Go ahead. Go right on in there, and you tell her something. I’m sure whatever you say will upset her, so no reason to tax yourself. Do that and see what happens. Then come back here, and tell me about it. Go on, you’re welcome to it.”
His eyebrows fall in hard. They stay there, “No thanks.”
I stand up straight, as apparently I’ve been leering over him which I don’t know where that came from but anywho, I stand up properly and sigh, “Oh, that’s too bad. You’re no fun.”
“I’m plenty fun.”
“Hm.”
“Everyone thinks I’m fun.”
“I’m sure they do.”
“You’re not fun.”
“Yes, well. That’s because I’m sad that I’ll have to go without any entertainment for the evening, as you won’t go inside.”
“What if I’m not going inside because it’s way too entertaining out here? You ever think of that? It’s your own fault, honey.”
“It’s my fault that you’re having too much fun?” I try to deliver innocently.
“Well, you’re just too much, aren’t you? Come sit by me, babe.”
He pats a good piece of shale right next to himself. I hesitate. I feel like he wants me to go closer so he can get in my head. To trip me up. I don’t like that. I need space to maneuver to do my best work.
I turn around and sit. I have no choice, really. Not after he asked and stared and waited, and nobody else came close enough for me to pretend to talk to. I pull my skirt’s hem tightly over my knees, and pick at it.
The inside light has no trouble reaching here, all pressed up against the half-closed doors, bathing the house in the colors of wild corn. Yellow in the windows and threaded joints, ember red in the worn out places. Autumn leaf brown in the thick, and a black that’s almost blue under the shadows. Same as his eyes turned from the light, I bet. I check. Yes.
“So. No tattoos but you like them, huh?”
“Yes,” I say, feeling unsure, and annoyed that he just made it sound like an insult. “But yours are very nice.” He makes a face where his eyes, nose, and mouth all squirm.
“Ah, sweetheart, they’re not supposed to be nice.” Oh.
“Well, what are they supposed to be then?” Some of my hair falls in my face, which is great for about two seconds, until my stupid crazy hands reach up and put it back behind my ear. I’ve always envied Eleni, how she uses hers as a veil.
The stupid boy Lium moves closer. I wonder if I’m in his way and if I should get up.
He shrugs, “The ones I have are more for protection.”
I nod like I understand. But I have a question.
“Lium?”
“Yes?” He’s trying not to laugh at me, though I don’t know why.
I sigh in frustration, “How can those tattoos protect you if they’re already stabbed into you?”
He mostly just looks surprised, and well, soft. I think I broke him. I feel bad. He is quite handsome. Lots of clean lines.
“Trust me, baby. They work.” He taps my forehead, “On everything but know-it-alls.”
I don’t feel bad anymore. He leans right into my face and looks like he’s about to say something.
Then he doesn’t.
And doesn’t some more.
I seriously start to wonder if he’s waiting for me to move.
“It’s not all the stabbing kind of protection that I’m talking about, love. Although I do know one guy whose tattoo stopped a bullet. Dead in its tracks.”
“Do you really.”
“Yeah, I do.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure, on account of I was there.”
