Evil Eye (10 page)

I wondered if Desmond had taken some sort of medication? I knew that a category of drugs called “psychoactive” could suppress dreams entirely. The mind became blank—an emptiness.

Desmond peered at the Polaroid images as they materialized. Whatever he saw, he decided not to share with me and put the pictures away in his backpack without a word.

I said it seemed sad, that he didn't dream any longer.

Desmond shrugged. “Sometimes it's better not to dream.”

When Desmond left my house that day he drew his thumb gently across my forehead, at the temple. For a moment I thought he would kiss me there, my eyelids fluttered with expectation—but he didn't.

“You're still young enough, your dreams won't hurt you.”

I thought it might be a mistake. But my eager mother could not be dissuaded.

She invited Desmond to have dinner with us and ask his parents to join us, and with a stiff little smile, as if the first pangs of migraine had struck behind his eyes, Desmond quickly declined: “Thanks, Mrs. Marsh! That's very generous of you. Except my parents are too busy right now. My father may even be traveling. And me—right now—it's just not a—not a good time.”

My mother renewed the invitation another time, a few days later, but Desmond replied in the same way. I felt sorry for her, and unease about Desmond. Though when we were alone he had numerous questions to ask me about my family, as about myself, clearly he didn't want to meet them; nor did he want his parents to meet any of us, even his dear soul mate Lizbeth whom he claimed to adore.

It was near the end of October that Desmond brought his violin to our house and played for my mother and me.

This magical time! At least, it began that way.

In Desmond's fingers the beautiful little instrument looked small as a child's violin. “A little Mozart—for beginners.”

Desmond bit his lower lip in concentration as he played, shutting his eyes. He moved the bow across the strings at first tentatively and then with more confidence. The beautiful notes wafted over my mother and me as we sat listening in admiration.

We were not strangers to amateur violin-playing—there were recitals in Strykersville in which both Kristine and I had participated as piano students.

Possibly, some of Desmond's notes were scratchy. Possibly, the strings were not all fine-tuned. Desmond himself seemed piqued, and played passages a second time.

My mother said, “Desmond, that's wonderful! How long have you had lessons?”

“Eleven years, but not continuously. My last teacher said that I'm gifted—for an amateur.”

“Are you taking lessons now?”

“No. Not here.” Desmond's lips twitched in a faint smile as if this question was too naive to take seriously, but he would take it seriously. “I'm living in Strykersville now, not in Rochester. Or in Munich, or Trieste.”

Meaning that there could be no violin instructor of merit in Strykersville.

My mother lingered for a while, listening to Desmond play. It was clear that she enjoyed Desmond's company more than the company of many of her friends. I felt a thrill of vindication, that my sister was mistaken about Desmond. I thought
Mom is on our side.

When my mother left us, Desmond played an extraordinarily beautiful piece of music—“It's a transcription for violin. The ‘Love-Death' theme from
Tristan und Isolde
.”

Though Desmond didn't play perfectly the emotional power of the music was unmistakable. I felt that I loved Desmond Parrish deeply—this would be the purest love of my life.

Desmond lowered the bow, smiling at me. His eyes behind the gold-rimmed lenses were earnest, eager.

“Now, you try, Lizbeth. I can guide you.”

“Try? To play—what?”

“Just notes. Just—do what I instruct you.”

“But—”

“You've had violin lessons. The technique will come back to you.”

But I hadn't had violin lessons. I'd mentioned to Desmond that I had had piano lessons from the age of six to twelve, but I hadn't been very talented and no one had objected when I quit.

I protested, I couldn't begin to play a violin! The instrument was totally different from a piano.

“You've had music lessons, that's the main thing. The notes, the relationships between them—that's the principle of music. C'mon, Lizbeth—try!”

Desmond closed his hand around mine, gripping the bow, as he positioned the fragile instrument on my left shoulder.

Awkwardly Desmond caused the bow to move over the strings, gripping my fingers. The sounds were scratchy, shrill.

“Desmond, thanks. But—”

“I could teach you, Lizbeth. All that I know, I could impart to
you
.”

“But—that isn't very realistic. . . .”

Sternly Desmond said: “Look. Playing a musical instrument requires patience, practice, and faith. It doesn't require great talent. So don't use that as an excuse—you aren't talented.
Of course you aren't talented
—that's beside the point.” He spoke as if explaining something self-evident that only obstinacy prevented me from accepting.

“We could play together. Each with a violin. We could have a recital—people would applaud! But it requires patience.”

The scraping noises of the violin, and Desmond's abrasive voice, caused Rollo to glance up at us from a few feet away, worriedly.

Desmond was wholly focused upon “instructing” me. This was a side of him I hadn't seen before—there was nothing tender about him now, only an air of determination. A smell of perspiration lifted from his underarms, there was an oily ooze on his forehead. He breathed quickly, audibly. Our nearness wasn't a comfort but intimidating. It was beginning to be upsetting that I couldn't seem to explain to this adamant young man that I really didn't want to take violin instructions from him, or from anyone.

When I tried to squirm away he squeezed my hand, hard—he was looming over me and his smile didn't seem so friendly now.

“
You're not even trying for God's sake. Why do you just
give up
.”

Hearing Desmond's voice, my mother appeared in the doorway.

Quickly then Desmond stammered an apology, took back the gleaming little violin from me, and left.

Mom and I stared after him, shaken.

“That voice I heard, Lizbeth—I'd swear, it wasn't Desmond.”

Following this, something seemed to have altered between Desmond and me.

He didn't call. He began to appear in places I would not expect. He'd never made any effort to see me before school, only after school, once or twice a week at the most, but now I began to see him watching me from across the street when I entered school at about 8
a.m
. If I waved shyly to him he didn't wave back but turned away as if he hadn't seen me.

“Is that your boyfriend over there? What's he doing there?”—my girlfriends would ask.

“We had a disagreement. He wants to make up. I think.”

I tried to speak casually. I hoped the tremor in my voice wasn't detectable.

This was the sort of thing a girl would say, wasn't it?—a girl in my circumstances, with a
boyfrien
d
?

I realized that I had no idea what it meant, to have a
boyfriend
.

Still more,
had a disagreement.

And after school, Desmond began to appear closer to the building. He didn't seem to mind, as he'd initially minded, mingling with high school students as they moved past him in an erratic stream—Desmond a fixed point, like a rock. Waiting for me, then staring at me, not smiling, with a curt little wave of his hand as I approached—as if I might not have recognized him otherwise.

I'd gotten into the habit of hurrying from school on those days I didn't have a meeting or field hockey. It seemed urgent to get outside soon after the final bell. I didn't always want to be explaining Desmond to my friends. I didn't want always to be telling them that I had to hurry, my
boyfriend
wanted to see me alone.

Where Desmond hadn't shown any interest in watching me play field hockey now he might turn up at a game, or even at practice, not sitting in the bleachers with our (usually few) spectators; he preferred to remain aloof, standing at the edge of the playing field where he could stroll off unobserved at any time—except of course Desmond was observed, especially by me.

“When are you going to introduce Desmond to us, Lizbeth?”

“Is he kind of—the jealous type?”

“He looks like a preppy! He looks rich.”

“He looks a little older like—a college guy, at least?”

It was thrilling to me that my friends and teammates knew that the tall lanky boy who kept his distance was my
boyfriend
—but not so thrilling that they must have been talking behind my back, speculating and even worrying about me.

There's some secret about him, Lizbeth won't tell.

Maybe Lizbeth doesn't know!

You think he's abusing her? You know—it could be mental, too.

Lizbeth is kind of changed, lately.

Does anybody know him? His family?

They're new to Strykersville. Lizbeth said.

She's crazy about him, that's obvious.

Or just kind of crazy.

You think he feels the same about her?

“I'm thinking maybe, I'll defer again—and wait for you. I have plenty of independent research I can do before going to college. And if you couldn't get into Amherst, or couldn't afford it—my dad could help out. What d'you think?”

For the first time, I lied to Desmond.

Then, for the second time, I lied to Desmond.

He hadn't been waiting for me at school but he'd come over to our house at about 6
p.m
., rapped on the back door as he usually did, which led out onto the redwood deck, and when I came to the door I told him that I couldn't see him right then—“My mom needs me for something. I have to help her with something.”

“Can't it wait? Or—can't I wait? How long will this ‘something' require?”

I was so anxious, I hadn't even invited Desmond inside. Nor did I want to come outside onto the deck, which would make it more difficult for me to ease away from Desmond, and back into the house.

A thin cold rain was falling. A smell of wet rotting leaves.

Desmond had bicycled over. He was wearing a shiny yellow rain slicker, and a conical rain hat, which made him look both comical and threatening, like an alien life-form in a sci-fi horror movie.

“I said I can't, Desmond. This isn't a good time. . . . Daddy will be home soon, we're having dinner early tonight. There's some family crisis kind of thing going on, I can't tell you about—my elderly grandmother, in a nursing home . . .”

This was enough to discourage Desmond who had no more questions for me but backed off with a hurt smirk of a smile.

“Good night then, Lizbeth! Have a happy family crisis
.
”

This sarcastic remark lingered in my memory like a taste of something rotten in my mouth.

I thought
He hates me now. I have lost him now.

I thought
Thank God! He will find someone else.

It happened then: Desmond Parrish drifted to the edge of my life.

He ceased coming to the house. He ceased waiting for me after school. His telephone calls that had been infrequent now ceased.

I felt his fury, at a distance.

He'd been insulted by my resistance to him. So subtle, another boy would scarcely have noticed. But of course Desmond Parrish wasn't
another boy.

I regretted turning him away. I thought it might be the worst mistake of my life. When I received my amphibian paper back, in earth science, seeing a red A+ prominent on the first page, my first wish was to tell Desmond, who'd helped me with the paper.

So long ago, that seemed now! But it had been less than a month.

Desmond had read a draft of the paper for me and made just a few suggestions. He'd encouraged me to explore the theme of
amphibian
in a way not exclusively literal—
“
‘Ontology recapitulates philology.' If you don't know what that means, I can explain.”

Now, all that was changed.

Now, I couldn't predict when I might see Desmond. He had removed himself from my life, decisively—but he was still
there,
observing.

In the corner of my eye I would see him. And in my uneasy dreams I would see him.

Walking with friends. Driving with my mother in her car.

One afternoon at the mall, with Kristine.

And another time, with Kristine, driving to a drugstore a half-mile from our house, in a shopping center, and there I saw, about thirty feet away, Desmond Parrish observing us: in his shiny yellow cyclist's helmet and a nylon parka and arms folded tight across his chest and when I stopped to stare the figure turned quickly away and vanished from my sight.

Seeing the look in my face Kristine said: “Are you all right, Lizzie? You look kind of sick.”

I was so stricken by the sight of Desmond, I had to sit down for a few minutes.

Kristine asked, concerned, if I wanted to go home; but I said no, I did not want to go home. I did not!

“You've seemed kind of quiet lately.”

I told her I was all right. But I had things to think about that couldn't be shared.

“About Des? Something about Des?”

Kristine knew that Desmond wasn't dropping by the house any longer. Nor did I speak of Desmond to her now, or to my mother.