The Rules of Love & Grammar (20 page)

“Excuse me.” I move closer, eyeing the space between them.

“Sean Leeds, I love you!” the exercise woman screams. She holds the bottle high, like the Statue of Liberty with her torch, and sprays a thick mist of perfume, most of which falls on me. I can taste it, acrid, metallic. My stomach churns.

“Do you mind?” I nod toward the bottle while I try to rub the perfume off my arms.

The exercise woman looks at me, her eyes like pebbles. “I'm not bothering you.”

“On the contrary,” I say. “You just sprayed me with that atomizer.” I point to the bottle.

“Oh, I'm sorry. You don't like jasmine?” She and her friend laugh, and then she lowers the bottle, and, with a long
spritzzzz!
she sprays me right in the chest.

“Hey!” I try to step back, but the crowd is so dense, there's nowhere to go. “What's wrong with you?”

“What's wrong with
you?
” she says, unleashing another cloud of perfume in my hair.

“Give me that!” I try to scream, but there's perfume in my throat, and the words come out like a croak. I lunge for the bottle. I've got the top and she's got the bottom, and I'm pulling as hard as I can. Someone behind us yells,
Catfight!
and the next thing I know, the atomizer comes off right in my hand, releasing a gush of yellow perfume all down the front of my blouse.

I shriek, and the crowd backs away while the two women stand there and laugh. “You don't know Sean Leeds,” the exercise woman says. “You're probably not even a fan!”

“Of course I know him. I danced with him at a party—something you'll never do. You and your aerobics getup and your perfume and your…” I'm trying to think of a good insult. I finally scream, “Your porcine thighs!”

“What?” she yells. Her face is brick red, splotched with little bullets of crimson.

“Porcine,” I say, pointing to her lower half. “It means
fat.
You have fat thighs.”

“I work out!” she yells after me, as I turn and flee into the crowd. “I do yoga! These are muscled thighs—they're not fat!”

I'm drenched, reeking of jasmine, and stinging from humiliation. I break free of the mob and don't stop running until I reach the end of the block.

“Mommy, what's that smell?” a little girl asks as I stop to cross Mason Street.

“That lady's wearing way too much perfume,” her mother says. “Some people just don't know when to quit.”

“They sprayed me,” I say, looking down at my stained clothes. “It's not my fault.” The mother grabs her daughter's hand and pulls her close, as though I could be a criminal—maybe some kind of perfume addict.

I move along, an outcast in my own town. How is it that Regan got in and I didn't? What's so special about her? Could Peter be dating her? And why did that crazy woman douse me with perfume? Sean ought to know how dangerous his fans are. There must be someone at his fan club I can call to report this.

As the Bike Peddler comes into view, I panic. There's no way I'm going in through the front door looking like this. I run around to the parking lot and to the back door, thinking I can sneak into the workroom, grab my handbag, and make a quick getaway. On the way home, I'll call the shop and say I'm sick. A sore throat. No, malaria.

I put my hand on the knob and try to turn it, but the door is locked. Why is the door locked now? It was unlocked before. I give a quiet knock, hoping Kevin will hear it from the workroom. Then I count to ten. Nothing. I knock again, a little louder. Still nothing. I wonder if I could open the door by sliding a credit card between the door and the jamb, the way detectives do in the movies. Or maybe it's spies who do that. Then I remember I don't have a credit card because my handbag is inside. I consider trying to force open a window, but there aren't any windows in the back. I knock again a couple of times before finally giving up. I let out a moan and lean against the building, the warm bricks and my own humiliation burning through me.

That's when the door opens. “Hello?”

The person who pops his head out isn't Kevin, however. It's Mitch. He looks around, sees me, and steps back. “What the…?”

I take a deep breath. “I was attacked.” I brush by him and head inside.

“Attacked?” He follows me.

“Yes.” I dash into the workroom to get my handbag. “By a woman with porcine thighs.”

“A what?”

“Porcine thighs.”

“A lady with fat thighs came after you?”

“Exactly,” I say as I look on the shelf under the workbench. I don't see my handbag. I could have sworn I left it there. “I need to go,” I say. “I need to leave.”

“Wait a minute,” Mitch says. “Just calm down. Where did this happen?” His brown eyes soften with concern.

“Right down the street.” I don't want to relive the whole thing. I just want to find my keys and get out of here. I scan the room. No handbag. No keys.

“Here in town?” he says.

“Yes, outside the Sugar Bowl.”

He looks startled. “Well, my God, you've got to call the police. Or I'll call them. But we have to report it. You can't have someone attack you like that and get away with it. Are you hurt?” He puts a warm hand on my arm.

“No, no. I'm not hurt. And I don't think it's a matter for the police. Really.” I can't have him call the police. The episode would end up in tomorrow's paper.
POET'S DAUGHTER ENTANGLED IN PERFUME BRAWL.
I can just see it. “No, let's not call them. It's not that big a deal. It was just some crazy Sean Leeds fan.”

“A fan of Sean Leeds.” He tilts his head and sniffs the air. “What's that smell? Perfume?”

“Yes. It's jasmine.”

“You bought perfume while you were out, too?”

“No, she attacked me with it!”

“Who?”

“Porcine Thighs. She came after me with her perfume.”

A smile dances across his face. “She attacked you with her perfume?”

I can't believe he thinks this is funny. “This is not amusing. The woman
sprayed
me. She held the bottle in the air.” I hold up my hand. “And drenched me. On purpose. An unprovoked attack. It's assault and battery.”

Mitch's lips are pressed together as though he's trying not to laugh. “A perfume attack.”

“I could have been seriously hurt. The lady was in shape, and she was huge.”

He grins. “I know, you told me. Porcine thighs.”

I stare at the highest shelves in the room to see if my handbag might have magically floated up there, but there's only a fire extinguisher. “She was a lunatic. I'm lucky to be alive.”

“Absolutely,” he says. “I don't know how you survived. I think you were very brave.”

“Look, I just want to get out of here. It's been a long day.”

He looks at his watch. “What do you mean? It's only two fifteen.”

“Metaphorically speaking.”

“Metaphorically speaking?”

“Yes. It feels a lot later than two fifteen to me. I've just had a very traumatic experience.” I stare at the worktable, trying to remember what I did with my handbag. “I need to go home now. Unless you want your whole store to smell like this.”

Mitch sniffs the air again. “Actually, it's not that bad.”

“Stop! This isn't funny. You're not the one soaked in jasmine. You don't understand how awful it was.”

His expression becomes more serious. “Grace, I'm sorry,” he says. “It's just that when you tell me you got attacked with perfume by some crazy fan of Sean Leeds, it sounds like something right out of a movie itself.”

“Just let your dad know I'll be back tomorrow,” I say.

“I'll let him know.”

I turn around, scanning the room once more. How can my handbag have disappeared? “Oh God, where the hell is it? Why can't I find that thing?”

“What are you looking for?” Mitch asks.

“My handbag. I thought I put it on the shelf under the workbench, but it's not there.”

“Your handbag. Why didn't you say so? I stuck it in the top drawer of that file cabinet.” He points to a tall, gray cabinet, its drawers covered by half-removed stickers with names like Bontrager, Huffy, and Razor on them. “I put it there so it wouldn't get dirty.”

“Oh, for God's sake.” I don't know whether to thank him for doing something nice or scream at him for making me search for it. I open the drawer, pull out my handbag, and grab my keys. “I'm out of here,” I say as I head for the back door.

Outside, the sky is a sheet of blue. Three teenage girls walk by, dressed in denim short-shorts, cans of soda in their hands. I take a few steps toward the parking lot, and then I hear a door open behind me.

“Grace. Hey, Grace.”

I turn.

Mitch is standing in the doorway. “Just wanted to say, jasmine is one of my favorite scents. I hope you'll wear it again sometime.”

I can't believe this. Nothing like being kicked when you're down. I raise my key and point it at him. “I swear, Mitch, if you say one more word, I'll…” But I don't know what I'll do, so I just turn and walk to the car and drive away.

T
he shower is hot. Very hot. I stand there, letting the water run over my head and down my body for a full minute before picking up the bar of organic soap Mom special orders from some place in Oregon. The smell of jasmine is an irritant, continuously released as the water soaks my hair and trickles down my skin. It's a scent I'll never want to wear. I place the tan bar of soap under my nose. It doesn't smell like anything, which is fine by me. In fact, it's perfect.

After I've scrubbed off the jasmine, I lie on my bed for an hour and a half reading
You and Your Bike,
flipping through diagrams, learning about maintenance and tools and repairing common mechanical problems. That's one thing about bikes—if you maintain them they won't let you down. Unlike men. At least, unlike the kind who cheat on you for two weeks before letting you know they've moved on.

Later, I head downstairs. I find my father in the library. He's dressed in a pair of gray slacks and his favorite blue sweater, with the right arm unraveling at the wrist. He's sitting where he always sits—in the brown leather chair that's worn smooth in spots and covered with faint cracks in others. On the coffee table in front of him is the jigsaw puzzle of Venice's Grand Canal.

He calls to me. “Come on in, Gracie. Come join me.”

“All right,” I tell him.

The threads of the Persian rug are soft under my bare feet as I cross the room. The evening light is silky and faded against the caramel walls. Birds that haven't settled down for the night are calling, their quiet chatter drifting in with the cool air through the open windows. The muted sound of a foghorn blows in the distance.

I look around, and I can't help but replay last night: Peter in this room, marveling over Mom's puzzle pieces. And then in the family room, coaxing the Steinway's voice back to life, telling me all the things he remembered from the dance, kissing me, inviting me to the set. And today I find that I'm
not on the list.
How could he let that happen? Was it all just a lot of Hollywood schmoozing? Maybe Mitch is right. Maybe Peter is a phony, and maybe I'm a fool to believe he'd really be interested in me.

A book of plays by Eugene O'Neill is on the love seat. I move it to the table and sink into the cushions, pulling my legs up onto the sofa.

“Why the long face?” Dad asks.

“Just tired,” I say as I study the walnut bookcases that bracket the fireplace. I locate the shelf where his poetry collections reside. All seven volumes are there, including my favorite,
Crossing Rivers
,
which was published when Renny and I were young, when Dad's voice as a poet seemed a bit less solemn than it became in later years. “I've had an exhausting day.”

“Something I can do to help?” he asks.

His hair looks whiter today, and the little creases around his mouth appear just the tiniest bit deeper than they did the last time I noticed them. I remember the party Mom gave him when he turned fifty-five. It seems like it was yesterday, and it's hard to believe that ten years have passed since then.

“No. I'm fine,” I tell him. “Thanks.”

He sits back to view the jigsaw puzzle the way a painter might stand back to evaluate the progress of a painting. “Do you think I've taken on too much with this one?”

I gaze at the puzzle. The borders are complete now, and I can see how big the finished picture will be—about two feet by three. The top of the puzzle box, with its colorful photo, rests against a glass containing half-melted ice cubes—the remains of a gin and tonic. Two Thousand Pieces, the label reads.

“I'm sure you can do it,” I say. “You always manage to conquer these things.”

He sighs and nudges a yellow piece into position. “I think I could use a little help.” He gives me a pretend grimace as the sounds of Mom making dinner in the kitchen drift toward us in a language of their own—the clanking of pots and pans, the pale whir of the electric can opener, the running of water. I smell garlic and onions, but I'm not hungry.

There's an assortment of blue pieces in front of me—the ones he's culled from the general population of two thousand. I pick through them, settling on a piece that looks as though it's part of the water. I search for a place where it might fit. Finally, I cast it aside in frustration. “Forget it.”

My father's eyes dart from me, to the picture on the box, to the skeletal outline of the puzzle on the table. He chuckles softly as he picks up another piece. “You never did like doing these. I remember, when you were a child, you always wanted the puzzle to be finished. You didn't have the patience.”

“I just wanted to see the picture all put together.”

“Exactly,” Dad says, his hand hovering over the puzzle, like a divining rod searching for water. “You always wanted to keep moving, finish one thing, get on to the next. No lingering.”

“I'm still that way. That's why I can't do these.”

He presses the piece into place, raises his eyeglasses, and gives me a probing glance. “You really do look exhausted, Grace.”

I am exhausted. I'm exhausted just thinking about how that awful woman sprayed me, how I never got to see Peter, and how Regan showed up in her skinny jeans. “I just need a good night's sleep.”

“Your mother told me you were working at the bicycle shop today. Looks like they wore you out.”

“No, that was okay.” I'm not about to tell him what happened. He would definitely want to call the police. And probably dash off some silly poem about the unfairness of it all and send it to the editor of the
Dorset Review.
I can just imagine it.

Dad shuffles through more puzzle pieces, finally picking up a green one. “I still don't understand why you would want to work in a bike shop.” He has this habit of recalling what he wants to recall and forgetting the rest.

“Remember I told you we're doing a trade? I'm helping them organize things, and they're fixing Renny's old Schwinn. Restoring it.”

He looks up. “Are you really planning to take that bike back to New York? Can you ride it there? Isn't that kind of dangerous?”

“Sure, I can ride it there,” I say. “I'll ride it in Central Park.”

“And you want to expend all that effort on this bike because…”

“I don't know. I guess maybe it's a metaphor.”

“Ah,” he says, leaning back in his chair and putting his arms behind his head.

“For the good times Renny and I had together before everything started to change. Before she started to change.”

“As long as it's just a metaphor, Grace. It won't bring her back, you know.”

I don't say anything.

“Couldn't you just pay them to fix the bike?”

“Not now, when I'm out of work. It's expensive.”

“Your mother and I would help you out, you know. If you needed anything.”

“Thanks. I know. But this trade arrangement is fine. Really.”

He rises from the sofa. “Hmm. Yes, well, I had an idea I wanted to discuss with you.” He empties the melted remains of his drink into the copper sink. The ice cubes rattle and clank. Then he screws off the top of a bottle of Tanqueray, an action I've seen him perform countless times, especially after Renny died, and he restocks the glass with ice. He measures the gin in a silver jigger, pours it into the glass, and adds tonic water. Bubbles erupt and fizz over the top; it's like a chemistry experiment gone awry. “Do you want a drink, Grace?”

“No, thanks.”

He drops a slice of lime into the glass. “I know some people who might be able to help you get a real job.”

For a second, I don't say anything. I thought we already had this conversation a few days ago. Is that why he lured me in here—to go on, again, about my career? “Dad, I know you know some people,” I say, my neck stiffening. “But you're talking about poets and novelists and people like that.”

He takes a long sip of his gin and tonic, walks back to the chair, and sits down. “Really, Grace, you make it sound as though I'm hanging around with ax murderers.”

“No, it's just that I'm not talented enough to work with people like that.”

“That's not true. You've got all the talent in the world. And these are good people. I know they'd be happy to help you if they can. I'd like to get you out of the bike shop.” He sits down. “And the proofreading.”

“It wasn't proofreading,” I remind him again. “And the bike shop is only for a couple of weeks.”

“Just hear me out. I actually have a lead for you on something.” He leans forward, his stomach protruding slightly under the sweater. “Did you ever meet Paul Duffner?”

Paul Duffner. The name doesn't sound familiar. “I don't think so.”

“He's a colleague of mine at the university. In the English Department. He's working on a fantastic book, all about the Dutch poet and playwright Joost van den Vondel. Seventeenth century. The Shakespeare of Holland. In fact, Shakespeare may owe a debt to Vondel, if you ask me. And certainly, if you ask Duff. Milton may have even drawn some inspiration for
Paradise Lost
from Vondel's
Lucifer.
I'll bet you didn't know that when you read
Paradise Lost,
did you?”

Should I tell him I've never actually read
Paradise Lost
? Maybe not.

“Well, it's an exciting project, and Duff could really use a research assistant to help him with—”

“Dad, please.” I hold up my hand. “I don't think this is for me.” I can't imagine doing research on a seventeenth-century Dutch
anything.
Maybe I do need a drink. I get up and walk to the bar, where I pour myself a glass of sauvignon blanc. I take a long sip and then top it off. The idea that I'm not interested in a job like this probably makes me a big—or, rather, bigger—disappointment to him.

“I'm sorry,” I tell him. “But it's just not the right thing for me. And I couldn't do it even if it were. I'm not staying here.” I gesture at the room but intend to indicate more than the house. “As soon as my apartment is fixed, I'm leaving. I need to get back to New York and start looking for a job there. Something will come along.” I'm not sure I'm convincing him. I'm barely convincing myself. But I don't want my father to think he's my new career counselor.

Dad takes off his glasses and sighs. “Finding something isn't the answer, Grace. It's finding the right thing. You could do worse than work for Paul Duffner for a year. You could learn something new. You might even enjoy studying poetry again.”

“I know you're trying to help. But, please, let me do this myself.”

He taps his glasses on the arm of the chair. “But, Grace.” He pauses. “The bike shop?”

“You know, I actually kind of like it there. I got a good start today, and I think I can really help them. I think I'm doing something they need.”

“I'm sure
they
need it,” he says. “Who wouldn't want to have a bright, attractive young woman like you, summa cum laude from Middlebury, organizing their store, essentially for free? They're getting the deal of the century. But what are you getting? You can't put that job on your résumé.”

I try to interrupt, but he goes on. “You know, the other night I was looking for that poem you wrote about the garden and the rabbit that ate the string beans. I thought we might have it in the attic. I couldn't find it, but I did find something else—that script you wrote in college. I think you should read it, maybe remind yourself how talented you really are.”

Oh, no. Not my college screenplay again. “I don't need to read it,” I tell him, recalling the angst I felt trying to come up with the right ending for a story of two sisters, one dying of cancer. “It was mediocre at best.”

His mouth goes slack, and he looks at me as though it's him I've insulted. He rubs his glasses with the bottom of his sweater, holds them up for inspection, and then puts them back on.

“Don't you think I recognize good writing when I see it?”

“You're my father. You probably think anything I write is good.”

He leans in across the table, closing the space between us. “That's not so. I'm being objective here. Your script is good.” He takes another sip of his drink. Flecks of lime swirl in the glass. “Personally,” he says, “I can only assume you're stalling for time.”

Uh-oh, here we go. It's as though he's flipped a switch inside me, one that runs on circuitry so well established, I can't help but respond. “I'm not stalling for time,” I say, my stomach tightening.

“I think you are. Working in a bike shop? That's not real life. When are you going to get started with life, Grace? You're thirty-three. I think you know you're cut out for greater things, but you're afraid to try. So you'd rather inventory handlebar grips or whatever nonsense they've got you doing.”

I sit up straighter. “I'm not inventorying handlebar grips, and it's not nonsense. I'm reorganizing the workroom. It's a big task. Lots of responsibility. They're counting on me.”

“Honey, you could work for a magazine,” he says. “Or a book publisher. I could call Matt Rosenberg. I know he'd meet with you.”

“Of course he'd meet with me. He's your publisher.” I wring my hands. “That's enough. Why are you doing this?”