Call Me Zelda (13 page)

I
worked my fingers through Zelda’s hair, creating a rich, fragrant lather with the French shampoo Scott had bought for her. The aroma was like a lavender field, and I inhaled deeply. Zelda fingered a rose she’d plucked from the bouquet, twisting it in her fingers.

“The Manhattan piece you wrote was magnificent,” I said.

“You are very kind, Anna,” she said. “All of us were so young and alive, fragrant and intoxicating like thousands of red poppies. I should say intoxicated. Intoxicated.”

“You said Scott had taken your diaries by then. What did he do with them?”

“He kept them in his writing desk in whatever hotel we’d set up lodgings. One in particular he’d pull out late at night at parties and read passages from it. He’d say, ‘Isn’t she a genius? A beauty and a genius.’”

“Then he was proud of your work,” I said.

“Oh, yes. Too proud. He wanted to claim it. When Scott loves someone or something, he wants it to
be
him or part of him. If he could have eaten me, I think he would have.”

“You would have tasted like lemonade and tomato sandwiches,” I said.

We laughed at this. I loved the deep, raspy sound.

“And squirrel,” she said.

We laughed again, and I rinsed the shampoo from her hair with the warm, sudsy water. She handed me a cloth, and I started on her neck and shoulders.

“I remember that he loaned my diary to a friend of his to read,” she said. “I was so angry at him. I told him that I might as well sleep with the man if he was going to pass me around like that.”

“How did he respond?”

“Weeping: vast drunken weeping, like the spray off a champagne fountain.”

“Did you see the diary after that?”

“Yes, miraculously the friend returned it. Scott was so sanctimonious. ‘See,’ he said. ‘See, I told you he’d return it.’ ‘Yes, but the rape is finished, so it does not matter now,’ I said.”

Her flatness of voice chilled me. I dipped my arms in the warm water to smooth the goose bumps.

“Where were you living at the time?” I asked. “Could he have left the diaries there?”

She thought for a moment, then shook her head. “No. We were at the Biltmore, then the Commodore. No, he had the diaries when we moved to Westport.”

“Connecticut?”

“Yes. We moved there the summer after we married. He needed quiet from the city so he could work.”

“And did you achieve that quiet?”

“Ha!” she said. “All the New York bastards just followed us there.”

“Will you write it for me? A piece about Westport?”

She did not answer, but started humming some nameless tune, and continued to play with the red rose in her hands. I didn’t want to push her, so I simply washed her arms and hands, then her legs and feet. The steam and my awkward angle as I
leaned over the bath were beginning to get to me, so I hurried to finish. When I looked up she was staring at me.

“What is your hair color?” said Zelda, reaching out and running her hand through it. Her hands were wet from the bath, so they stuck a little, pulling at the strands, stinging my scalp as a few strands snapped away on her fingers.

“It’s changed as I’ve aged,” I said.

“Yes, but it’s no color, like your eyes. Not black, not brown, just dark.”

Yes, just dark. Like a shadow. Perhaps my lack of color was why Zelda could open up to me. She felt no threat.

I watched her break the thorns off the stem of the rose and drop them into the water. When she reached up and slid the rose behind my ear I could see that her fingers bled a little.

“There,” she said.

I looked at her for a moment before I turned to face the mirror.

There, indeed.

TEN

When I opened the door the next morning, I thought it would be Lincoln letting me know he’d arrived early to take us to my parents’ house. I couldn’t have been more surprised to find Sorin standing there, his hair wild from the rake of hands through it, dark circles under his eyes. It looked like he’d been on an all-night bender.

“Are you well?” I asked, opening the door to him and motioning him inside.

“Yes,” he said. “Very well, thank you.”

On closer inspection I could see a gleam in his eyes and a certain excitement quivering from him, making the papers in his hands shake. He reminded me of Zelda’s feverish state when she completed a piece of art.

“For you,” he said, thrusting a pile of music into my hands.

I looked down and flipped through the handwritten papers. It was an instrumental piece for piano. My eyes flicked back to the top.

“Anii.”

“Anii?” I said, confusion in my voice.

“Uh, your word
succor
,
help
,” he said. “Helper. And it is a play on your name.”

His face burned red, and it suddenly became clear that he had written the piece for me. It wasn’t long before my face matched his in color.

“I…I’m honored,” I said.

“You have been playing,” he said.

“Yes.”

“Late at night,” he said.

“Does it disturb you?”

“No. No. It is good.”

“Well, I look forward to learning this,” I said. “I hope I can do it justice.”

“You will.”

Peter came around the corner in a T-shirt, fastening his belt. Sorin’s eyes grew wide, then dark. He muttered something and turned quickly away, starting down the stairs before I could grab his arm.

“No, wait,” I said.

My God, he must think…

“Sorin!” I called.

“It is okay, Anna,” he said. “I have to go.”

He hurried down the stairs and out the front door.

I turned to Peter and smacked his arm.

“What?”

“He thinks that you’re…that we…”

“Oh, no! Ew! I’m sorry!”

“You should be,” I said. “Do you know how shy he is? He probably worried all night before working up the courage to come to the door.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, raising his hands in surrender. His eyes flicked to the papers. “What’s that?”

I felt embarrassed and protective of Sorin’s gift, and clutched the pages to my chest.

“Just some music,” I said.

Peter broke into a grin.

“An-na,” he sang. “Do we have a potential love match here?”

“Ugh, please,” I said, turning toward the piano so he couldn’t see my face. “It’s nothing.”

I shoved the papers into the music book on the stand and walked toward my bedroom to get my overnight bag and to avoid my brother.

“He’s kinda young,” yelled Peter with mischief in his voice.

“I didn’t notice,” I called.

I heard Peter laugh from the other room and again wanted to punch him. He knew exactly how to get under my skin. I was worried what Sorin thought, so I quickly scribbled a note to him that I intended to slip under his door before we left:
Dear Sorin, I can’t thank you enough for the music. I’m sorry you couldn’t stay and meet my brother. Maybe we can all have dinner together sometime. Sincerely, Anna.

I thought it was a bit excessive to underline
my brother
, but I wanted to be sure that Sorin understood.

“He’s good-looking in a moody musician kind of way,” said Peter as I returned to the living room.

“Peter, stop. I am married, after all.”

He stared hard at me until I had to look away.

L
incoln narrowed his eyes, wearing as much suspicion of Peter as Sorin had.

“Lincoln, meet Peter,
my brother
,” I said.

“Brother, ay?” said Lincoln.

“Yes, sir,” said Peter. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. Anna’s told me all about you.”

“Good thing you’re not a suitor, or we’da had to settle this
like men.” He slapped Peter on the shoulder and loaded our bags, laughing to himself.

I slipped into the cab and closed my eyes, massaging my temples. I felt a headache playing at the edges of my skull and hoped a nap on the way to my parents’ house would take care of it. I opened my eyes as we drove away from the apartment building and caught Peter watching me.

“You okay?” he asked.

I nodded and closed my eyes. I felt his hand cover mine.

“So, Lincoln,” said Peter, “how are the Sox gonna do this season?”

I opened one eye and smiled at Peter. He gave me a wink. I slipped in and out of sleep on the drive to the steady hum of Lincoln’s voice.

W
e agreed that Peter would surprise our parents. He waited on the path five minutes after I approached. I was able to corral Mom and Dad on the front porch by then, when Peter came jogging around the bend, like an Olympic runner at the tape.

Mom actually screamed and managed a small jump in the air. Dad hurried off the porch to meet him. They wrapped each other in a huge hug. Then Peter let go of Dad and ran to give Mom a hug. He lifted her off the ground and spun her around. I flinched, but even when he put her back on the porch she beamed. Dad grabbed my hand and we all went into the house in a whirlwind of greetings, questions, and admonitions about our weight.

It was the first time I’d returned home in years without the burden of history.

“I
’m sinking into a coma,” said Peter.

“A food coma,” said Dad.

We sat on the back porch listening to the sounds of the
wind chimes and watching the quarter moon glow stronger as the night darkened the woods behind the house. Our stomachs were full from my dad’s crab cakes and corn on the cob, and we punted lazy, half-finished conversations to one another, content in one another’s company, finishing one another’s thoughts in our heads.

“It’s heaven to have you both here with us,” said Mom. “This is a good, good night.”

“I wish I could bring Zelda here sometime,” I said.

I felt embarrassed for voicing that aloud.

“You’ve grown attached to her,” said Mom. There was no judgment in her voice, so it calmed me. “Have you had to stay many nights with her, like that first week?”

“On and off,” I said. “She has extreme highs and lows. I stay with her during the lows.”

“I always said you should have just set up a room wherever you worked to be on call at all times.”

“Separation does Anna good,” said Peter. “Then she can’t forget to take care of herself.”