Heartache and Other Natural Shocks (21 page)

Ian picks up my fallen sword and wraps the two rapiers in their crimson cloth. Silence folds over us like darkness engulfing an evening sky. My eyes travel around the room.
My head seems to be moving in slow motion, the way it does when you have a fever. I try not to think about kissing Ian, but it’s all I can think about. I gaze up at the golden Buddha, whose plump petal-like fingers point upward and whose generous lips curve in bliss. The Buddha’s eyes are half closed, looking inward, and his head almost touches the ceiling. I wonder what it would feel like to be so completely at peace.

Behind me, the heavy trunk clanks shut. The spell is broken. We leave the room. In the den, Ian pulls two Cokes out of the bar’s mini-fridge. His hair is plastered to his forehead. My mouth feels swollen and gritty. We sit on the bar stools, not looking at each other, taking long cold gulps of Coke. Slowly, I surface through a sticky fog, back into the present moment. The swords, the tiger, the Buddha and the kiss seem like implausible figments of my imagination.

When I finally force myself to speak, it feels like I’m chewing my words. “Where did your grandfather get all that stuff?” I ask.

“India. He was with the British Army,” Ian says.

“Doing what?”

“Intelligence, I think. He wouldn’t say.” Ian pushes his hair away from his face. “He spoke different dialects. My mother said he was away from home a lot. She was born in Kashmir, but my grandmother hated it there, so she took my mom and moved back to North Bay.” Ian chugs his Coke.

“Did you ever visit him?”

“Sure,” he says. “He’s the one who taught me to fence.”

“You learned to fence in India? That’s so exotic.”

Ian nods. “At his home in the countryside. Every morning we got up early, before the heat settled in, and practiced on the veranda. He worked me hard. It was great. Just us and the sounds of birds all around.” Ian pauses and looks at me. “He shot that tiger, the one in the room. It was hiding in the fields for weeks. It killed a girl from the village, so he tracked it up a tree and shot it.”

“Wow,” I say. “Were you there?”

“No. But he showed me how to shoot the gun. And we took motorcycles everywhere. To villages, markets, temples, the jungle …”

“Are you going back?”

Ian looks away. “No. He died last year.”

“Oh,” I say. I feel so dumb. Of course he’s dead. That’s why his things are stored in that room. That’s why Ian has his grandfather’s rapiers. “I’m sorry,” I say, but
sorry
doesn’t cut it.

Ian’s knees jiggle furiously. “I wanted to see him at the end,” he says, “but they wouldn’t let me go back. He said he wasn’t afraid of dying. He wasn’t afraid of anything.” Ian’s voice goes so quiet that the words almost disappear. I place my hand on his leg. For a few minutes we just sit there, and for once it isn’t awkward or embarrassing.

Then, upstairs, a door opens and shuts. Instantly, Ian leaps off his stool. Footsteps cross the floor above us. Ian
waves me urgently toward a room off the den. I don’t get it, but I grab my Coke and duck inside just as the door at the top of the basement stairs opens and a man’s deep voice calls down, “Ian?”

“Yeah,” Ian says.

I peek out of the room. A long shadow glides down the stairwell. I edge back into the darkness. A bar of light streaks in from the den and I see a bed, a desk and a chair. I’m in Ian’s bedroom.

“What are you doing?” the man asks.

“Nothing,” Ian says.

“Your mother wants you to come up and say good-night.”

“Okay.”

“Are you alone?”

“Yeah.”

“Why are you sweaty?”

“I was exercising.”

I crouch low beside the bed.

“I trust you’re keeping out of trouble, son.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Because your mother can’t have that again.”

“No, sir.”

“All right then.”

I hear the creak of footsteps going up the stairs. A minute later, Ian opens the door. I don’t have to be told that my visit is over. I quickly put on my coat and boots. At the back door,
Ian whispers, “We should do this again. I need someone to spar with.”

“I’m not in your league,” I whisper back.

“But I like playing you,” Ian says. “You’re an interesting opponent. Most people wouldn’t guess that about you. But I know you, Rapunzel.” His lips slant into a wolfish grin. “I see you watching from your tower, plotting and waiting for an opening.”

I step outside and a harsh wind hits my face. I look back at Ian. “You have me all wrong. I’m not plotting anything. I don’t like danger, and I don’t like taking risks.”

“That’s your weakness,” Ian says. “Which is why I’ll always win.”

“And what’s your weakness? Arrogance?” I ask, only half joking.

Ian smirks and slides the door shut. I hurry back along the side of the house where the cedars, in their burlap wrappings, look like a band of ragged soldiers returning from war.

I walk down the dark streets. The wind howls and the cold bites, but I have done battle and had its reward. Nothing can touch me tonight.

“Ain’t No Sunshine”

Deb and Mar do not say the words
I told you so
about Ian, but the thought hangs in the air like a bad smell, even a month after our breakup. Whenever they see Ian in the hall, Debbie and Marlene glare at him. When it comes to glaring, Deb and Mar are like professional snipers who can snuff out a target from a mile away with a single glance. Unfortunately, in Ian’s case, it doesn’t work because a glare is useless if the target doesn’t give a shit, and Ian doesn’t give a shit about anyone. He’s bulletproof.

I tell Deb and Mar that breaking up with Ian was the best thing I could’ve done, but the truth is, I can’t stop thinking about him. If he walks into a room, I know he’s there. I can pick out his voice in a crowd. In drama, I can hardly concentrate. He’s always on my radar, irritating me like a canker sore.

Marlene and Debbie think I need a distraction, so a week before the Christmas break, we decide to go see the new James Bond flick,
Diamonds Are Forever
, starring Sean Connery and Jill St. John. It’s a busy night at the theater, and we’re standing there with our popcorn and drinks, scanning the room for
three good seats, when I spot Mrs. Epstein sitting beside a fat lady near the front. I point her out to Deb and Mar, and we end up sitting six rows behind her. She’s wearing a royal blue silk scarf, and we all agree that it’s a great color on her. Mrs. Epstein is an attractive woman.

Just before the movie starts, Debbie gives me a poke in the arm and I follow her gaze. A tall, distinguished man carrying a large popcorn and two drinks is moving into the empty seat beside Mrs. Epstein. She takes the drinks out of his hands while he settles down beside her.

“I thought she was with the fat lady,” I say.

“Jules has good-looking parents,” Marlene says.

The man turns to speak to Mrs. Epstein and—oh my God!—I clutch Deb’s and Mar’s arms. “That is
not
Mr. Epstein!” I hiss.

Mar and Deb gasp. “What?”

“Are you sure?” Marlene asks.

“Of course I’m sure. I’ve met Julia’s dad. He has curly black hair, and this guy has straight brown hair. That guy is
not
Mr. Epstein.”

“Then who is he?” Debbie asks.

We give each other a look.

“Do you think …?” Mar asks.

“Oh my God,” Debbie says.

Our heads swivel, and we eyeball Mrs. Epstein and Loverboy.

“Maybe they’re just friends,” Marlene says.

Debbie raises an eyebrow. “If he’s her friend, I’m the queen of England.”

The lights dim and the curtain opens, but all through the movie, I’m watching Mrs. Epstein and Loverboy. I’m dying to know if they’re holding hands. When the show is over, Deb, Mar and I sink down in our seats and watch as Loverboy helps Mrs. Epstein with her coat. When he puts his hand on her back to guide her up the aisle, we grab onto each other and suck in our breath.

“Did you see that?” Debbie whispers.

“Yeah,” Mar says. “He touched her.”

“Guys don’t touch you when you’re ‘just friends,’ ” Deb says.

“Wow,” I say. “I can’t believe it. She always seemed like such a lady.”

“When the cat’s away, the mice will play,” Debbie says, like she’s an expert on this stuff.

“Come on,” I say. “Let’s follow them.”

“What if she sees us?” Marlene says.

“We’re just walking out of a movie,” I say. “There’s no law against that, is there?”

We scurry out of our seats and trail them at a discreet distance. We follow them out of the theater and down the street. They’re talking, but we’re too far back to hear what they’re saying.

“They’re heading into the parking lot,” Deb says.

“Quick, Batman, to the Batmobile!” I say, pointing to Deb’s Buick. Marlene giggles. Loverboy holds open the passenger door of his blue Cadillac for Mrs. Epstein while Mar, Deb and I dash across the lot to Debbie’s car and leap in. Debbie stabs her key into the ignition, and we track the Cadillac out of the lot and down the street, keeping two cars behind, just like James Bond.

“Don’t lose them,” I say.

“Don’t worry, toots, I got that dame in my sights,” Deb says in her mobster voice, and the three of us laugh so hard, we practically pee our pants. Debbie starts humming the
Mission: Impossible
theme music, and Mar and I join in. At Yonge and Eglinton, we almost get stuck when the light turns yellow, but Debbie guns it, and Mar and I cheer as we sail through the intersection with the Cadillac just ahead.

Loverboy continues east on Eglinton, makes a left at Leslie and then drives north until he comes to the medical/dental building where my dentist has his office. The Cadillac turns into the parking area. Debbie pulls over to the side of the street. “Should I follow them?” she asks.

“No. Too conspicuous,” I say.

We sit tight in Deb’s car, engine running, and a few minutes later, Mrs. Epstein’s station wagon pulls out of the parking area and continues north on Leslie. The Cadillac turns south.

“I guess this is their little rendezvous spot,” I say.

“ ’Cause she wouldn’t want the neighbors to know,” Deb snickers, looking at me.

Back at my house, we arrive just as Mrs. Epstein is getting out of her car. She sees us and waves a cheerful hello. We say hello back, and Mrs. Epstein walks into her house.

“I wonder if Julia knows,” Mar says.

“I doubt it,” Deb says. “Why do you think they’re meeting in secret?”

“I’d like to see the look on her face when she finds out,” I say.

Mar and Deb stare at me, intrigued. “Are you going to tell her?” Debbie asks.

“Moi?”
I say, and we all laugh. “No, I’ll just file this away.” There’s no need to bring it up now. Timing is everything.

“Winterlude”

I don’t know what I was expecting. A conversation in the hall? An invitation for a rematch? None of this happens. I don’t understand. Ian must like me if he kissed me the way he did, but then again, he almost stabbed me in the heart. Was the kiss just Ian’s version of shaking hands after a fight? Ever since she broke his nose, Carla and Ian don’t talk, but he doesn’t exactly talk to me either. In drama, he sits with the two
J
s. Carla sits with Sherrie Cumberland. We’re a classroom of people who don’t look at each other, but we watch each other constantly.

I replay Ian’s kiss in my mind a thousand times a day. I write to Mollie about it. I tell her that kissing Ian was like dancing with a dark angel, or like suddenly being able to see ultraviolet light. I don’t tell Geoff anything. He wouldn’t approve, and it might be hard for him to keep the secret.

On the last day of school before Christmas, I’m walking out of math class when I see Ian loping down the hall. “Hey, Rapunzel,” he says with a smile.

“Hi,” I say. I’ve been rehearsing a million things to say to him, but suddenly nothing seems appropriate. “So, what are
you doing for the holidays?” I ask. Ian shrugs. “I’m going home, to Montreal,” I say. “But I’ll be back for New Year’s.” If that isn’t a big hint, I don’t know what is!

The buzzer goes. Ian says, “Have a nice trip.”

That’s it. He walks off. If I were Carla, I’d run after him and get his phone number, or arrange to see him when I’m back. But I’m not Carla. So, I go to my next class, where everyone shifts and squirms in their seats, itching to be gone.