Falling for Your Madness (2 page)

“Of course it’s good for you. All poetry is good for you, but Tennyson is like fresh vegetables.” He had been sitting on his hands since we entered the tunnel, and now he slipped one out and moved over a little closer to me.

The driver turned around and whacked him in the arm. “David! Stop it! The boundaries! Say your Tennyson!”

David looked panicked. “I’m so sorry, Laura.” He moved back over to his side of the car, stuck his hands under his thighs and looked at me. “I would do much better if you said it with me.”

“I would love to.” I sat on my hands too, clung to my side of the car, for some inexplicable reason, and said with David,

“Forward the Light Brigade!

Was there a man dismay’d?

Not though the soldier knew

Someone had blundered.

Theirs not to make reply,

Theirs not to reason why,

There’s but to do and die,

Into the Valley of Death

Rode the six hundred.”

The message of the poem was not lost on me. I was in a Crown Victoria, under the Boston Harbor, driven by a short man in a yellow Nehru jacket, next to an Englishman who was sitting on his hands reciting Tennyson. Like the soldiers, I had no idea where I was going, nor did I know what the future held. This ride home was sheer madness.

I liked it.

Sunday, September 16, 2012

332 Babcock Street

Brookline, Massachusetts

7:18 p.m.

Apparently, one only recited Tennyson when one was underwater, because when the car came out of the tunnel and maneuvered into the Back Bay to get to Beacon Street into Brookline, David had opened his eyes and pulled his hands out from under his legs. He asked me questions all the way to my apartment building.

“You said your father told you that reciting poetry was good for you. Why would he say that?”

“He’s an artist. He’s always told me that if I want to be a great artist, I needed to fill up and look. By filling up he means doing a lot of reading, especially good books, not junk. Go to museums, listen to music. At some point you’ll be so filled up that you’ll overflow, and you will create great art. Or great web design and illustrations in my case.”

“That is extremely interesting. And what does he mean by
look
?”

“He means that great artists take the time to see what no one else can see. You have to practice it.”

“You father sounds very wise.”

The car stopped in front of my building. David sighed. “It is unfortunate that we at our final destination. But, wait here.” He opened his door, got out, walked around to my door, opened it, offered his hand, and helped me out of the car. “There was a tea room about three blocks away. We passed it on our way here. Are you familiar with it?”

“Yes, I walk by it on my way to the T.”

“Would you meet me there tomorrow at 3:30? I would like to buy you a cup. And perhaps a scone too?”

“That sounds nice.” Is he asking me out? “Yes.”

“And Laura, would you bring your book? I would love to see your illustrations.”

Sunday, September 16, 2012

332 Babcock Street

Brookline, Massachusetts

9:40 p.m.

“How was the party? Did you hear from Trey?”

My roommate, Ruby, and her boyfriend, Russ, had just come home from a movie. They had successfully weaseled out of Clive’s birthday party.

Now I remembered. I was mad at Trey. “Didn’t Trey stand right here and say, ‘Laura-loo, I’m going to call you this weekend and we’ll get together!’ Didn’t he say that? Or did I just make all that up?” I gathered my things out of the living room in case Ruby and Russ wanted some privacy. But if they were going to argue, I secretly hoped they’d take it into her room. I never knew what to expect with them.

Russ flopped on the couch. “Don’t worry about it. Guys say stuff like that all the time.”

Ruby half-slapped him on his head. “That doesn’t make it right. So, you didn’t hear from Trey, but you forgot all about him because you met your dream man at Julie’s party.”

“How’d you know?”

“What? Really? I was just kidding. You met somebody?”

“Well, I did. But he’s kind of strange. And I don’t know about the dream man part. He is tall and good-looking in an unusual way. And he has a driver. And I’m meeting him for tea tomorrow. His name’s David, and he works with Brandon at BC. Hey, have you ever heard of Professor Bowles in the English department?”

Ruby was getting a degree in counseling there. “No, but that doesn’t mean anything.”

“Look him up.” Russ flipped channels on the remote.

“Wait a minute, Laura. What about Trey?”

I sighed. “Trey. Oh yeah. I guess if I were important to Trey, he’d do a better job of acting like it. Besides, it’s just tea. It’s not like I’m marrying David or anything.”

“Oh yeah! Let’s look him up!” Ruby set her laptop on the kitchen table.

David Bowles, at least
this
David Bowles, wasn’t on Facebook, MySpace, or Twitter. His only Google hits were professional ones connected to Harvard, Yale, and BC, and one very obscure one about the Harvard fencing team from 2002. Then we went to
ratemyprofessor.com
.

His former students said: “
One of the hardest and most interesting classes I have taken. I didn’t think I would like poetry and I still don’t love it, but Dr. Bowles made me realize it was about the relationships men have with women. I’m looking at the world differently now. I would definitely take his class again. Dr. Bowles is tough, but he’s interesting, funny at times, and I could listen to his accent all day
.”

Another one said: “
While I disagreed with Professor Bowles about some of the conclusions he came to from the material, and there was a LOT of material to read, I thought that he graded fairly and communicated clearly his expectations for the class. But I think he’s crazy.
"

This one intrigued me: “
Does the guy ever stop talking about chivalry? He is obsessed. But I guess you have to love your subject matter. I hated his class only because he made me feel guilty about what I did over the weekend. I take a class to get a credit, not to be told how to live my life.
”

“What does that mean,
made me feel guilty
?” Ruby looked at me as if I knew.

“I don’t have a clue.”

“You’re going to tea tomorrow. Look at this one.”

“Why isn’t this guy married?”

“Um, Laura, has Mr. Baseball ever had that question asked of him?”

Monday, September 17, 2012

The Boston Tea Party Tea Shop

1477 Beacon Street

Brookline, Massachusetts

3:35 p.m.

When we arrived at the table, David pulled my chair out for me and did not sit down until I did. He held a daisy.

“For you.”

“Thank you.”

“No. Thank you for coming. I would like to continue our conversation from yesterday. I found it so delightful.”

“I love that word.” It was. He was.

He laughed. “You brought your book. May I see it?”

This was that part that I couldn’t figure out. He was so gallant and formal, and I
did
get this vibe from him that he was attracted to me. I certainly was to him. But why would he want to see my book? That was something that potential clients or employers wanted. I am always looking for another job, and I was glad to bring it, but I was kind of hoping that David’s interest in me wasn’t commercial.

He took it from me and opened it across the table. He didn’t flip through it. He
studied
it. I was nervous and thrilled all at the same time. I kept looking for signs of approval or something. He didn’t say anything. He just smiled and sometimes touched the pages gently. “I really like this one.” He pointed to one of my favorites.

It was the piece I did for a book of fairy tales. It was fun and full of light, and while I didn’t get paid nearly what it was worth, and I always regretted that particular professional connection, the drawing was one of my favorites.

“This is lovely. You are very sensitive.”

“Thank you.”

“And yet also whimsical.” He turned the page and looked at the penguins. I had a series of penguins that I had put on an online site. They were very simple, yet their eyes were full of expression and mischief. “And I see your humor. How delightful. How lovely. How impressive. Why did you become an artist?”

“I wouldn’t know how to do anything else. My father taught me a lot. He would hold up objects and say, ‘Laura, what do you see? It’s not an apple,’ he would say, ‘it is a specific shape. See the curves, they aren’t perfect. See the lighting? See the lines on the skin and the little bruise here? To be an artist means you must take every last detail with your eyes so you can recreate it on the paper. There’s kind of a magic to it.’
This always inspired me.”

David leaned in over the table. “Please tell me more.”

I felt myself blush. “Sometimes he would be in his studio for days. ‘That muse of mine is abusing me. She won’t let me eat. She won’t let me sleep. She just wants my full attention. It’s a good thing your mother is so patient.’ Whenever he said that, I always got a little jealous.”

“You wanted more of his attention?”

“Not necessarily. I wanted to be a part of the magic. Does that make sense?”

He turned pale. Then he gulped down his tea. He didn’t look well at all.

“Are you okay?”

“Never better.” He closed my book and handed it back to me. “Laura, I think you are a perfect candidate for a project I’m working on. But I can’t tell you about it today. I want you to be back at your desk working by five o’clock. There’s a cafe down Beacon Street, across the street from the St. Paul T stop. Would you meet me there on Wednesday for lunch? From noon to two? Perhaps we can talk about it further?”

“Do you need an illustrator?” I hoped not. But then, I’d rarely had anyone so engrossed in my book before.

“Not in the least. What I need is someone who is expressive and tender. Someone who fully appreciates beauty. I saw that in you through your book. You’ll forgive me if I am distracted.” He was staring at me, in kind of a hopeful, innocent, admiring way. I liked it. “I could look at this lovely book all day.”

Wednesday, September 19, 2012

The Rising Agent Bakery and Cafe

1111 Beacon Street

Brookline, Massachusetts

11:57 a.m.

On Wednesday, I walked from my apartment to the cafe to meet David. I kept telling myself,
this meeting is just for a job.
He was an eccentric who wanted me to illustrate his life story or something. I would ask for cash up front and then more when everything was completed. He struck me as the type of man who would micromanage every little bit of work, who may change his mind a million times or something crazy like that. If I felt weird, or felt like it was too intense, I could always say no.

Ruby was completely dissatisfied with this conclusion. It was no secret that she didn’t like Trey, and I believed she just wanted me to find someone else. Anyone else.

As for me, I didn’t know what I wanted. I agreed Trey wasn’t the greatest guy in the world, but I didn’t know if David was any better. I couldn’t figure David Bowles out. There was something between us, at least I thought there was. He
had
asked Brandon about me, and that had to count for something. But I had no more information about him than I did on Monday.

His car, the black Crown Victoria, was parked on the street between me and the restaurant. That funny little driver was in it. Maybe he could clear up who David was and what he wanted. I approached the car and tapped on the driver’s side window.

Merle rolled down the window. “Hello, Miss Laura. May I be of some assistance?”

“Yes. What is David like?”

“He is a gentleman.”

“That’s great. But as a boss, do you find him easy to work for?”

He laughed. I took that as a no. “David has his way of doing things.” Merle’s glasses slid down his nose, and he peered at me over them. “He’s a bit of an eccentric. He cannot bend the rules he has put on himself. If you can understand that, then you can understand him. It is not easy. Not at all. But he is kind and generous and honest.”