The Pot Thief Who Studied Georgia O'Keeffe (3 page)

6

I
was tired and disillusioned by the time I finally punched Sharice's doorbell, but her radiance made it all better.

Her downtown condominium is urban chic—polished concrete floors, exposed metal beams, granite counters and enough stainless steel to build a shiny silo. You know you're in Albuquerque only if you look out the floor-to-ceiling windows toward the Sandia Mountains.

A black leather love seat, two Barcelona chairs, a glass coffee table and a matching glass dining table give a sparse look to the living room. I didn't know what the bedroom looked like because … well.

Her hard squeeze and wanton kiss made my spirits soar. Homelessness was ended in America. Everyone had a warm bed and food. All people were Honored Citizens. Buses were free for the handicapped, the uncapped and the capped.

She stepped back and twirled around to show me her back. All of it. Like every other dress in her designer collection, this one came demurely up to her neck in front. But unlike some of the others, it plunged to her waist in the back. It was made from what looked like aluminum filigree.

“It's from Alyce,” she said, as if I knew the seamstress.

“I'm not falling for that again. I thought Vera Wang was an immigrant who worked in the back of a local Chinese laundry, but now that I know your passion for designer dresses, I'm guessing Alyce is from New York.”

“Close,” she said. “Paris.”

I was in no mood to quibble, so I let slide the 3,600 miles between New York and Paris and handed her a stalk of yucca blossoms, elected by New Mexico schoolchildren in 1927 as the State flower, and known around here as
las velas de la Virgen
—the candles of the Virgin.

She took me by the hand. “I want to show you something.”

She led me to the kitchen, opened the fridge and pointed to a bottle of Gruet Blanc de Noir.

“We'll have this with dessert.”

“Which is?”

She flashed a devastating smile. “That depends on how the evening goes. Are you up for a night on the town?”

“Sure. I said I wanted to show you off as soon as I got rid of the cast.”

She took my hands in hers. “That's sweet, Hubie. But remember what I told you. Some people will be unhappy to see us together.”

“And remember what I told you, some people are—”

“I know—so unhappy about immigration issues that they won't like you dating a Canadian. I love that you take the high road, but you can't ignore the fact that I'm black and you're white.”

“Actually, you're a fascinating shade of sepia and I'm a boring beige.”

She handed me her jacket. “I'm taking you to Blackbird Buvette.”

I'd walked by the place but never gone in because the customers look like characters in a B-grade film. On top of that, I didn't know what a buvette was. What would I say when an employee asked if she could help me? I'd like a massage? A puff on a hookah? A size-7 pith helmet?

Turns out it's a French word for a bar. I guess Sharice chose the place because she's from Montreal. It also has that edgy modern look she favors. Like her apartment, which she describes as form following function, whatever that means.

She clung to my arm during the walk. Most people just ignored the mixed couple. A few smiled at us. Albuquerque is generally a tolerant place. I wasn't worried about anyone making a scene.

But that's exactly what happened as I was taking the first bite of my green chile stew. A black guy wearing a black T-shirt over black jeans sauntered up to our table, looked at Sharice, flicked his thumb in my direction and said, “You can do better than him, sister.”

I thought he was probably right, but I hoped she didn't.

Sharice replied, “
T'as une tête à faire sauter les plaques d'égouts
.”

The guy turned to me as if I were suddenly his ally and said, “Huh?”

“She doesn't speak English,” I said. It seemed like the thing to say.

“Who are you?”

“Her translator.”

“Yeah? Ask her if she'd like an English lesson. I speak it good.”

I looked at Sharice and said, “
En croûte flambée crème anglaise
.”

She burst into laughter and said, “
Je préfère manger un torchon
.”

“What did she say?”

“I can't tell you.”

He put his palms on the table and leaned into me with a mean smile. “Sure you can.”

In fact, I couldn't. I don't speak French.

He bent in even closer as if performing push-ups on the tabletop, his biceps bulging as he lowered himself. The guy tending bar came out from behind it and was assessing the situation.

“She said you look like a hockey player.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“I have no idea. I'm just the translator. French-Canadians have an odd sense of humor.”

He stared at us for a moment. “Her loss,” he said, and walked away. The bartender returned to his post.

“That was quick thinking, answering him in French. What was that first thing you said?”

“I said he has a face that could blow off a manhole cover.”

I laughed, and she told me it's a common French-Canadian insult. Then she asked if I knew what I'd said.

“Sure. I said, ‘In crust flamed English cream.'”

“Yeah, but why?”

“I had to say something. So I strung together some French words.”

“And you threw in
anglaise
because you thought he might recognize the French word for
English
?”

“It was the best I could do at the spur of the moment.”

“But why those particular words?”

“I learned them when I worked in a restaurant.”

“You worked in a French restaurant?”

“No, an Austrian one called Schnitzel. But they still used French words. What was that second thing you said?”

“I said I'd rather eat a dishrag.”

“Another French-Canadian insult?”

She nodded. “Here's another one you should learn:
nègre
.”

“Does that mean what I think it means?”

“It does.”

“You hear that much?”

“Occasionally. Usually when the speaker doesn't know I'm a francophone.”

She ate a bit of her green apple and walnut salad.

I spooned my stew. It was lukewarm.

“You okay?” she asked.

“Sure.” I smiled at her. “I won't mind if you say you told me so.”

“You said we shouldn't even acknowledge it.”

“That's easy for me to say. No one has ever called me a
blanc
.”

She giggled. “How do you know that word? Wait, let me guess—
buerre blanc
.”

“I learned a lot of French words as a garçon.”

“A garçon? I assumed you were the chef. I love your cooking.”

“Thanks. I was at Schnitzel just to make plates, but I got pressed into service.”

When I finally asked the waitress for our check, she said, “It's on the house. Sorry about that incident.”

“It wasn't the restaurant's fault.”

“We want everyone to enjoy this place. We don't think they should pay if they don't. Doesn't matter what the reason is.”

I left her a big tip.

7

W
hen she told me the dessert was beavertails, I figured it was more of that strange French-Canadian sense of humor.

Turns out it's a common Canadian dessert. No beavers are harmed during the preparation of the dish.

It's basically a buñuelo—fried dough sprinkled with sugar and cinnamon. The Canadian version gets its name from the shape of the pastry. Sharice's was fancier than its New Mexican cousin because she drizzled it with maple syrup and melted butter after it came out of the frying oil.

It was a good thing the Gruet was cold and dry.

We chatted about the beavertails and the champagne. We made small talk. No further mention was made of the incident at the café. She seemed nervous. I probably wasn't my happy-go-lucky self either, because I was struggling with whether to discuss what happened or just let it pass.

I decided the best course of action was to go home. “Thanks for the beavertails and the Gruet. What a great combo. It's late and—”

She was shaking her head. “I don't want you to go.”

Normally, those words would have revved my pulse, but her face was filled with anxiety.

“Remember that day I gave you a black toothbrush to keep at your place for me just in case?”

“You want me to run home and bring it back? Even better, you want me to run home and bring
mine
back?”

She giggled. “I said there was something I needed to tell you.”

“You're going to tell me now?”

Her anxious look reappeared. “No. I'm going to show you.”

She took my hand and led me into her bedroom. Forget the anxiety on her face—my pulse was racing.

“Stand here.”

She slid the dimmer switch to low then positioned herself so that the bed was between us. She turned her back to me. She unhooked a catch behind her neck. The dress fell to the floor. I already knew she wasn't wearing a bra, since Alyce of Paris had forgotten to sew a back on the dress and there was no place for any strap to hide.

The sight of Sharice naked save for white drawstring panties made it difficult to stay where she had put me, but I didn't want to spoil whatever she had in mind.

Her shoulders rose and fell from several deep breaths. Then she turned to me and I understood why her designer dresses reveal so much of her limbs and back and so little of her chest. Her petite right breast was perfect.

The scar where the left one had been was surprisingly small. She was shaking.

“Wow. You took your dress off. Does this mean we're finally going to have sex?”

“I'm showing you my scar, Hubie. It's awful.”

“You think that's awful? That's nothing. Let me show you something really gross.”

I took off my pants and hoisted my right leg onto the bed. “Look at that ankle. Did you ever see anything so disgusting in your whole life? It looks like I got a transplant from a mannequin. It's like something you might see immersed in a vat of formaldehyde in a biology lab. It looks like a slab of pork fat before it's fried into chicharrones.”

It just came to me. Don't ask why, because I don't know. Having a tendency to react differently from most people is bad enough. But pair that with the lack of enough sense to keep those bizarre reactions to myself, and I frequently face Embarrassing Moments.

I clasped my hands together under my knee and swung my leg off the bed as if it were an inanimate object.

Then I looked up to see Sharice crying and thought, What an idiot I am. She's just done something incredibly difficult and courageous, and I'm acting the clown.

But she wasn't crying. Well, maybe a little. But mostly she was laughing. And she came around the bed and put her arms around me. We stayed in that embrace for several minutes. I didn't speak, because I was relieved that she hadn't been offended by my reaction, and I didn't want to press my luck.

“Will you stay with me tonight? I don't want to have sex. I just want you to hold me.”

I pushed her away and smiled at her. “Is this a test of my willpower?”

“No. When it comes to me, I hope you have no willpower at all. It's just that I have a lot of things to deal with, and I have to do it one at a time.”

“So should I go home and get those toothbrushes?”

“I'm a dental hygienist, silly. I have a whole box full of new ones.”

Even though Sharice has seen more of the inside of my mouth than I have, it felt strange to be brushing, flossing and gargling with her. At least she didn't have that blue lab coat on. In fact, the only thing either of us had on at that point was underpants.

She took hers off before sliding under the covers. I took that as an invitation to follow suit.

After a long kiss, she said good night and rolled over onto her right side, a good move on her part because her wish that I have no willpower was coming true.

My right arm was under her neck, my right hand clasping hers. She found my left hand and placed it over her scar. I embraced her from behind, gently massaging the scar, hoping to palpate away any bad memories that might remain in her warm, lithe body.

We tossed and turned a bit but continued to snuggle because the windows were open and it was freezing cold.

At one point during the night, she felt my hands on her chest again and said, “It doesn't bother you?”

“No. I always sleep with the windows open.”

She gave me a playful jab. “You know what I mean.”

“The first time I saw you in Dr. Batres's office, you were so striking that I tried to picture you without any clothes on.”

“Men.”

“Yeah, we're all animals. When you dropped your dress tonight, the reality was a lot better than my imagination.”

“Except in your imagination, you probably pictured me with two breasts.”

“Neither of which was as cute as the one I'm touching now.”

“But the left—”

“This is just a wild guess, but I'm going to say it was just like the right one. So reality is still better than imagination.”

She kissed me, then turned and nodded off. After I lifted the covers on my side to let in some much-needed cold air, I finally did the same.

8

W
hen I awoke the next morning, she was propped on her pillow smiling at me. “You're a sound sleeper.”

I stretched while acknowledging as much. “How did you sleep?”

“Pretty good, considering your pesky little friend kept poking at me.”

I felt my face glow red. “Sorry. I tried to think pure thoughts. I guess you have to go to work now.”

“No. This is one of my ten-to-seven days. I planned a special breakfast for us.”

“So you knew all along I'd be spending the night?”

“I was hoping you wouldn't turn me down.”

She called the breakfast salmon Benedict. It was smoked salmon topped with a poached egg over a toasted English muffin slathered in béarnaise sauce dotted with capers, about as far from my traditional
desayuno
of huevos rancheros as Montreal is from Albuquerque. But it went just as well with the leftover Gruet.

After breakfast, she roasted green coffee beans. I was surprised it took only five minutes in her special roaster. The aroma was so good that grinding and brewing seemed almost superfluous. Until she foamed some milk and gave me the best cappuccino I've ever tasted. I've never been a fan of fancy coffees, but I knew I could get hooked on Sharice's cappuccino.

She sat her empty cup down and said, “I'm going to tell you about my mastectomy.”

“This is one of those things you need to do one at a time?”

“Yes. The second one. It will be a lot easier than the first one. After I tell you, we are never to speak of it again.”

I nodded.

She looked me in the eyes. “The worst part wasn't the cancer. The worst part wasn't losing a breast. The worst part was the treatment. Everyone has side effects from chemotherapy. A lucky few have mild reactions. For most people, it's agony. For a small number of us, it goes beyond agony. I had a severe reaction to a drug called docetaxel. It sent me to the ER and then to the ICU for a week. It was so bad that I was disappointed I survived. They tried a lower dose the second time, but the result was just as bad. In addition to diarrhea, vomiting, trouble breathing, and throat swelling, my lips and mouth were so covered with sores that it was too painful to brush my teeth.”

Her stare softened into a grin. “That was the worst part.”

While we drank a second cappuccino, she told me about the rest of her grueling ordeal and how her bout with breast cancer brought her to Albuquerque.

She left for work. I volunteered to stay and do the dishes. Then I walked home singing “Fly Me to the Moon.”