The Power of Love (13 page)

13

“I think its blooming days are over,” Beth said, eyeing the dead poppy that Ivy had placed in the water glass on the table between them.

When Lillian and Betty opened the shop Thursday morning, they had found the purple flower in King Kong’s mouth, poking out like a rose between a dancer’s teeth. Later that day Ivy had repeatedly denied being the joker who had placed it there.

“Why are we trying to revive it?” Beth asked. She swirled her tongue around her ice cream cone. “Can’t we buy King Kong another one?”

“They were selling poppies at the festival Saturday,” Ivy replied. “I bought some purple ones for Tristan. Philip and I took them to the cemetery.”

“I’m glad Philip went with you,” Beth said. “He misses Tristan, too.”

“He made a
T
with them on the grave,” Ivy told her, smiling a little.

Beth nodded, as if it were perfectly clear now why Ivy would bother with a wilted poppy left in the shop.

“I’m going crazy, aren’t I?” Ivy said suddenly. “I’m supposed to be getting better! I’m supposed to be getting over Tristan! And here I am, saving this stupid flower like a souvenir because it looks like one that I—”

She plucked the poppy out of the glass and tossed it on a tray of dirty dishes that a waitress was carrying by.

Beth slipped out of the booth, chased down the waitress, and returned with the poppy.

“Maybe it will seed,” she said, sticking it back in the water glass.

Ivy shook her head and sipped her tea in silence. Beth munched her cone for a few minutes.

“You know,” Beth said at last, “I’m always prepared to listen.”

Ivy nodded. “I’m sorry, Beth. I call you in a panic at nine o’clock at night, drag you away from your writing to get a snack with the over-fifty-but-still-swinging bowling league at Howard Johnson’s”—she glanced around the crowded green and orange room—“and now I can’t seem to talk.”

“That’s okay,” Beth said, waving her cone at Ivy. “I’m having a triple dip of double fudge—for that, you could have called me at three in the morning. But how’d you know I was writing?”

Ivy smiled. Beth had met her in the parking lot wearing cutoff sweatpants, no makeup, and an old pair of glasses, which she wore only when she was glued to a computer screen. A scribbled note on a yellow Post-it was still stuck to her T-shirt, and her hair was pulled back in a binder clip.

“Just a hunch,” Ivy said. “What’s Suzanne up to tonight?”

Ivy and Suzanne had not spoken since the festival.

“She’s out with somebody.”

“Gregory?” Ivy asked, frowning. He had promised to stay with Philip till she got home that night.

“No, some guy who’s supposed to make Gregory unbelievably jealous.”

“Oh.”

“She didn’t tell you?” Beth asked with surprise. “That’s all Suzanne could talk about.” Seeing the look on Ivy’s face, she added quickly, “I’m sure Suzanne thought she did. You know how it is—you say something to one person, and you think you’ve said it to the other.”

Ivy nodded, but both of them knew that wasn’t the case.

“Gregory hasn’t spent much time with Suzanne lately,” Beth said, pausing to chase drips of chocolate around her cone, “but you know that.”

Ivy shrugged. “He goes out, but I don’t ask him where.”

“Well, Suzanne is sure he’s seeing someone else.”

Ivy began to trace the pictures on her place mat.

“At first Suzanne thought he was just playing around. She wasn’t worried because it wasn’t anyone special. But now she thinks he’s seeing just one person. She thinks he’s really hooked on somebody.”

Ivy glanced up and saw Beth studying her. Can Beth actually read minds, she wondered, or is it my face that always gives me away?

“Suzanne keeps asking me what I think is going on,” Beth continued, her brow slightly puckered.

“And what did you tell her?” Ivy asked.

Beth blinked several times, then looked away. She watched a silver-haired waitress flirt with two bald men in burgundy satin bowling shirts.

“I’m not a good person to ask,” she said at last. “You know me, Ivy, I’m always watching people and adding stuff to what I see to make stories out of them. Sometimes I forget what part I’ve made up and what part is really true.”

“What do you think is really true about Gregory?” Ivy persisted.

Beth waved her cone around. “I think he gets around. I think that, uh, lots of different girls like him. But I can’t guess who he’s really interested in and what he’s actually thinking. I just can’t read him very well.”

Beth took a crunching bite out of her cone and chewed thoughtfully. “Gregory’s like a mirror,” she said. “He reflects whoever he’s with. When he’s with Eric, he seems to act like Eric. When he’s with you, he’s thoughtful and funny like you. The problem for me is that I can’t ever really see who Gregory is, any more than I can see what a mirror by itself looks like, because he reflects whoever’s around him. Know what I mean?”

“I think I do.”

“What should I say, Ivy?” Beth asked, the tone of her voice changing. She was pleading for an answer. “You’re both my friends. When Suzanne asks me what’s going on, what should I say?”

“I don’t know.” Ivy started examining her place mat again, reading all the descriptions of Hojo’s desserts. “I’ll tell you when I do know, okay? So, how’s your writing going?”

“My writing?” Beth repeated, struggling to shift gears with Ivy. “Well, I’ve got good news.”

“Yeah? Tell me.”

“I’m going to be published. I mean, in a real magazine.” Beth’s blue eyes sparkled.
“True-Heart Confessions.”

“Beth, that’s great! Which story?”

“The one I did for drama club. You know, it was in the lit mag at school last spring.”

Ivy tried to recall it. “I’ve read so many now.”

“‘She clutched the gun to her breast,’” Beth began. “‘Hard and blue, cold and unyielding. Photos of him. Frail and faded photos of him—of him with
her—
torn up, tear-soaked, salt-crusted photos,’ et cetera, et cetera.”

Two waitresses, carrying full trays, had stopped to listen.

“What is it?” Beth asked Ivy. “You’ve got a really funny look on your face.”

“Nothing … nothing, I was just thinking,” Ivy replied.

“You’ve been doing a lot of that lately.”

Ivy laughed. “Maybe I can keep it up next month when school starts.”

Their check was dropped on the table. Ivy reached for her purse.

“Listen,” Beth said, “why don’t you sleep over at my house tonight? We don’t have to talk. We’ll watch videos, polish our nails, bake cookies …” She popped the tip of her sugar cone into her mouth. “Low-cal cookies,” she added.

Ivy smiled, then began digging in her purse for money. “I should get home, Beth.”

“No, you shouldn’t.”

Ivy stopped digging. Beth had spoken with such certainty.

“I don’t know why,” Beth said, twisting a piece of her hair self-consciously. “You just shouldn’t.”

“I have to be home,” Ivy told her. “If Philip wakes up in the middle of the night and finds I’m not there, he’ll think something’s wrong.”

“Call him,” her friend replied. “If he’s asleep, Gregory can leave a note by his bed. You shouldn’t go home tonight. It’s … a feeling, a really strong feeling I have.”

“Beth, I know you get these feelings, and one time before you were right, but this time it’s different. The doors will be locked. Gregory is home. Nothing is going to happen to me.”

Beth was looking past Ivy’s shoulder, her eyes narrowing as if she was trying to focus on something.

Ivy turned around quickly and saw a curly-haired man in a shiny yellow bowling shirt. He winked at her, and Ivy turned back.

“Can I stay over with you?” Beth asked.

“What? No. Not tonight,” Ivy said. “I need some sleep, and you need to finish that story I interrupted. This was my treat,” she added, scooping up the check.

In the parking lot Ivy said good-bye several times, and Beth left her reluctantly.

As Ivy drove home she thought about Beth’s story. The details of Caroline’s suicide had not been made public, so Beth didn’t know about the photos that Caroline had torn up the day she shot herself. It was funny the way Beth came up with things in her writing that seemed farfetched and kind of melodramatic, until some version of them came true.

When Ivy arrived home, she saw that all the lights in the house were out except one, a lamp in Gregory’s room. She hoped he hadn’t noticed her car coming up the drive. She left it outside the garage. That way, if he got worried, he could see that she had arrived home safely. Ivy planned to go up the center stairs so she wouldn’t have to pass his room. In the afternoon Gregory had called the shop twice. She knew he wanted to talk, and she wasn’t ready.

It was a warm evening, with no moon up yet, only stars sequining the sky. Ivy gazed up at them for a few moments, then walked quietly across the grass and patio.

“Where have you been?”

She jumped. She hadn’t seen him sitting in the shadow of the house.

“What?”

“Where have you been?”

Ivy prickled at his tone. “Out,” she said.

“You should have called me back. Why didn’t you call me back, Ivy?”

“I was busy with customers.”

“I thought you’d come home right after work.”

Ivy dropped her keys noisily onto a cast-iron table. “And I thought I wouldn’t be questioned about going out for an hour—not by you. I’m getting tired of it, Gregory!”

She could hear him shifting in the chair, but couldn’t see his face.

“I’m getting tired of everyone watching out for me! Beth isn’t my mother, and
you’re
not my big brother!”

He laughed softly. “I’m glad to hear you say that. I was afraid that Eric had gotten you mixed up.”

Ivy dropped her head a little, then said, “Maybe he did.” She took a step toward the house.

Gregory caught her wrist. “We need to talk.”

“I need to think, Gregory.”

“Then think out loud,” he said.

She shook her head.

“Ivy, listen to me. We’re not doing anything wrong.”

“Then why do I feel so—so confused? And so disloyal?”

“To Suzanne?” he asked.

“Suzanne thinks you’re seeing someone else,” Ivy told him.

“I am,” he replied quietly. “I’m just not sure if she’s seeing me…. Are you?”

Ivy bit her lip. “It isn’t just Suzanne I’m thinking of.”

“Tristan.”

She nodded.

He tugged on her arm, pulling her closer to him. “Sit down.”

“Gregory, I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Then just listen. Hear me out. You love Tristan. You love him like you love no one else.”

Ivy pulled away a little, but he held her fingers tightly. “Listen! If you had been the one killed in the accident, what would you have wanted for Tristan? Would you want no one else to love him? Would you want him to be alone the rest of his life?”

“No, of course not,” she said.

“Of course not,” he repeated softly.

Then he pulled her down into the chair with him. The metal was cold and hard.

“I’ve been thinking about you all day and all night,” he said.

He caressed her lightly, his fingers tracing her face and the bones of her neck. He kissed her as gently as he would a child. She let him, but she didn’t kiss him back.

“I’ve been waiting here all night,” he said. “I need to get out. How about going for a ride with me?”

“We can’t leave Philip,” Ivy reminded him.

“Sure we can,” Gregory replied softly. “He’s sound asleep. We’ll lock up the house and turn on the outside alarm. We can drive around for a little while. And I won’t talk any more, promise.”

“We can’t leave Philip,” she said a second time.

“He’ll be all right. There’s nothing wrong with riding around, Ivy. There’s nothing wrong with blasting the stereo and driving a little fast. There’s nothing wrong with having a good time.”

“I don’t want to go,” she said.

She felt his body go rigid.

“Not tonight,” she added quickly. “I’m tired, Gregory. I really need to go to bed. Another night, maybe.”

“All right. Whatever you want,” he said, his voice husky. He sagged back against the chair. “Get some sleep.”

Ivy left him there and felt her way through the dark house. She checked on Philip, then walked through the adjoining bath to her own bedroom, where she was greeted by Ella’s glowing eyes. Ivy switched on a small bureau lamp, and Ella began to purr.

“Is that purr for me,” Ivy asked, “or him?”

Tristan’s picture, the one his mother had given her, sat within the yellow circle of light.

Ivy took the picture in her hands. Tristan smiled up at her, wearing his old baseball cap—backward, of course. His school jacket flapped open, as if he were walking toward her. Sometimes she still couldn’t believe that he was dead. Her head knew that he was, knew that in one sudden moment Tristan had stopped existing, but her heart just wouldn’t let go.

“Love you, Tristan,” she said, then kissed the photograph. “Sweet dreams.”

Ivy woke up screaming. Her voice was hoarse, as if she had been screaming for hours. The clock said 1:15
A.M.

“It’s okay! You’re safe! Everything’s okay, Ivy.”