I'll Give You the Sun (20 page)

I bet he just got out of jail.

I decide to pursue his “condition” as it falls under medical research, not because I'm fascinated by him or flirting with him or anything like that. I say, “Meaning if you were in the room with The Button, you know,
the end of the world nuclear bomb button,
just you and it, man and button, you'd press it? Just like that.”

He laughs that wonderful easy laugh again. “Kapow,” he says, illustrating the explosion with his hands.

Kapow is right.

I watch as he locks his helmet on the back of his bike, then detaches a camera bag from the handlebars. The camera. I have an instant Pavlovian response to it, remembering how I'd felt sitting in church with him looking at me through it. I drop my gaze to the ground, wishing my pale skin didn't blush so easily.

“So what's your business with The Rock Star?” he asks. “Let me guess. You want him to mentor you like every other female art student from The Institute.”

Okay, that was snide. And does he think I go to The Institute in the city? That I'm in college?

“He's
agreed
to mentor me,” I reply triumphantly, not appreciating the innuendo. No other art student, female or not, needs his help like I do, to make things right with their dead mother. This is a very unique situation.

“Is that right?” He's out of his head pleased. “Well done.” I'm back in the spotlight of his gaze and having the same sense of vertigo I did in church. “I just can't believe it. Well done, you. It's been a very, very long time since he's taken on a student.” This makes me nervous. As does he. Kapow, kaboom, kaput. Time to go. Which involves moving the legs. Move the legs, Jude.

“Got lucky,” I say, trying not to trip over my own feet as I pass him, my hands deep in my sweatshirt pockets, one wrapped around the onion, the other around a bag of herbs that promise protection. I say, “You should really trade in that thing for a Hippity Hop. Much safer.” For the female gender, I don't add.

“What's a Hippity Hop?” he says to my retreating back. I don't notice how incredibly cute the words
Hippity Hop
sound coming out of his mouth with that accent.

Without turning around, I reply, “A large, round rubber animal you bounce around on. You hold on to the ears.”

“Oh, of course, a Space Hopper, then.” He laughs. “We call them Space Hoppers in England. I had a green one,” he yells after me. “A dinosaur I named Godzilla. I was a very original thinker.” Mine was a purple horse I named Pony. I was also an original thinker. “Well, nice seeing you again, whoever you are. The photos of you are brilliant. I stopped by the church a few times looking for you. Thought you might want to see them.”

He was looking for me?

I don't turn around; my cheeks are burning up.
A few times?
Be cool. Keep cool. I take a breath and with my back still to him, I raise my hand and wave bye exactly like he did that day in church. He laughs again. Oh Clark Gable. Then I hear, “Hey, wait a minute.”

I consider ignoring this, but can't resist the impulse (you see?) and turn around.

“Just realized I have an extra,” he says, pulling an orange out of the pocket of his leather jacket. He tosses it to me.

He's got to be kidding. Is this really happening?
The orange!
As in, the anti-lemon:

If a boy gives a girl an orange, her love for him will multiply

I catch it in my open palm.

“Oh no you don't,” I say, tossing it right back to him.

“Odd response,” he says, catching it. “Definitely an odd response. Think I'll try again. Would you like an orange? I have an extra.”

“I'd like to give
you
the orange, actually.”

One of his eyebrows arches. “Well, yes, that's fine and good, but it's not yours to bloody give.” He holds it up, smiling. “This is
my
orange.”

Is it possible I've found the only two people in Lost Cove I amuse rather than disturb?

“How about this,” I say. “You give it to me and I'll give it back to you. Sound acceptable?”

And yes, I'm flirting, but this is necessary. And wow, it's like riding a bicycle.

“All right then.” He walks up to me, close, so close I could reach up and trace his scars with my finger if I wanted to. They're like two hastily sewn seams. And I see that his brown eye has a splash of green in it and the green one a splash of brown. Like Cezanne painted them. Impressionist eyes. And his lashes are black as soot, exquisite. He's so close I could run my fingers through his shiny, tangly brown hair, run them across the faint spidery wrinkles that fan out at his temples, across the dark worrying shadows beneath. Across his red satiny lips. I don't think other guys' lips are this red. And I know their faces aren't this colorful, this vivid, this lived-in, this superbly off-kilter, this brimming with dark, unpredictable music.

NOT THAT I EFFING NOTICE.

Nor that he's regarding my face with the same intensity I am his. We're two paintings staring at each other across a room. A painting I've seen before, I'm sure of it. But where and when? If I'd met this guy, I'd remember. Maybe he looks like an actor I've seen in a movie? Or some musician? He definitely has that sexy musician hair. Bass player hair.

For the record, breathing is overrated. The brain can go six whole minutes without oxygen. I'm at three airless minutes when he says, “Well, then. The matter at hand.” He holds up the orange. “Would you like an orange, whoever you are?”

“Yes, thank you,” I reply, taking it, then say, “And now I'd like to give you an orange, whoever you are.”

“No thank you,” he says, slipping his hands in his pockets. “I have another.” All holy hell breaks loose on his face as it erupts into a smile and then in a flash he's up the path, the steps, and in the studio.

Not so fast, buddy.

I walk over to his motorcycle, slip the orange into the helmet.

Then I use all my self-control not to burst into song—he went to the church looking for me! A few times! Probably to tell me what he meant that day when he said, “You're her.” I head home, kicking myself because I got so flustered I didn't even think to ask what
his
relationship to The Rock Star is. Or his name. Or how old he is. Or who his favorite photographer is. Or—

Snap.

Out.

Of.

It.

I stop walking. Remembering. The boycott is no lark. It's a necessity. I can't forget that. I can't. Especially not today on the anniversary of the accident.

Not any day.

If bad luck knows who you are, become someone else

What I need to do is make this sculpture and try to make things right with my mother.

What I need to do is wish with my hands.

What I must do is eat every last lemon in Lost Cove by morning.

• • •

I
t's the next afternoon and I'm hurrying down the grimy fungal hallway in Guillermo Garcia's studio because no one came to the door when I knocked. I'm sweating and nervous and reconsidering the last sixteen years. Under my arm is my CSA portfolio of broken blobs and bowls. The only reason I even have a portfolio is because we're required to take a progression of pictures of every piece we make. My progressions are insane, certainly not an advertisement of ability—more like an accounting of a ceramic shop after an earthquake.

Right before I enter the mailroom, I hear the English-accented voice and a whole percussion section bursts to life in my chest. I back against the wall, try to silence the pounding. I was hoping he wouldn't be here. And hoping he would be. And hoping I'd stop hoping he would be. However, I've come prepared.

Carrying a burnt candle stub will extinguish feelings of love
should they arise

(Front left pocket.)

Soak a mirror in vinegar to deflect unwanted attention

(Back pocket.)

To change the leanings of the heart, wear a wasp nest on the head

(Not this desperate. Yet.)

Alas, perhaps I'm not prepared for this: sex noises. Unmistakable sex noises. Moaning and groaning and obscene murmurings. Is this why nobody answered the door? In an English accent, I hear: “Holy Christ, so good. God,
soooooo
damn good. Better than any drug, I mean any. Better than
any
thing.” Followed by a long drawl of a moan.

Then a deeper groan, which must be Guillermo's. Because they're lovers! Of course. How stupid could I be? The English guy is Guillermo's boyfriend, not his long-lost son. But he sure seemed straight when he was taking pictures of me in church and when he was talking to me outside the studio yesterday too. So attentive. Did I misread him? Or maybe he's bi? And what about all Guillermo's hyper-heterosexual artwork?

And not to judge, but cradle-rob much? There's probably a quarter century between them.

Should I leave? They seem to have settled down and are now just bantering back and forth. I listen closely. The English guy is trying to convince Guillermo to go to some type of sauna with him later this afternoon. Definitely gay. Good. This is great news, actually. The boycott will be a snap to maintain, oranges or no oranges.

I make a bunch of noise, stamping on the floor, clearing my throat several times, a few more stomps, then step around the corner.

In front of me is a fully clothed Guillermo and a fully clothed English guy on opposite sides of a chessboard. There's no indication they were just in the throes of passion. Each has a half-eaten donut in his hand.

“Very clever, aren't we?” the English guy says to me at once. “Never would've suspected you of such subterfuge, whoever you are.” With his free hand, he reaches into the messenger bag resting beside him and pulls out
the orange
. In a flash it's airborne, then in my hand, and his face has broken into five million pieces of happiness. “Nice catch,” he says.

Victorious, he takes a bite of donut, then moans theatrically.

Okay. Not gay. Not lovers, they both just appear to like donuts more than your average bear. And what am I going to do now? Because my invisibility uniform doesn't seem to work with this guy. And ditto the vinegar-soaked mirror and extinguished candle stub.

I stuff the orange in with the onion and pull my cap down.

Guillermo gives me a curious look. “So you've already met the resident guru? Oscar is trying to enlighten me as usual.” Oscar. He has a name and it's Oscar, not that I care, though I do like the way Guillermo says it:
Oscore!
Guillermo continues. “Every day, something else. Today it is Bikram yoga.” Ah, the sauna. “You know this yoga?” he asks me.

“I know that's a real lot of bacteria in one hot sweaty room,” I tell Guillermo.

He drops his head back and laughs heartily. “She is so crazy with the germs,
Oscore!
She think Frida Kahlo is going to kill me.” This relaxes me.
He
relaxes me. Who would've thought Guillermo Garcia, The Rock Star of the Sculpture World, would have this soothing effect on me? Maybe
he's
the meadow!

A surprised look has crossed Oscar's face as he studies Guillermo, then me. “So how did the two of you meet?” he asks.

I rest my portfolio and bag against an easy chair that's smothered in unopened mail. “He caught me on the fire escape spying on him.”

Oscar's eyes widen but his attention's back on the chessboard. He moves a piece. “And you're still sentient? Impressive.” He pops the remaining piece of donut in his mouth and closes his eyes as he slowly chews. I can see the rapture taking him over. Jesus. That must be some donut. I tear my eyes off him, hard to do.

“She win me over,” Guillermo says while studying Oscar's move. “Like you win me over, Oscore. Long time ago.” His face darkens.
“Ay, cabrón.”
He starts muttering in Spanish as he nudges a piece forward.

“G. saved my life,” Oscar says with affection. “And checkmate, mate.” He leans back on his chair, balancing on the rear legs, says, “I hear they're giving lessons down at the senior center.”

Guillermo groans, for the first time not donut-related, and flips the board so pieces go flying in every direction. “I kill you in your sleep,” he says, which makes Oscar laugh, then Guillermo picks up a white bakery bag and holds it out to me.

I decline, way too nervous to eat.

“‘The road of excess leads to the palace of wisdom,'” Oscar says to me, still balancing on the back legs of his chair. “William Blake.”

Guillermo says to him, “Yes, very good, one of your twelve steps, Oscore?” I look at Oscore. Is he in AA? I didn't know you could be an alcoholic if you weren't old. Or maybe he's in NA? Didn't he just say something about no drug being as good as that donut. Is he a drug addict? He did say he has impulse-control issues.

“Indeed,” Oscar says with a smile. “The step known only to the in crowd.”

“How did you save his life?” I ask Guillermo, dying to know.

But it's Oscar who answers. “He found me half dead from pills and booze in the park and somehow recognized me. According to him: ‘I hoist Oscore over my shoulders like a deer'”—he's slipped into a perfect Guillermo Garcia impersonation that includes hand gestures—“‘and I carry him across town like Superman and deposit him in the loft.'” He turns back into himself. “All
I
know is I woke up with G.'s monstrous face in mine”—he laughs his god-awful laugh—“and had no idea how it had gotten there. It was mad. He started barking orders at me right away. Told me I could stay here if I got clean. Ordered me to go to ‘two meetings a day, understand, Oscore? The NA in the morning, the AA in the evening.' Then, maybe because I'm English, I don't know, he quoted Winston Churchill: ‘If you're going through hell,
keep going.'
Understand, Oscore?
Morning, noon, and night he said this to me: ‘If you're going through hell, keep going,' so I did
.
I kept going and going and now I'm at university and not dead in a ditch somewhere and that is how he saved my life. Highly abridged and sanitized. It
was
hell.”