Shooting Stars 04 Honey Page 7

  Every Sunday. after I returned from church and changed into my jeans. I would hurry out to help Uncle Simon weed his garden and tend to his plants. This Sunday I was very excited because I was going to give him his birthday present. Mommy had already told him about our special dinner, after which we would have his birthday cake. I found him on his knees, working around a patch of ginger lilies. Everything I knew about flowers. I knew because of Uncle Simon.

  It was a particularly beautiful late spring day with a breeze as gentle as a soft kiss caressing my face. Against the western sky_ , I saw a string of clouds so thin they looked like strips of gauze. A flock of geese in their perfect V-formation were making their way farther north. What a wonderful day for a birthday I thought.

  As I approached Uncle Simon. I could hear him muttering lovingly to his flowers. It brought a smile to my face. As if he had known where my uncle Simon was this morning, the minister had preached about a respect for life and how that gave us a deeper appreciation of ourselves, our own souls. and God's precious gifts.

  "Happy birthday, Uncle Simon," I said, and he turned quickly and looked up at me, his bushy eyebrows lifting like two sleeping caterpillars. He looked from me to the gift box in my hands, and then wiped his hands on the sides of his jeans and stood up.

  "What's that?" he asked.

  "Your birthday present." I thrust it toward him. "From me. Mommy, and Daddy." I said. I wasn't going to include Grandad, not only because he didn't contribute to it, but because he ridiculed birthdays.

  Uncle Simon took the box so gently in his large hands. I smiled. "It's nothing breakable," I said.

  He stood there, gazing down at it, looking overwhelmed by the fancy wrap.

  "Open it," I urged, anxious to see his reaction to the gift.

  He looked at me and nodded. He tried taking the paper off carefully, but it tore and he looked disappointed in himself. Then he opened the box and gazed at the new garden tools.

  "O000h," he said, stretching his expression of pleasure as if he was peering down at some of the world's most precious jewels. "Good. Thank you. Honey."

  I smiled and stepped forward, lifting myself on my toes to kiss him on the cheek.

  "Happy birthday, Uncle Simon."

  He nodded and took out the tools, turning them around and inspecting each more closely.

  "They're almost too pretty to use," he said. He gazed at his old, rusted, crudely made ones as if he was about to say a final good-bye to an old, dear friend.

  "It'll make your flowers happier," I said.

  He smiled.

  "Yes, it might," he agreed and turned to scrape away some weeds.

  I got down beside him and we worked in silence for a while, His garden was growing so well and was so large now, people came around to see it and offer to buy flowers from him. He cherished every plant so much, he was at first reluctant to give any up. but Mommy convinced him by telling him he was giving the flowers added life through the pleasure and enjoyment others took in them. He would have done most anything Mommy asked him to do anyway, I thought.

  When Grandad Forman saw that he was beginning to make some significant money with his flowers, he told Uncle Simon he had to give him a percentage for the use of the land. Uncle Simon would have given him all of it. but Mommy stood between them like a broker and negotiated Grandad down to ten percent. She found out what a fair price was for each of the flowers. too. Recently, Daddy had brought up the idea of making a regular nursery, investing in a greenhouse,

  "It would be a profitable side business," he declared.

  "I can't see putting any real money behind him," Grandad said.

  "Why not?" Mommy challenged. "Has he ever failed to do something you asked him to do? Has he ever neglected his chores?"

  "He's got the brain of a child," Grandad insisted.

  Mommy straightened her shoulders and gazed down at him with eves so fall of fire and strength, both Daddy and I were mesmerized.

  "The wolf also shall dwell with the lamb, and the leopard shall lie down with the kid: and the calf and the young lion and the fatling together: and a little child shall lead them," she recited.

  "You don't have to quote Scripture to me," Grandad cried, the lines in his face deepening as he stretched his lips in anger. His leather-tan skin looked as stiff as the crust of stale bread.

  "Seems I do from the things you say. And," she added softly. "things you do,"

  He looked at her and then looked away.

  "Do what you want," he muttered, "but not with any money of mine."

  It was still a secret. but Daddy was seriously looking into the greenhouse idea.

  "Who taught you how to grow flowers so well. Uncle Simon?" I asked him as I worked with him.

  He paused and looked toward the house as if he actually saw someone standing there.

  "Your grandma." he said. "I worked with her in her garden. It was the only place and time she had any peace," he added, a shaft of embittered light passing through his dark eyes. He dug a little more

  aggressively for a moment, and then his body relaxed and he went back to his calm manner.

  I watched him, admiring how he drifted into a rhythm, how he and his work seemed to flow together, his face fall of pleasure and contentment. and I thought about what Uncle Peter had said about me and my violin.

  The flowers play Uncle Simon. I thought, They nurture him. They rip the weeds away from him. They turn his face to the sunlight and the rain.

  That evening, looking as clean and well-dressed as he could, he came to the house. Daddy gave him another present: his favorite aftershave lotion, which had a flowery scent. Mommy had prepared a turkey dinner with all the trimmings. It was as good as our Thanksgiving. Grandad Forman muttered about the cost of such a meal just for a grown man's birthday, but ate vigorously nevertheless. Then Mommy brought out the cake.

  "I couldn't put all the candles on the cake. Simon," Mommy explained. "so I just lit the one to represent them all."

  He laughed and blew it out. We all sang "Happy Birthday. ' Grandad almost moved his lips, but shook his head as if to deny his own inclinations. Afterward, we sat in the living room and I played my violin for Uncle Simon. As usual. I became lost in my melodies, feeling as though the violin was a part of me, as if my very being flowed into it and out in the form of music.

  Toward the end of my little concert. I opened my eyes and looked at them all. What surprised and even put a titter of anxiety in my heart was the way Grandad Forman was looking at me. Gone from his face was any expression of disdain or disapproval. For a moment he looked like any warm and loving grandparent might, sitting there and listening to his grandchild perform. It confused me. but I was sure I saw something deeper in him. I wanted to call it love, but I was afraid to think that. Toward the end. I caught the way he glanced at Mommy and how that changed his expression, restoring his cold, impersonal manner.

  "Time to go to sleep," he declared after Mommy, Daddy. and Uncle Simon gave me their applause. He rose and walked out of the room.

  "Thank you," Uncle Simon said.

  "Many more birthdays. Simon," Mommy told him and gave him a hug and a kiss.

  Daddy patted him on the shoulder.

  I walked out with him and stood on the front porch watching him cross the yard toward the barn. Daddy came out and stood beside me.

  "How can this be enough for him. Daddy?" I asked. "How can he really be happy?"

  "I guess it's a matter of finding your own way, making peace with that part of yourself that's usually demanding more, that lusts after thines others have and makes you discontented with what you have," Daddy said.

  "You make it sound bad to want more, Daddy. Isn't it good to be ambitious?"

  "Sure, but when it keeps you looking over at the next field, you never enjoy what you've accomplished, what you've grown on your own. That's too much ambition. I guess."

  "How do you know when it's too much, when you should stop?" I asked.

  He shook his h
ead.

  "It's different for everyone, Honey. Something inside you has to cry out. enough!"

  "Has that happened to you?"

  He smiled at me and put his arm around my shoulders. "Yes." he said. "and now, I can watch you go for it."

  "Like Uncle Simon watches his flowers emerge from the seeds he planted?-

  "Yes."

  "And like Grandad watched you and Uncle Peter?"

  "Something like that," Daddy said, but his arm lost its tightness and his eyes shifted away. It was as if he was suddenly searching the shadows for signs of one of Grandad's demons.

  "I better get to bed," he told me. "We've got work to do tomorrow."

  He left me on the porch, looking into the darkness and then up at Uncle Simon's room. The light went out there, too. and I suddenly felt a chill. I don't know where it came from. There was barely a breeze and the night was warm.

  It came from inside me, I concluded.

  It came from the sense of some terrible secret still looming above me, masked, disguised, hidden behind the eyes of those who loved me and those who knew and were stirred by the same wintry feeling creeping in and over all our smiles and all our laughter, and even into our dreams.

  The following week. Chandler and I officially became an item at our school. We were together everywhere we could be together. The joy we were taking in each other's company quickly became apparent, and soon I detected the looks of envy in the eyes of girls who were still searching for someone. I also noticed that Chandler was far less defensive with and suspicious of other students. The relaxation that was evident in his face took form in the way he dressed as well. He started coming to school in far less formal clothing: his hair wasn't as plastered and stiff, and he was joking and laughing with other students more often than before.

  "We took a vote," Susie Weaver told me after lunch on Friday, "and decided you've been a good influence on Chandler Maxwell. He's almost a human being now."

  "Thank you so much for your compliments," I said with a cold smile. "It is a coincidence."

  "What? Why?"

  "Chandler and I were wondering when you were going to become a human being," I replied, and left her with her mouth open wide enough to attract a whole hive of bees.

  That afternoon Chandler asked me to go to a movie with him. He thought we should go have something to eat first, too, but said it wouldn't be any fancy restaurant.

  "Let's just have a pizza or something," he suggested. "'To celebrate our continued musical success."

  We had pleased Mr. Wengrow at our duet lessons on Wednesday night. Chandler had come to the house to pick me up and take me there. I saw the look of both pleasure and surprise in Mr. Wengrow's face.

  All he said about it was. "I'm happy you're both getting along so well. It shows in your work."

  We exchanged conspiratorial smiles and worked with new enthusiasm,

  "I know that Chandler is all set as far as his continuing education goes," Mr. Wenrow said at the end of our session. while I was putting my violin in its case, "but you're still not decided, is that correct?"

  "No," I said. "My parents and I talked about my attending the community college and living at home."

  "There's no music program there that will add to your ability and talent in any significant way," he said quickly. "I don't mean to interfere. but I think you've got what it takes to get into a prestigious school for the performing arts. I'll speak with your parents, of course, but I wanted to talk to you about it first."

  I looked at Chandler, who shrugged and smiled. "What school? Where?"

  "I have a good friend who is actually the accountant for a theatrical agent. I would like to contact him to see if he would do me a favor and get an audition arranged for you."

  "Oh," I said. "Where?"

  "New York City," Mr. Wengrow said.

  "New York City!"

  All I could think of was Grandad Forman's ravings about the twin cities of iniquity being Los Angeles and New York. He called them both cities built by Satan, and loved to point his finger at the television screen whenever some horrible crime or event was reported occurring in either of them.

  "There!" he would cry. "See what I mean?"

  "If you're going to do anything significant in the arts, you should be in New York City," Mr. Wengrow said.

  I shook my head.

  "I don't think my parents would like that. Mr. Wenuow."

  "I'll have a word with them," he said. "Don't worry. I'll get them to understand."

  Chandler was going to the Boston University School of Arts. His father was an alumnus of BU and a heavy contributor, not that Chandler couldn't get in on his own ability.

  "Mr. Wengrow's right," he told me afterward. "You'll smother to death here. You've got to get out and into the big wide world."

  It made me very nervous to think about it, so I didn't, and up until the following weekend. Mr. Wengrow had not spoken about it with my parents. If he had, he might have been very discouraged and not mentioned the discussion to me at all. I thought.

  On Friday. Chandler drove up to take me to the movies. I had put on a mustard-colored light sweater and a pair of jeans with a pair of high-heel sneakers I had managed to get Mommy to buy me, despite how silly she thought they looked. She couldn't understand why they were the rage. I had my hair tied in a ponytail.

  "You look like Debbie Reynolds in one of those old movies." Chandler declared as soon as he saw me come bounding down the front steps. "I love it."

  "Thank you."

  He was wearing a black mock turtleneck shirt, which brought out the dark color in his eyes. I thought he looked very sexy, and practically leaped into the car to sit beside him. I couldn't remember when I had been happier.

  As we started away. Grandad came out of nowhere onto the driveway and stood in the wash of Chandler's car headlights. His gay hair looked like it was on fire, his eyes blazing at us. Chandler hit the brake pedal and I gasped.

  "Who's that?" he cried.

  "My grandad," I said.

  "Well, what's he doing?"

  Grandad simply stood there in our way, staring at us. Suddenly he raised his right hand. and I saw he was holding his sacred old Bible. He held it up like some potential victim of a vampire would hold up a cross in a horror movie, and then he stepped to the side and disappeared into the shadows.

  Chandler turned to me. amazed. "What was that all about?"

  "Just drive," I said, choking back my tears. Chandler stared at me. "Drive, Chandler. please."

  "Sure," he said and accelerated, taking the bump too hard.

  I curled up into a ball. I was filled with a mixture of anger and fear. No matter how Mommy stood up to him, I couldn't help but be intimidated by his accusing eves. Memories of him coming into my room when I was a little girl abounded. I saw him standing over my bed, chanting his prayers, reciting his biblical quotes, giving me warnings about hell, sin, and damnation that I was still too young to understand. What I did understand was there was some sort of danger awaiting me should I do anything defiant.

  "What was that in his hand?" Chandler finally asked. "Honey?"

  I took a deep breath and emerged slowly, like a clam opening its shell.

  "His Bible," I said.

  "Bible? Why was he holding it up?"

  "To remind me that the wages of sin is death." I said in a tired, defeated voice.

  "Sin? What sin?"

  "The sin he thinks I'm about to commit." I said.

  Chandler was very quiet. Then he looked at me, shook his head and smiled.

  "The movie is only rated PG-I3."

  I looked at him, and then we both laughed. It felt like balm on a wound. He reached out to touch my hand. and I slid closer to him.

  "I've got to admit, he scared me." Chandler said. "I couldn't imagine who or what he was, jumping out into the drive like that."

  "Let's not talk about it anymore." I begged.

  "Okay," he said, eagerly agreeing.

  At the piz
za restaurant, we talked about some of the other students at school, our classes, and Mr. Wengrow, Chandler's theory was that because he had no children, he put fatherly concern into us and saw himself as a surrogate father, giving us guidance.

  "Sometimes, I feel like he cares more about me than my own father," Chandler admitted. "I mean, my dad wants me to succeed and all, but he doesn't have the same interest in my music or faith in what I can do with it. He's always talking to me about becoming a lawyer or going to medical school, as if nothing else has any reason to be. I get the distinct feeling he's paying for my lessons just to humor me, almost like putting up with a nuisance,"

  "What about your mother?" I asked.

  "She usually goes along with anything he says. She's busy at being busy."

  "What's that mean?" I asked. smiling.

  "She makes work for herself. No one appreciates the fax machine as much as my mother. She lives off the papers that all the organizations, volunteers and people send her and then she spends hours filing, organizing meaningless things. She's content as long as her name is on every possible list of patrons and committee lists. whether she actually does anything for the cause or not.

  "It's like she lives in a castle built out of cards, or invitations to charity functions, I should say. She's turned it into her own cottage industry."

  He sounded so bitter about it. "You're upset about all that?"

  He stared at his piece of pizza for a moment and then shook his head.

  "Sometimes. I wish I was a charity instead of a son. I'd get more attention. What about your parents? Do they care about your music?"

  I told him about Uncle Peter and how Daddy had become more and more committed to my playing.