Even the Moon Has Scars (15 page)

“We must’ve just missed it,” Gabe says.

Gabe stares up at the tall, white brick building as a steady flow of well-dressed people pour into the street. People in long coats and top hats and gorgeous gowns.

“You’ve managed to find every place in town that still has a crowd this late.” I press my hands to my hips and playfully ask, “Are you afraid to be alone with me or something?”

“I—” Gabe grins with gritted teeth.

“I knew it. Is it my dancing skills?”

“Yes,” he agrees, throwing his head back in laughter.

“But seriously, what’s up with this place? You wanted to see—” I back up a couple of steps and glance up at the marquee to check the title of the show. “
Swan Lake
? We sure weren’t dressed for it.”

Gabe shakes his head.

“Nah, I’ve seen it a half- dozen times at least, you?”

“No, never,” I say.

“You should, it’s decent,” he says.

“You’re full of surprises, you know that, Gabe,” I say. “I never would’ve guessed you had a thing for ballet.”

“I don’t necessarily, it’s the building I dig more than anything. The history and the architecture is incredible. Have you been inside?”

“No, never,” I say.

I sort of expect him to mock me like he did earlier today, but instead he just says, “I’ll have to take you sometime.”

My heart speeds up a little.

“Okay,” he says, reaching for my hand and leading me up the wide steps.

“Gabe, they’re closing, all of these people are leaving—”

“It’s fine, trust me. It takes them hours to clean up after a show. They won’t lock us in.”

“But what are we doing if the show is over?”

“You’ll see.”

I want to protest. To tell him that this is a terrible idea, but I’m also more curious than I’ve ever been. I want to see the things that Gabe wants to show me.

“So we aren’t here to see the actual Opera House?” I ask. as we walk into the massive building that the show just let out of.

“No,” Gabe says, shaking his head. “I mean, if we would have made it, that would’ve been cool, but this...this is even better.” We slip past the last of the crowd and the man at the door wearing a red uniform with a matching hat.

“Just forgot something inside,” Gabe tells him.

The man smiles and nods, then turns his back. Gabe pulls me behind a curtain. There’s a heavy wooden door with a broken lock.

“What are we doing?” I hiss.

“Shhh…” he says, pressing his index finger to my lips. “You’re going to dig this. I promise.”

Gabe gives the door a good shove and it opens noisily. Inside is nothing but total blackness. He slides his phone out of his pocket and taps the screen until the light on it brightens the dark room like a flashlight.

“Come on,” he says, gripping my palm with his free hand.

I follow him. Maybe I’m an idiot. Maybe the new Lena is a complete and total moron. But I follow him. With a smile on my face.

He closes the door behind us and the noise from the lobby is now silenced. We’re completely and totally alone. In this dark, hidden room.

“I’m right here,” he says. “There’re stairs, so watch your step.” I try to steady my breathing, to enjoy this adventure, and ignore the way the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

“Where are you taking me?”

I trust Gabe.

Probably more than I should based on the amount of time we’ve spent together, but this dark staircase lit only by the flashlight on his iPhone doesn’t make me feel warm and fuzzy, even if his strong hand is laced through mine, leading the way. 

“Not big on surprises, Lena?” he asks.

He turns to me and even in the darkness, I can see his pearly grin.

“Never really had the chance to be, I guess,” I say.

The stone stairway curves a little, so I slow down. “Are you sure we aren’t going to get in trouble?” I hiss into the darkness.

“Lena, we’re in a private building, after hours, on a floor that, as far as the general public knows, doesn’t even exist.
Of course
we’d get in trouble.”

He laughs.

Unbelievable.

I was worried about getting in trouble for locking myself out and taking off, when what I should’ve been worried about was getting arrested.

What I’m actually worried about is that maybe that moment at the park, when I was so sure he was going to kiss me, is gone. That we won’t recapture that feeling again. That tomorrow, he’s going to say goodbye and never try to kiss me.

Most of all, I’m worried about how I’m going to say goodbye to Gabe when the sun comes up.

One light on the wall flickers a pale yellow and shows off the cobweb-covered walls and the peeling paint on the stairs and walls around us.

“How far down are we going?”

“It’s really only like forty feet,” Gabe says. “Almost there.”

We descend another small flight of stairs and then the steps end unexpectedly. I stumble into Gabe. “I got you,” he says, steadying me..

I look up and meet his eyes. They feel secure. They feel safe.

“This way,” Gabe says.

We make our way down a small tunnel and then to another door, this one leather padded with decorative brass studs in it. Gabe tugs it open, flips a switch, and steps out of the way so I can go first.

Inside is massive, two-story circular room illuminated by yellow bulbs that flicker in their old brass fixtures. Some of the walls are painted a deep blood orange color that’s peeling, but still so rich it makes me want to pull out my paints as soon as I get home. Some walls are paintings themselves and remind me of the intricate frescoes I saw in a book about
Camposanto Monumentale
, that were painted in the 1300’s.

“This…” I say, spinning in a circle to take it all in: the detailed white plaster arches, the second floor with its intricate railing, the books and boxes piled up everywhere, covered in dust and cobwebs. Who knows how old some of those things are. What treasures are hidden in the boxes. “This is magnificent.”

Gabe stands back and watches me appreciatively. He’s casually leaning against an old piano, just watching me with a grin stretched across his gorgeous face.

“It’s very
Phantom of the Opera,
right?” he asks.

“It’s amazing. How did you know about this place?”

He pushes himself off of the piano and takes a few steps toward me.

“My dad showed it to me when I was a kid. We used to come to the opera a few times a year—”

“You and your dad came to the opera?”

“Don’t act so surprised.”

“I’m not,” I say.

Nothing would surprise me about Gabriel Martinez at this point. There’s a mix of so many things going on with him. So many layers I don't think anyone has ever taken the time to see.

“You know how I told you my mom was always a little more...upper crust than Dad?”

I nod. His mother is terrible. Plain and simple. I think the best thing that ever could have happened to him was being sent to stay with his grandmother.

“Well, he sort of had this idea when she started pulling away, that it was all him. That it was because of who he was.”

“And who was that?”

“Just a simple guy.”

“Simple is good,” I say.

“Listen to you. Aren’t you the one who’s trying to outrun simple?” Gabe asks. He means it as a joke, but he’s pretty spot on.

“Anyway, when Ma was working—which was all the time—we did things to stay busy. We went to games, we went to the park—”

“You went to the opera.”

“Well, yeah. Dad sort of thought that if he bettered himself—if he were more cultured or whatever, Mom would want to spend more time with him. And you know what? We started off going to make her happy, but it turned out that Dad and I dug it.”

“That’s really cool. And that’s how you found this place?”

“Actually, Dad heard about it from one of the prisoners he was escorting to court. The guy got arrested breaking into this place—”

“Gabe!” My hand flies up to my mouth. “We have to go. We’re going to get in so much trouble!”

Gabe closes the space between us and pries my hand from my face.

“Easy, doll,” he says. He kisses my knuckles and every part of me melts like warm butter. “Dad and I got caught one night when I was thirteen. When the shows were sold out, or if it was one we’d seen a few times, we’d bring popcorn and snacks and stuff down here and just hang out and listen to the music or the game on an old radio. The guy upstairs, the one we saw at the door? He caught Dad and me. Dad explained that we weren’t going to hurt anything, maybe name-dropped Mom little, and he agreed to turn a blind eye as long as we didn’t make a mess or disrupt anything.”

He presses his fingertips to my shoulders and kneads the knot away. “So relax. We aren’t going to go to jail tonight. At least not for being here.”

We both laugh and he pulls me down onto the old, dusty piano bench next to him.

“You play the piano, too?” I ask. I know I said nothing else would surprise me about him, but is there really anything he doesn’t do?

“Not a bit,” he laughs. “I just like the way the keys feel.”

I run my index finger down a few of the white keys. They’re covered in a thick layer of dust and when I press down, they’re clearly out of tune.

“So what is this place?”

“Honestly?” Gabe asks. “I think it’s just a storage room now. I know that’s not a very exciting or romantic answer, but I guess I’d like to think that Mom was wrong. Sometimes things can be amazing, even when they’re simple.”

“I think you’re right.”

He wraps his arm around my waist and pulls me closer to him on the bench and we play a bastardized, out of tune version of Chopsticks mixed with what I think may be a little bit of Twinkle Twinkle Little Star. It sounds both terrible and beautiful—the way it mixes with the laughter of two people who needed to escape so badly.

It sounds like the most perfect song I’ve ever heard.

“Lena,” he whispers, my name escaping his lips like a fervent prayer. “Thank you for staying tonight.”

“Now, see, if you would have gotten a proper accounting of all of the places that I actually
have
been in the city, we could have checked this one off of our list,” Lena says.

“Not a Parker House virgin, then?” I say. The term turns the tips of her ears red and she sort of freezes in place. I clear my throat then push through the revolving door of the hotel. “We’re not here to eat Boston Cream Pie, or Parker House rolls, anyway.”

Lena shuffles in behind me and tugs on the tips of her bangs to straighten them out.

“Of course we’re not.”

And good thing, because all of the restaurants in the hotel lobby are closed, save for maybe the whiskey bar and I don’t think we could pass for the legal age in a place like this. I don’t think the bartenders here will take a little extra cash to pour drinks to underage kids like they do in the shitholes the kids from my school and I hang at.

Plus, I don’t think a bar is Lena’s scene at all.

“No hidden basements this time, though?” Lena asks. She raises her eyebrow, but it’s all play.

“Nope,” I say.

We pass the front desk and make our way to a little offshoot from the main lobby. It’s quiet down here, and that’s a good thing, but that’s not the reason I chose this spot. I pull out one of the thick, upholstered arm chairs and offer it to Lena. She sits down, but slants her eyes at me nervously.

“What?” I ask, taking the chair next to her.

I sink into the soft, striped fabric. This place is over a century old, and though the furnishings are new, everything feels old—in the best way. The entire hotel reeks of history.

That’s what I love about it. That and the painting on the wall across from us.

I lied to Lena when I said I wasn’t into art. I was only ever into one artist, though.

My grandfather.

This painting isn’t his, but he donated it to the Parker House.

I stare across the room at the woman in the red hat, with the bright yellow scarf draped around her neck, wearing her own version of a Mona Lisa smile. Lena eventually follows my gaze.

“Is that...?” Lena jumps up from her chair and walks over to the painting. I watch the way she tilts her head, taking it all in. The gentle brush strokes of the woman’s mouth, the way she’s almost biting her lip, or maybe about to whisper a secret.

“This is a Leon Kroll,” Lena proclaims. I love the way she says it. Full of wonder, not pretention. “It’s stunning. Did you know he lived in Gloucester until he died?”

I nod my head and then get up to walk over to her. “I did know that.”

“Of course you did. I mean, Gloucester is full of artists, but Kroll, he was—”

“He was the
‘Dean of U.S. nude painters’
,” I say.  Her shoulder bumps into me as we both laugh.

“Yes! How did you know that? I thought you didn’t like paintings.”

I point to the small gold plaque under the painting.

“
The Red Tam
. Donated by Albert Bryk and family,” Lena reads out loud. “This was…?”

“My grandfather’s,” I say. “He used to work here. He was a bellman his entire life, started when he was just a kid. My grandfather wasn’t just a hard worker, he loved this place like he loved his own home. Kroll used to stay here, so many artists and writers and politicians stayed here. Gramps helped him out one day, loading up all his stuff into his car, making sure it was packed up just right. Kroll was impressed. Kroll spent a lot of time in Gloucester back then, and told Gramps if he ever wanted to learn a few things, to come by. Gramps had never painted anything other than a house, but who turns down an offer like that?”

Lena is leaning forward, hanging on every word.

“Your grandfather knew Leon Kroll? I can’t...this is…Did he teach him to paint?”

I tilt my head back and forth. “Depends on who you ask. Gramps wasn’t exactly an artist, but he tried. More than anything, he found a friendship with Kroll. When he’d come into Gloucester, Gramps and Babci would visit with Kroll and his wife. She was Parisian and Babci just loved her.” I sit back down in the club chair. Lena follows.

“We have some other paintings and sketches of Kroll’s at Babci’s. You’ll have to come by and see them sometime.” I pause. “I mean, if you’d like.”

“What about your grandfather?” Lena asks.

“What about him?”

“Do you have any of his work that I could take a look at?”

“Yes,’ I nod slowly.

She smiles softly. “I’d like that.”

I’d like that, too. My grandfather was, like my Mom so detested, simple. But he was a good man. He worked hard his entire life and he did everything with integrity. I miss him every day. I wonder what things would be like now if he were still alive. If my dad wouldn’t have taken off. As lost as I felt after Gramps passed, and as much as my life has spiraled since then, I sort of can’t blame my dad for bailing now.

“You were close to your grandfather,” Lena says. It’s not a question.

I stare at the fabric on the chair to avoid meeting her eyes.

My instinct is to deny, or change the subject, but the mention of my grandfather while sitting in this place that he loved so much, by this person who actually gives a damn, makes me want to talk about him. It makes me want to remember him.

“My grandpa was the best man I’ve ever known.”

“Tell me about him,” Lena says, leaning forward in her chair.

So I do.

I tell her about the time my grandfather taught me to change the oil in his car, the day he insisted on going out on the water to fish in the dead of winter, and how we literally had to push our rowboat across the ice because the harbor was completely frozen over.

I tell her about how fiercely he loved Babci, how they held hands across the table like the couple at the diner earlier during every meal.

I tell her how he never said an unkind word about my mother in front of me, even though she never showed the same courtesy. I explain to Lena  how my grandfather was the first and only one to ever tell me that I was going to do something good with my life, that I just hadn’t found my place yet. He believed in me.

I tell Lena about the time my Gramps and Dad took me to New York to see the Red Sox play the Yankees. How I didn’t even really care about baseball, but sitting in between them, listening to them joke and argue and cheer was the best way I could’ve spent a day.

I tell her how that was the last time I saw my Grandfather.

And she listens to every word.

Lena yawns, then covers her mouth and says, “I’m sorry, it’s not you, it’s just—what time is it?”

I check the time on my phone. “Almost three o’clock.”

Lena giggles and asks, “How is that even possible?”

“What do you mean? We’ve been here for a while.”

“No, I mean, how is it possible that twelve hours ago I was sitting in my room, fighting with my sister and now—”

I know she’s thinking the same thing I am.

How can you change so fast? How can the world tilt so easily—so quickly and irrevocably, and leave everything looking so different in the company of someone you hardly know?

But neither one of us has the guts to say it.

“He was from New York but fell in love with Gloucester? Kroll I mean,” she says. “I guess that means it can’t be so bad, right?”

“Gloucester?” I ask. “Nah, Gloucester’s beautiful. But you know it works in reverse, too? You can be from a beautiful place and move on, too.”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying… I think you can fall in love with many places. I saying you don’t have to stay in one place because that’s where you’re from.” I reach forward and let my finger graze her hand. “I’m saying that if NYU will have you, I think you should go.”

“Maybe,” she says, staring at my hand on hers. I pull away. “I guess it just depends if I even get in.”

“I think you will. I think there’s too much good that could come from you if you were given the chance.”

“You know, I’ve never even toured the campus?” she shifts in her chair, leaning over to one side, and rests her head on her arm. “I’ve heard it’s set up kind of weird, what if I hate it once I get there...if I get there.”

“We should go,” I say a little too eagerly. “To NYU. I’ll take you, I mean. It’s less than four hours away. We can tour it together, you can see what life would be like in the city on your own.”

“I don’t know if I could even survive on my own,” she says.

“Eh, I think you’d surprise yourself. And if not, you come back home. Or try somewhere new.”

Lena shifts again, this time sitting up straight. She stays quiet and stares at her hands in her lap for a few moments before saying, “I feel like...I feel like I’m this person, who isn’t even a whole person. Does that make sense? I’ve never done anything. Seen anything.”

“You have that chance, though. You don’t have to end up at Endicott College. Hell, you don’t even have to end up at NYU. You can do whatever the hell you want, Lena. You can paint. You can travel. You can become an engineer or a heart surgeon. You can decide to put off school altogether if you wanted.”

“My parents will freak if I choose anything but a local school.”

“Let em,” I say with a shrug. “They’ll get over it. What other choice do they have, anyway?”

“Easy for you to say, your parents—” she clamps a hand over her mouth. “Shit.”

I laugh at the way her sweet voice sounds with a swear on her lips.

“I’m sorry,” she says.

“It’s not a big deal. It’s true. Dad’s not around, and Mom...well, you’ve seen my mom.”

“Then what about you? Don’t you think you’ve got something bigger to offer the world?”

I twist my shoelace around my finger and say, “I feel like I don’t belong anywhere right now. Not here. Not Gloucester. Honestly, I have zero plans, Lena.”

“Did you ever think that you’re exactly where you should be? That maybe things really
do
happen for a reason?”

“What do you mean? Like tonight?”

“Maybe,” she says with a shrug.

“Are you saying that us ending up stuck in the city is like an atrial septal defect?”

Lena pulls her brows together and leans back in her chair. “I don’t...I don’t think?”

“I’m kidding,” I laugh, but Lena still looks uneasy, like she has no idea where I’m going with this.

She rests her elbows on her lap and sets her chin in her hands.

“But truly, tonight really is the perfect example of things happening for a reason.”

“Yep,” I say, sarcasm dripping from my voice. “I got in a fight with my mom, I had a run in with my ex, I am going back to Gloucester without the valve cover—”

“You’re enjoying a beautiful evening with me.”

“You’re absolutely right.” I smile slowly as I watch the liquid copper in her eyes turn to honey. And I feel my chest squeeze knowing that warm look is for me.

I swallow hard before I say, “I’m enjoying a beautiful evening. With a beautiful girl.”

***

We sit in the lobby talking about life. About our futures. About what the heck her parents will say if and when they find out that she was gone all night long. We talk until our throats were raw from laughter and our eyes became too heavy to hold open. We talk until guests start coming down from their rooms, wheeling luggage behind them to check out, likely to catch early morning flights. We talk until management starts questioning why we’re there.

So we take that as our final queue to leave, and manage to track down a tiny restaurant open near the train station.

This night has been so amazing, so full of things I never expected to experience.

And so exhausting.

Lena folds her arms on the table and rests her head on them. She closes her eyes and sighs, like she’s probably in that perfect place between asleep and awake where she can still hear the music from the old jukebox in the corner, the cooks in the back calling out orders, and the waiters shuffling across the black-and-white checkered floor, but she looks so relaxed that she might as well be dreaming.