Tiger Lillie (10 page)

I should have left the barn right then and gone, on to be the woman my True Love made me to be, but I remembered my mother’s grip on my arm that day in the airport, right where the bracelet rested, and it brought me to this day where I may just meet my True Love face to face.

I see earth now, outside my window. The rolling continues and, you know, it really is slow motion, just like they always tell you.

Rawlins’s cell phone rings. Probably Pastor Cole. The more that man called, the less I saw of my husband. He’ll be livid that Rawlins doesn’t pick up. I’d smile if I remembered how.

Lillie

Twice I flick my fingers with a metallic thump against the top of my Coke can.

“What was that for?” my new ER companion asks.

“You do that so it won’t fizz out of the top of the can. It can be quite a drop down to the drawer of these machines.” Man I sound like a pedant. Thank You, God, I forgot to pick up my Day-Timer.

He carefully lifts a cup of tea from between the metal wings that anchor the paper cup atop the spill grid. “I don’t know why I get tea from these things. It’s always grotty.”

“You could try the coffee instead.”

“I’ll keep that in mind, love.” He winks. Oh, it’s a bit English, the speech. Maybe he had English parents or something.

Now that I can properly see his eyes, I can only compare them to the aquamarine of the waters of Acapulco where I try to cliff-dive at least once a year. Their blue is sheer and endless. I can visualize diving right in, swallowed whole with no bungee cord to pull me out again.

Oh, for pity’s sake.

I want to run into the bathroom and hurl at my own foolish romanticism, not to mention the cliché of it.

Teddy’s brown eyes had much the same effect though. But Teddy’s eyes were earth, begging me to thrust my spade into the soft coolness.

Oh brother, once again! See, this is why I went for the MBA.

Other than the eyes, this man appears quite coarse. Big British features, except for a set of thin lips. Some good looks are so easily defined, the features beautiful in and of themselves. It’s obvious. And that’s fine. If you like the obvious. Other people, like this man here, well, you can’t quite figure out why they’re good-looking, but they are. Despite the irregularity of their features, the combination works. You could say the same about Cristoff.

He rubs his sparse blond hair with a confident sweep of his hand, lifts his cup, and says, “Cheers then.”

I lift mine and we simultaneously sip. Judging by the look on his face as he sips, I can only imagine it is the exact opposite of my “Ah, Coke” expression. Nothing like the feel of that cold, sweet fizziness sliding down your throat, is there?

He points to my can. “Maybe I should have what you’re having.”

“Rots your teeth. And with your being English and all, I’d say it’s best to take the necessary precautions and leave well enough alone.”

He laughs with such verve the other inhabitants of the ER netherworld jerk their heads in our direction. “Good one, sweetheart!” He tips his cup again. “Most people can’t detect the accent.”

Now
this
guy knows how to say the word
sweetheart!

“Well, I guess I’m not most people.”

“I didn’t think you were for a moment.” He takes another wincing sip of tea. “So this friend of yours…is he a boyfriend or something?”

“Cristoff?” I laugh. “No. He’s my best friend, but there’s never been anything…well…you know…”

He nods. “Gotcha, love. Hope it turns out fine for him.”

“It will. This isn’t the first time we’ve been here.”

He accompanies me into the waiting room. And why are most ER waiting rooms done in shades of teal with rose-colored accents? Even without Pleasance hissing in my ear, I know that’s putrid. My outfit—orange T-shirt and baggy khakis—fits that description as well. And wouldn’t you know it, the first shoes that caught my eye were my water shoes. I immediately sit down and tuck my feet as far beneath my chair as possible and still maintain a somewhat ladylike pose.

He eases himself into the chair next to mine. “I’ve spent more than my fair share of time in the hospital.”

“Your leg?”

“Yeah.”

“How did you lose it?”

He grins. “That obvious, huh?”

“Sorry.”

“Nah, don’t worry. I lost it in a motorcycle accident years ago.”

Ouch. “Oh, wow.”

“Worst pain I’ve ever been in.”

“Does it still hurt?” I position my soda beneath the chair next to me.

“Some days. High barometric pressure days.”

“And is it true you can still feel your leg there for a while afterward?”

“Oh yeah. And it hurts like…heck.”

Oh, good. A gentleman. That’s refreshing.

“You still ride a motorcycle?”

“Nah. I’m pretty much a foot-on-the-ground sort of fellow now.”

“Can’t blame you there.”

I study him afresh in the bright lighting. Although weathered and paunchy and worn, a boyish quality skirts the edge. Oh, not pretty-boyish or childish-boyish. Just that freckly, blue-eyed boyish, that unaffected confidence of someone who doesn’t know he’s supposed to feel a bit awkward in the world, a bit disappointed at how his life has played out thus far. Then again, maybe he wasn’t.

His jeans are old yet clean, broken in and faded, and his leather jacket appears as if he’d been wearing it in that motorcycle accident. Doc Marten boots encase his foot and his prosthesis. I wonder how far up the true start of his appendage begins.

So I ask. And I’m not at all scared to ask. Which weirds me out. Shouldn’t I be at least a little hesitant?

“Two inches below the knee.”

I examine his smooth-shaven face, the color of unfinished cherry wood, wonder what he’d look like with his blond hair grown out, wonder what it would feel like to run my finger down the age line that travels from the side of his nose to the side of his mouth.

I wonder if I will ever see him again and figure probably not. Once when I was about fifteen years old I passed a boy down at Harbor Place. He had long blond hair, huge brown eyes, and the body of a stick bug if that stick bug happened to be wearing Levis. Our eyes met that day and I felt a jolt, and then a sweet taste in my mouth, and I knew then, though I’d seen him for just two seconds, I would never forget that beautiful face for the rest of my life. Teddy and all. Go figure.

“Can I buy you another Coke?” he asks.

“Only if you’ll tell me your name.”

“Gordon Remington.”

“Lillie Bauer.”

“A pleasure.”

“Yes, it is.”

I determine that if he is going to be one of the people I remember for the rest of my life, by golly, I will remember his name. So I repeat it three times in my mind.

We shake hands. A good handshake. Not one of those flaccid fingers-only grasp some men bestow upon women.

“Your brother live in this area?” I ask, unable to think of anything else but desperately wishing to keep the conversation breathing.

“Nah. He’s visiting his fiancée. She’s from Baltimore.”

Oooh, a wedding.

“When’s the wedding?”

“Next spring sometime. We haven’t really started planning.”

“Better get a move on.”

“Yeah?”

“If you want a decent place for the reception. Believe me, it’s a real pain.”

“You plan any weddings before?”

“Oh yeah.” I give him my card accompanied by a very brief explanation.

Good. Plenty of fodder for more conversation.

But we move on, talking about motorcycles, sports cars, and the high price of gasoline.

Tacy

The day “Rawlins and I got into an argument over John 3:16 and what was meant by the word “whosoever,” something in me died. I realized that for the rest of my life I wouldn’t be able to have any decent form of discussion with him about theological issues like I did with Daddy without some huge bugaboo resulting. Daddy loved to talk about the Bible from all sorts of angles. Yes, he was the free-will-of-man sort, but Lillie wasn’t, and he respected her opinion. Rawlins and I had been sitting in my car, looking out over Loch Raven, right where the big dam holds back the waters of the Gunpowder.

“Don’t tell me what to think, Anastasia!” His face, turned white and his jaw was stiffer than a wooden coat hanger. “You know nothing about these things.”

“I’ve gone, to church longer than you have, Rawlins.”

He paled further, almost gray with rage. He got out of the car and proceeded to rip the hood ornament off my car, an angel he had installed “for many symbolic reasons” a month before. After throwing it into the water, he reached for his cell phone. I read his lips, “Pastor Cole.”

A thirty-minute conversation ensued, him sitting down by the bank, his back turned to me. After some time, waiting for the grilling I would get, I quietly got out of the car and walked toward Sanders’s store, where I called Lillie.

Not today, I said to myself. Today I will have some self-respect.

“Don’t say a word, Lillie,” I told her upon sliding into her little Civic.

“You okay? That’s all I want to know.”

“Yes.”

When we stepped into the house, Mom ran up to me. “Tacy! Rawlins just called with the most wonderful news! He’s building a house right on your property, a cottage for your father and me after he retires! He’s sending a messenger around with some floor plans!”

I managed to smile. Lord only knows how.

I remember something I wrote that Good Friday, more of an essay maybe or just the ramblings of a girl’s heart. I can actually see it there upon the page, my mind’s eye in perfect focus.

I am the woman who has anointed Him for burial. I have sprinkled my tears upon His feet, broken an alabaster box of spikenard, and baptized them with a fragrance He bestowed upon me in the first place. I am growing more and more in love with the precious Jesus, the precious face of God on earth.

I followed Him down the dusty road, aching in sympathy, miserable as the crossbeam, settled across His flayed shoulders, dug into flesh unseamed by a cat-o’-nine-tails.

I watched them nail Him to the cross, and I wept once more at His feet and cried, “I’m sorry, dear Jesus. I’m sorry I did this to You.”

And I tasted “His precious blood as it ran from His wounds, over my bowed head, and down my face. I love You. I love You.

Soon, yes, Jesus? Soon I will see You?

6

Tacy

Rawlins showed me around the attic where an art studio had been built. A surprise wedding present, the event only a week away, Rawlins assured me I wouldn’t have to hold down a job. “You can paint and write and do all the things that you love, Anastasia, all day long, while I’m at work,” he told me as we sat in the middle of the glossy pine flooring of the studio, a blanket beneath us, picnic basket to the side. I wanted to believe him. Not about the not-working part, but about the creative part, Because, it didn’t jibe. Whenever I started talking about what I was painting or writing, he just nodded and then changed the subject as soon as I finished.

But when I had met his parents the summer before, he acted so proud. “She’s an artist, Mother.” And he lied about my age, or rather, he didn’t fess up to it. “So you’re in art school?” Mrs. McGovern asked.

“Yes,” I replied, not telling her it was Mr. Jay’s Art Institute down in Lutherville.

“When do you graduate, dear?”

“In June,” Rawlins rushed to say, and it was true, I was set to graduate in June. From high school. I didn’t dare ask him about that afterward.

The smell of decaying leaves ekes its way into my consciousness, and I tumble along as though I’m on a ride down on the pier at Ocean City. All those times I relished in the love of my Savior come back to me in that earthy smell, and I feel so happy and bright. I feel Him descend like a lover, and I roll around in the softness of His love even at this moment. Yes, Lord, I’m Yours and You are mine, and I love You. I feel Him with me, this God who loves me so, and I thrill despite the circumstances surrounding His visit. I did not ask for this, but He comes nonetheless.

I trust He’s with Hannah Grace now too.

Lillie

“Yes, I gave him the business card, Gilbert!”

For someone holed up in an emergency room only two days before, Cristoff seems awfully perky.

“I wish he hadn’t left before I got done with the doctor. ‘Touch your nose with your left index finger. Good. Now touch your nose with the right index finger.’” He mimics doctors beautifully. Just the right touch of concern mingled with that feline aloofness ninety-eight percent of them seem to possess.

“Look, the guys British. I don’t think they go in for extreme weddings.”

“Well, let’s face it, sweetie, we can plan
un
extreme weddings as well. In fact, they would be a piece of cake,”

Too true.

“I did what I could. He said his brother would be getting married next spring; I handed him my card. Anything more would have been pushy, Gilbert. We need to have a bit of class here.” That’ll get him.

Since we almost always work on Saturday, the office is closed on Monday. I’d already kept my Monday morning appointment at the shooting range and had climbed a wall or two down at the athletic club. I always feel like a fat spider doing that, but oh well.

Cristoff and I lounge together on webbed lawn chairs in my backyard. Right beside Grandma Erzsèbet’s Nightmare. She’d be proud of me, the way I handle seizures. I’m a little proud myself.

My tiny back lot, fenced in by chain link, affords me the breathtaking view of the cement alley that flows behind the house and all my neighbors’ fenced-in lots, not to mention their sheds, their children’s Big Wheels, and their clotheslines.

No Rexy Van Bibbers here on Foster Avenue. I always wondered if Rexy Van Bibber wore gray underthings, too. She’s dead now though. And Mom regretted what she said when the lonely woman lived. So bad, in fact, as Daddy had conducted the service at Saint Stephen’s, she invited the entire funeral party, which consisted of one aunt and Rexy’s son, Earl, to our house after the graveside service. We ate from that deli tray for the next week. Turkey first, then the roast beef, then the ham, then the salami. Katherina Bajnok Bauer would rather slit her own throat than serve iffy food at her sparkling table.

Cristoff shifts in the chair, turning his face away from the sun. “What did you say the guys name was?”

“Gordon Remington.”

“And you say he looked familiar to you?”

“Yes, honey!”

“And you can’t get a handle on it?”

“No. I don’t know any British men. Or mildly British in this case. I don’t know why he would seem so familiar.”

“If you had a cell phone and had the number printed on the business card, it sure would help.” His voice contains that tart quality it gets when he’s irritated yet holding back.

“Gilbert. Gilbert. Gilbert. Gilbert.”

“Stop it, Lillie.”

“Gilbert Lee Cristoff.”

“You’re acting silly.”

“Changing your three names to one is silly, honey.
Cristoff.
Like Iman or Sting. But without the fame. That’s what’s silly.”

Cristoff turns up the portable radio. “If you can’t beat ’em, drown ’em out.”

The station 100.7, Rock Without the Hard Edge, blasts out “Bohemian Rhapsody,” with its steady harmonies, the classical influences, the silhouetto of a man, Scaramouch, Scaramouch, can you do the fandango? “I love Queen,” I say, because, well, how can you
not?

“Me too.” Still tart. “But then that would be expected, right?”

“Oh, shut up, Gilbert.”

The portable phone beside me chirrups. I pick it up and who should it be but Leslie Ferris. Mr. Dutch Treat himself!

“Hi, Lillie.”

“Hi, Les.”

“How did that New Age wedding go?”

“Pretty good.”

“…”

“How was church?” I ask.

“Good. Joe talked about God’s best.”

“Wish I had heard it.”

“…”

“…”

Finally, he clears his throat. “About the other night…”

“…”

He’ll have to work for this one. And with my experience, I know whatever comes next could go either way.

“Yeah, well, I’ve been thinking about it, and I don’t think we’re meant to go out again, Lillie.”

So it’s going
that
way. But I’m going to have a little fun, and why not? Wussy guys like him deserve no less, the pansies.

“What do you mean, Les?”

“I really don’t think it’s God’s will.”

“Does this have anything to do with the sermon yesterday?”

“Maybe a little.”

“You really like that Joe guy, don’t you?”

“He’s a good man.”

“And he’s never steered you wrong yet, has he?”

“Not really. I’m sorry, but I thought I should at least call and let you know I wouldn’t be calling again.”

He could’ve saved himself the trouble. But he must protect that weird, Christian male ego, the “I’ve got to be in total control of this situation” tradition handed down by men for ages, men definitely
not
like Daddy. Or I bet even Saint Paul. I’ve had this conversation before, let me tell you.

“Well, that was nice of you. But it’s funny—God didn’t say anything to me about you one way or the other.”

Cristoff mouths, “You’re evil, Lillie!” and I bat the words out of the air.

“Oh,” Leslie says. “I’m sorry. I guess I better go then.”

“Okay. Thanks for the dinner. Oh, wait! I paid for my own, didn’t I? And half of your dessert and coffee.”

Now that was uncalled for. Not to mention immature and without class. You know, I have no idea what possesses me at times like this. I don’t know why I enjoy making these conversations so difficult for the guy on the other end.

Wait. Yes, I do.

“See you at singles group, Les.”

“Uh…yeah, okay.”

“Bye.”

And I hang up.

Cristoff stares at me. “You know that wasn’t right, girlfriend.”

I look down at the phone.

“He won’t ask another girl out for months.” His tone graduates to sweet-tart.

“I know. I’m giving some poor unsuspecting thing some lead time.”

Cristoff plops his feet down on either side of his lounge chair. “Want some iced tea? Heavily sweetened.”

“Okay.”

He returns a few minutes later and hands me a glass with a lemon slice perfectly positioned on the lip. The September sun shines through the amber liquid, illuminating the lemon like a piece of edible stained glass. Cristoff improves everything he touches.

“You know, sweetie, nobody’s going to measure up to Teddy,” he says, back to his sweet self.

“Someone will.”

“No, he won’t, Lillie. Not if you continue to worship Teddy’s memory.”

“How can you say that? I’ve been back on the dating trail for years now. It’s not like I’m not trying.”

“You may think you’re trying, but you’re not. Not really”

“Teddy, was just so…so nice, Gilbert. Wasn’t he? And you and me, we had so much going against us. Your, well,
you
know. My weight, my acne. Being a minister’s kid.”

“Weren’t those teenage years awful?”

“Yeah. Let’s talk about something else.”

He nodded. “But you’re not a pizza-face anymore, Lillie.”

“Yes, I am, Cristoff. I just found good makeup.” Thank you, Tace.

“Well, maybe one day you’ll give some guy a chance. I mean a real, sporting chance.”

“What about the architect?”

“Did you really want to end up with him?”

“I guess not.

He sips his tea. “I just hope that when the right one comes along, you won’t blow it.”

I do too. Boy, do I. But I probably will blow it. “I just don’t understand men.”

“Yes, you do. You just don’t give yourself enough credit. Well, actually, Lillie, you give men too much credit. We’re very simple creatures.”

“And anyway, I’m happy with the way things are, really. Here we are, you and me, honey, sitting by Grandma Erzsèbet’s Nightmare, sipping sweet tea and getting a suntan.”

“I’m burning.”

“Whatever. You know what I mean.”

Cristoff sits forward and grabs my hand. “You deserve more than this, Lillie. I’m fine for you now. And you’ll always be even more than I need for the path I’ve chosen. But someday this will all wear a little thin. You’ll want to be a mother, sweetie. And you’ll be a great one.”

He’s right. I want to tell him how scared I really am. How much I long to get married. Have a nice husband and a couple of babies. But some things you can’t even tell your best friend because they’re so enormous, no word in the language is big enough or deep enough, no word groans at the right pitch, the right volume. And the volume changes every other day.

“I love you, honey,” is all I can say.

“I love you too, sweetie-girl.”

One of my favorite songs bursts its rhetoric from the radio. “God on the Rocks” by Great Guns. Being a preachers kid, I don’t relate to the words at all. But the tune haunts, the guitars amaze, and the drums… well, Daddy likes this song too. No doubt. “I love this song.”

“You do?” Cristoff bites into his lemon, wincing. “How can you? This guy was even worse than that Jethro Tull fellow.”

“Jethro Tull was the name of the group, honey. There’s no
guy
named Jethro Tull!”

“Still, SNAP was no better.”

“Well, he converted eventually, although I haven’t bought any of his new stuff.”

We listen to the existential musings of a British rock star. “So tip your cup, drink your fill, and toast with God on the rocks. It’ll soothe what ails, at least for today, drink hearty my friend…tomorrow’s always a day away.”

“You’ve got to admit, Cristoff, it’s a pretty song.”

“I don’t have to admit any such thing.”

“And my father taught me about existentialism in that song. Which isn’t always bad. There
were
Christian existentialists, you know.” Why am I discussing this stuff with black-and-white, now-you-see-it-now-you-don’t Gilbert Lee Cristoff?

“The guy helped lead almost an entire generation astray.”

“Didn’t you know? It was the Beatles who did that.”

Har.

As I said, Cristoff is down on Erdman Avenue with the ladies, praising the Lord, studying the Bible, and praying, praying, praying. He sees life as bifurcated by a long fence. On one side is right and on the other is wrong, and, girlfriend, that’s just the way it is. Snap snap.

I wish sometimes I were more like him.

The announcer booms in his bass voice, “That was the 1975 Grammy winner for best song, written by SNAP, oldest of the Remington brothers, and the leader of the now defunct band Great Guns.”

“See? SNAP One name. It’s just goofy, honey.”

Cristoff narrows his eyes. “What did you say Gordon’s last name was?”

“Remington.”

“Didn’t you say his brother was named Stan?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Isn’t that SNAP’s real name?”

SNAP.
Great Guns.
Great Guns?

No way.

“You think that’s really them?”

“Don’t you have the last album the band did?”

I fly off the chair and into my living room. Quickly I flip through my CDs. There it is.
Hell Night Music: Great Guns Greatest
, originally released in 1988, the year I realized I wanted to own my faith, lock, stock, and barrel, and due to Great Guns in a way. Pun intended. But I’m no Christian existentialist, that’s for sure.

Ripping open the jewel case, I tear out the booklet, open it up, and there he stands at an easel, Gordon Remington, baby brother of the group, the nonmusical one who designed their famous album covers and went on to become an esteemed artist…in what school of art? I sure don’t know. Tacy would. But there he paints, a whole lot leaner, younger, and with longer hair, but unmistakably the guy I’d met in the ER. Blues eyes like that don’t change no matter what the mileage.