Falling for Your Madness (16 page)

Wednesday, October 17, 2012

The Rising Agent Bakery and Cafe

1111 Beacon Street

Brookline, Massachusetts

11:59 a.m.

“I have something to ask you!”

“I have something to ask
you!”

David kissed me hello and handed me a sunflower. He opened the door for me into the cafe. By now the owners were so used to seeing us on Wednesdays that they waved hello to us, which made me feel a lot better after last week. When David and I met on the sidewalk then, we stood outside kissing and giggling and acting like complete idiots, so much so that the owner asked us, quite politely like a lady should, to either come in and eat or go get a room because our behavior was distracting her patrons. David, naturally, sent her a lengthy apology letter and a bouquet of flowers the next day.

“Ladies first.”

“I’m a little nervous. I have an idea for a social-stroke-cultural event for us, and I really want to do this, but I’m not sure if you’re going to like it.”

“I only want to please you. Tell me what it is.”

I
loved
being his sweetheart. Fridays were the best because they started with dinner—the longest meal of the week. Then it was really only a short few hours until we would see each other again Saturday morning. Then Sunday came quickly after that. I found it a little difficult to say good night on a Sunday night and then endure the long day of Monday until tea. And I utterly loathed Tuesdays. I also wondered at what point I could politely request that he get a phone.

“My friend Jessie wants to have a Halloween party. I told her that Merle did magic tricks. Do you think if we asked Merle to come and be the guest of honor, he would entertain us?”

“He would be thrilled.”

“Really? That’s great. And …” This was it. “Do you think that you would come too?”

“Of course I will. It sounds like a nice diversion.”

I was surprised. A Halloween party seemed beneath him, in a way. “It’s a costume party. Everyone’s dressing up. I know how you feel about occasions that require casual clothes. I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable.”

“Who said anything about casual clothes? I will come, and I will be my true essence. I promise to make you proud, and I always keep my promises.”

“I can’t wait to see this.”

“Oh dear. I have a problem, though. I’m afraid I will need some time.” He looked up and to the right. He was calculating something. “To do what I would like to do for the party, that week I will need to cancel our Saturday walk, our Friday dinner, and our Wednesday lunch, just to be safe.”

“What? Cancel?
All
those days. I don’t think so.”

“Just this once. I must for the sake of my costume.”

“We’re going without seeing each other for six days for the sake of your
costume
? You better think again, buddy.”

“I will make it up to you, I assure you, but I need as much time as possible that week.”

“What is so important that you neglect your sweetheart for six days?”

“I’d rather not say.”

“No! You’re going to tell me! I want to be with you! I follow every one of your rules to the letter, and you don’t get to cancel on me and
then
not tell me why. You’re going to tell me, or there won’t be a Monday tea.”

“Laura, don’t make a permanent decision out of anger.”

“Just tell me what you’re going to do, and I won’t be angry! Is it something unbecoming or ungentlemanly or unchivalrous? You have to tell me. You
should defer to the lady
.”

He looked down. Then he blushed. “You are right. I should.” He swallowed. “I need to not see you on Wednesday, nor Friday, because I will not be shaving that Tuesday morning, nor the next few mornings after that. I want to grow a beard for my Halloween costume, and the thought of you looking across our table at me in its beginning stages is too much to be borne.”

I laughed so hard the table starting shaking. I knocked over a glass of water, and people around us stared. “Oh, David, you are so terribly, terribly vain! Has anyone ever told you that?”

“Sounds familiar. Perhaps they have. Now, I have very exciting plans for our cultural-stroke-social event this Sunday. It is rather big. Do you trust me?”

I wiped my eyes with my napkin. “I trust you.” Weekends were bittersweet. I spent more time with David, but in my apartment, the atmosphere was frosty. When Ruby decided to speak to me, she was still snarky and hateful to me about my sweetheart. I hoped David’s plans took me far away.

“This is really big.” He was trembling. Oh dear.

I took his hand. “It’s going to be okay. You can do this.”

He put his hand over mine. “The question is, can you? My father’s 69
^th
birthday is this Sunday. I want to go home and be with him.” He shifted in his seat, and his eyes darted around me. He took a deep breath. “Will you come with me?”

“I would love to.”

“Very good.” He was clearly relieved. “These are the arrangements. Merle and I will pick you up at noon at your apartment. We will arrive at my father’s house about 1 p.m. I’m sorry I can’t be any more precise that that. Traffic on 93 North is unpredictable.”

“I understand.”

“When we arrive we will have a light lunch. Then we will spend time with my family all afternoon. Perhaps go for a walk, whatever my father feels like doing. I did look it up, and I found out that the Patriots play the Jets at 4:30. If you wish, you can watch the game in the study. No one will mind.”

“David, I think your father’s birthday is more important than football. Even the Jets game.” I couldn’t believe I said that. I must really love this guy. Of course, I’d have my phone. I’d have the ESPN app.

David grinned. “Very good. Then, we’ll have a celebratory supper at 6:00, followed by birthday cake and gifts. Then, at 9 p.m., or earlier, if you’ve had too much, and by that time I fear you will, we’ll say goodbye to my family, and Merle and I will take you home. You will be at your doorstep by 10:30, where I will kiss you goodnight, probably several times. Is that satisfactory?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, and on the way home, it will be dark. To protect your delicate boundary, I would gently ask that you sit alone in the back seat of the car. I’ll sit up front with Merle and recite some poetry if you like.”

“Tennyson?”

“Naturally. Oh, and Laura, I need to ask you one more thing. How do you put up with my demands? You are a queen among women. Would you draw something for my father?”

“I would love to! What would you like?”

“This.” Out of his jacket pocket, he pulled out a faded photograph of an English bulldog. “My father is mad about bulldogs. He’s had them his whole life, and he’s going to adore you anyway, but it would be especially wonderful if you drew for him a five-by-seven charcoal drawing of our dog, Thames.”

“Pencil would show a lot more detail. It would look much nicer.”

“That is probably true. You know about these things better than I do. But he really does prefer charcoal. Is this too much to ask?”

“I can do this in less than an hour.”

“Excellent. I have the frame and the gift wrap, and perhaps on the way there, we can wrap it in the car. Not exactly the best arrangement, but it will have to do.”

“What is your father like? Is he anything like you?”

“You will need to prepare yourself. I don’t care for speaking ill of others; I especially don’t care for speaking ill of family nor someone I love and respect as much as my father, but he is a bit of an eccentric. He has a few obsessions.”

“Like what?”

“I already mentioned bulldogs. He’s also a tenacious believer in the Medieval feudal system and has no respect for modern democracy.”

“I don’t understand. How does one do that?”

“From what my aunt tells me, the only time he ever paid attention to American politics was in 1980 when he heard Ronald Reagan give a speech. Now, you have to understand that the finer points of partisan politics mean absolutely nothing to him; they mean little to me too. Do you know how embarrassing it is to be asked in front of your class three weeks before a national election, ‘Dr. Bowles, who are you voting for? Romney or Obama?’
And you have no idea who they’re talking about?”

“No! Really? When did that happen?”

“Yesterday. Anyway, back to my father. He saw Reagan in 1980, yelled at the television, ‘
That man is a king!
’
and went down that day to register to vote. He voted to reelect Reagan in 1984 and hasn’t voted since.”

“What does your father do now?”

“He is a retired professor of the history of the Middle Ages.”

“Where did he teach?” I expected him to say Harvard or Northeastern or BU.

David hesitated. “His last position was at the North Shore Community College in Danvers.” He looked sad about this. I decided that if I were to draw something right now it would be my sweet, tender David with a large burden on his shoulders.

“That’s not what I thought you would say.”

“I wish I didn’t have to say it. His greatest dream was to go to Oxford and teach there. But he had, some would say, radical and unsubstantiated theories about key figures in English history. As a young man, he pursued those theories with great passion, and he made headway in his research and publications.” David looked at his empty plate. He mindlessly moved his fork around it. A darkness seemed to go over him.

“But something happened.”

David looked up at something beyond me. “He lost his confidence. No one believed in him. No one. If you don’t mind very much, I’d prefer not to go into too much detail. Let’s just say that he was dismissed by most serious institutions and thought
t
o be unstable.”

“He must be pleased with your success?”

“Undoubtedly. He is immensely proud of me. Before he dies, I’d like to give him three things.”

“You’re dying to tell me what they are, aren’t you?”

The smile came back. The one that shot into me like adrenaline or caffeine or inspiration or awe. “You know me so well. I want to go to Oxford myself. I’d like to carry the torch, as it were. I also want to present to him his daughter-in-law, and lastly, which may be the most important of all, I want to name my heir after him.”

Sunday, October 21, 2012

158 Orange Street

Beverly, Massachusetts

1:16 p.m.

“I have all the confidence in the world, Laura. I know they’ll love you.”

We stood on the doorstep of David’s childhood home, and I was taken aback by the ordinariness of it. It was a typical 1950s-style Colonial in the suburbs, with a two-car garage and a jack-o-lantern on the porch. The lawn was tidy, the house paint was faded, and I heard a dog barking inside. I assumed it was Thames.

An older, dignified woman opened the door, looked at David and then at me, and screamed. “David! You’re home! You’re home! You’re home! You’re home!” She threw open the screen door and dragged us both in by our arms. She hugged David, then kissed him on the cheek, then hugged me and kissed me on the cheek, and then spun in circles and waved her arms and hugged and kissed us both again.

I thought she was utterly charming.

“Aunt Honoria, I would very much like to introduce you to my darling sweetheart, Laura Elizabeth Victoria Adamsky.”

Aunt Honoria screamed again and grabbed my face and kissed it. “Laura! You are so beautiful! You’re perfect, dearie, just perfect!” She held her hand on her mouth as if she were about to cry.

“David? Is that you? Where are you?” From around the corner came an older man, who was much shorter than David, but under his liver spots and wrinkles and grey hair he had the same distinguished features. He was wearing a tweed jacket and wool trousers, just like his son. He saw me before he saw David. He gasped. “Ah!”

“Father, this is Laura. The lady I’ve been telling you about. Laura, this is my father, Dr. Julius Arthur Bowles.”