Wild Roses (12 page)

When I left, Mom and Dino were doing
something

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they never did--just sitting on the couch and
watching a movie. Very regular couple. Very non-genius of Dino. His arm was
around my mother, sucking up. This was what his illness was like. A crash. Then
enough quiet to make you think it might be getting better. Then an earthquake.
And Mom would just buy into it. That's how bad she wanted things to be
okay.

I walked to Brian's, because I liked to see the
little kids with their costumes flowing out behind them as they ran, their
parents calling Thank you! to open doorways, the miniature ghouls and power guys
and gypsy girls. I remembered sweating like a sumo under rubber masks, and as a
kindergartener, parading around the classes of big kids. I remember pouring out
my candy on the floor when I got home from trick-or-treating, picking out the
Butterfingers and separating similar things into piles. I remember my Mom
wearing a witch hat to answer the door, and my Dad holding my hand when we
crossed the street, and me sleeping in my bride costume when I was six. Yes,
okay, I had a bride costume, so don't give me any crap about it. That night, the
streets were full of the sound of tennis shoes running on pavement and of the
spooky music some people played when they answered their doors. The air smelled
like singed pumpkin lids and the beams of flashlights bounced around the
darkness, and for some reason it all made me want to burst into
tears.

Brian's party was noncostume, but a few people
were there anyway in bloody and gory wounds and cat ears and the like. Michael
Worthman, who I had a crush on last

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year, came as Minnie Mouse, which doused any
lingering sexual chemistry. Beth Atkins, a girl who made costumes for drama,
came dressed as a cow, demonstrating that it takes guts to wear an udder. Jeff
Payley wore a dog costume, and went around shaking his butt and saying, "Look, I
can wag my tail!" I ate pumpkin seeds and wondered why, as the experience is
vaguely like munching on toenails. I talked to Zebe, who was wearing fishnet
stockings and glow-in-the-dark fangs that she had to take out in a rather drooly
fashion whenever it was her turn to answer.

"Michael Worthman's been checking you out all
night," Zebe said.

"He's wearing a dress. With polka dots," I
said.

"Hey, his legs look great in it," she said,
raised her eyebrows up and down, and popped in her fangs again.

I left after a couple of hours, telling
everyone I had a sore throat and wanted to go home to bed. I didn't talk to Zebe
about Ian and me, because for starters, nothing existed between us. I was still
out of sorts, and all of the cheer around me was just making me feel crappier.
Only a few boys who were too big for trick-or-treating were still on the street,
and Mom had blown out the pumpkin candles. When I came in, Mom and Dino had
already gone to bed and there were only a handful of Sweet Tarts packs and boxes
of Dots left in the candy bowl. Mom's taste in candy stank--she always went for
the low-fat stuff in case we had any left and she was tempted to eat it. Dots
were as far down on the evolutionary candy scale as you go, but I took a few
anyway, which only goes to show the level of my general dissatisfaction. I
went

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upstairs and got in bed, ate Sweet Tarts and
disgusting cherry Dots in the dark. I tried to fend off images of Ian coming
down my street that first time I saw him, of his face when I left him that
night. That kiss. God, that kiss. I tried to get rid of overly sentimental
pictures of my mother handing my father a cup of hot cider after we would come
back home with our candy on Halloween nights. It occurred to me that if you
loved it sucked, and if you didn't love it sucked, so either way you were
screwed. Maybe love was better. At least sometimes you got
chocolates.

My resolve was weak, so I was glad I didn't
know Ian's phone number. I reminded myself for the zillionth time that I had to
do what was best for Ian, too. I felt on the edge of tears, as if I could have
cried at the sight of a drooping plant. Some kind of grieving was working around
inside of me, and I didn't want any part of it. I got up to pee, and went
downstairs for more candy or a glass of milk or a miracle cure. For some reason,
I can't even tell you why, I went into Dino's study and pulled the Cavalli
biography from the shelf. I sat right there on the floor, with the open book on
my lap.

Lutitia Bissola, neighbor: The boy had his
first concert for us, in the piazza. Anyone doing their shopping stopped to
watch. His mother and father held hands and listened, and Mrs. Mueller, I think
it was Mrs. Mueller who started it, put the bouquet of flowers at the child's
feet when he was finished.

Francesca Bissola, neighbor: It wasn't Mrs.
Mueller. It was Honoria Maretta. But after she put the flowers down, everyone
else began laying down objects.

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Honoria Maretta, grade-school teacher: I put
the flowers down, yes. He was my student, my boy. He was like a son to me. He
would come to my house to see my cat sometimes, and I would give him books and
pizzelles. They were his favorite. I would bake them on a Sunday, when he might
come over. My only little child, among all my students.

Francesca Bissola: Alberto what's-his-name put
a loaf of French bread by the flowers.

Lutitia Bissola: Alberto Terreto. He put the
bread down. And then there were other things. A zucchini. A melon. A lemon
branch. Little offerings, laid at the boy's feet. Even Father Minelli had opened
the doors of the church with the sound of the playing and stood there listening,
his face turning red from the sun.

Francesca Bissola: His face was red from too
much wine. The sun had nothing to do with it. He was a boozer, God rest his
soul.8

I smiled. In spite of myself, and in spite of
the Dino-hero-worship, those people from Sabbotino Grappa could get to you. The
words brought you to another time and place. Escapism was a nice thing
sometimes. Personally, I don't see the problem with escapism and denial, those
friendly twin coping mechanisms. I carried the book back to my room, read some
more until the hot sun of Italy made me sleepy enough to turn out the
light.

The next time Ian came for a lesson, I waited
in my room until he was safely inside Dino's office, then I hightailed
it

" Dino Cavalli--The Early Years: An Oral
History. From Edward Reynolds, New York, N.Y. Aldine Press, 1999.

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out of there before they even started tuning.
In my current state, I didn't even dare listen to Ian play I didn't trust myself
not to do something humiliating and out of control, same as you fear shouting
out some swear word while you're at a church service. I could just see myself
flinging open the door and throwing myself in his arms or something ridiculously
schlocky. Or else I'd start weeping at the sound of that violin, picturing the
notes drifting all the way to Italy, winding their way among the leaves of the
olive trees.

Getting out, that was the main thing. Fall was
still doing the cold, crispy thing, so I put on Mom's navy pea-coat and borrowed
Dino's lambskin gloves and hat that made him look like a bank robber. I stepped
out the front door. Dog William had fallen firmly and steadfastly in love, and
was looking happier than he'd ever looked in his life, lying on the grass with
Rocket. His lips were curled up and his teeth showed, and anyone who says dogs
don't smile is dead wrong. At least someone had their relationship life sorted
out. He even looked kind of cute again. Rocket was sprawled out, looking serene
and sphinxlike, and you could already tell who was the boss of the couple. I
kicked through the leaves on our road, passed old Mr. and Mrs. Billings' house.
Their pumpkins, out on their porch, now looked a bit caved in, same as Mr.
Billings's mouth without his dentures.

Something about Dog William's happiness pissed
me off, and I took my sour mood down the road and kicked at leaves. Goddamn, I
mean, even a dog handled his life better than I did. I looked up, and saw that
banana yellow

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Datsun stuck in the road. There was Bunny,
Ian's brother, and Chuck, Bunny's friend--the metaphysical
nonmotorcyclists--standing there beside it. "Get the jack," Bunny
said.

"What jack? Monterey Jack?" Chuck chuckled.
"Jack-in-the-box?"

"You don't know jack shit," Bunny said. "In the
trunk. And the lug wrench."

"What's it look like?" Chuck was as big as a
dump truck and was wearing a fringe vest with beads. He had a lovely braid, I
don't know, maybe two inches long.

"You know what it looks like. A big cross. With
knobs. Quit stalling. Jesus."

"Do you guys need some help?" I asked. "I'm
about two seconds from a phone."

"Hey. The teacher's kid," Chuck
said.

"Ian's friend," Bunny said.

"Whoo hoo. You saved me." Chuck raised one arm,
did a little victory dance. It reminded me of when you set a big bowl of Jell-O
on a hard surface. "Rescue chick."

"No problem," I said. "Should I call a tow
truck?"

"Tow truck, my ass," Bunny said. "It's a flat
tire. Get back there and find the jack," he said to Chuck. Bunny shook his head.
"Sheesh. He's never changed a flat before. We could be here all day."

"You know, my house is right there. I could
call someone for you."

"I've changed thousands of tires," Bunny said.
"It's him that hasn't. This is a learning experience."

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"I hate learning experiences," Chuck
said.

"Learning experiences suck," I agreed.
"Anything that's called a learning experience, you know, run for your
life."

"What a couple of whiners," Bunny
said.

Chuck had the trunk open and was fishing around
inside. "Is this the lug wrench?" He held up a hat with ear flaps.

"1 hope neither of you has worn that thing," I
said. "Very Elmer Fudd." Chuck tossed it to me and I yanked off Dino's burglar
hat, put it on. "Cozy," I said.

"Oh, man, you two are a handful," Bunny said. I
was starting to have a really good time. "You two will try my abundant
patience."

"Okay, okay. The lug wrench," Chuck said. He
took it out, held it up in one hand as if it had the weight of a
toothpick.

"You blocked the tires already? Good. Now
loosen the bolts while the car's still on the ground." Bunny folded his arms,
watched Chuck sit down on the asphalt.

"Cold ass," Chuck rubbed his huge butt. He
stuck the lug wrench on one of the bolts. "Knee bone connected to the shinbone."
He gave it a crank. It freed easily, a knife through warm butter. "Big friggin'
deal," Chuck said. He sure looked pleased with himself.

"Don't congratulate yourself until the job is
done. You can't change a tire and pat yourself on the back at the same time. Not
enough hands," Bunny said.

Chuck whipped through the second bolt, but the
third stuck. I learned a whole bunch of cool new swear

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words, in inventive combinations. Sweat
gathered at his temple and in the nooks and crannies of his shirt. I could smell
the sour odor of underarms under stress.

"Never count your chickens before they hatch,"
Bunny said.

"Shut the F up, Bun," Chuck said, and let loose
a stream-of-consciousness array of nasty terms in Bunny's direction.

"So why are you letting him make you do this?"
I asked. Maybe it wasn't such a good time to bring it up. Chuck was grunting
like a pig stuck under a fence.

"Learning. Experience," he exhaled. "Personal.
Growth."

I wanted to laugh. Picture again what I was
seeing. This motorcycle guy in a fringe vest with a two-inch braid, wrestling a
tire and sweating bullets and gasping about personal growth as his buddy watched
over him with the folded arms of a sadistic PE teacher.

"You got to do what you fear," Bunny said.
"Embrace the unknown. You keep yourself sheltered, you over-protect yourself,
you might as well stay home and become an agraphobic."

"Agoraphobic," Chuck grunted.

"Agraphobic probably means you fear farmland,"
I said.

Bunny ignored us. "Growth is in the feared
places." "Did you steal that from a Star Trek movie?" I said. "It sounds
slightly ominous."

"There!" Chuck said. "Hot damn." "Excellent.
Step two."

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"Shit, there's more?"

I watched Bunny instruct Chuck to jack up the
car and remove the tire. Kyle and Derek, Courtney's two little brothers, got off
the school bus and came over, slung their backpacks to the ground and
watched.

"I saw this guy get crushed by his own car on
True Traffic Tragedies," Kyle said. Kyle was twelve and wore slouchy pants.
Derek was a year younger, but was bigger than his brother.

"Gee, thanks for sharing," I said.

"If we had our video camera, we could film this
and win a thousand bucks."

"I saw this other guy get his leg pinned on
Road Rescuers."

"That looked so fake," Derek said.