Wild Roses (4 page)

The sound of bike wheels on gravel might not
have been out of the ordinary, but Dog William (versus Human William) barking
crazily at the sound was unusual. I pulled up my blinds and here is what I saw:
the curve of our gravel road, and the line of maple trees on each
side

27

framing the figure in the center. I saw a boy
about my age, in a long black coat, the tails flapping out behind him, with a
violin in a black case in a side compartment. I saw a yellow dog running
alongside him grinning, his tongue hanging out in a display of dog
joy.

I cannot tell you what that moment did to me.
That boy's face--it just looked so open. It was as if I recognized it, that
sense he had--expectation and vulnerability. He looked so hopeful, so full of
all of the possibilities of a perfect day where a yellow dog runs beside you.
The boy's black hair was shining in the sun and his hands gripped the handlebars
against the unsteadiness of the bike on the dirt road. Are there ever adequate
words for this experience? When you are suddenly overwhelmed by a wave of
feeling, a knowing, when you are drawn to someone in this way? With the strength
of the unavoidable? I don't know what it was about him and not someone else. I
really don't know, because I'm sure a thousand people could have ridden up that
road and I would not be abruptly consumed with a longing that felt less like
seeing someone for the first time than it did meeting once more after a long
time apart.

I watched him as he veered into our driveway,
causing a snoozing Otis to bolt awake and flee maniacally across the lawn. What
was he doing here? He was about my age, but I'd never seen him before. Was this
a Dino pilgrimage? A fan wanting his violin signed? He parked his bike, set it
on its side on the ground. He said something to his dog, who looked up at him as
if they'd just agreed about something.

28

The boy lifted his violin case. He ran his
fingertips along it, as if making sure it was okay--a gentle touch, a caring
that made me rattle the blind back down and sit on the floor suddenly like the
wind had been knocked out of me.

Here is something you need to know about me. I
am not a Hallmark card, ooh-ah romance, Valentine-y love kind of person. My
parents' divorce and my one other experience of love (Adam Peterson, who I
really cared about. Okay, I told him I loved him. We hugged, held hands. He told
me I was beautiful. He told half the school we had sex.) has knocked the
white-lace-veil vision right out of me. Love seems to be something to approach
with caution, as if you'd come across a wrapped box in the middle of the street
and have no idea what it contains. A bomb, maybe. Or a million dollars. I wasn't
even sure what the meaning of the word was. Love? I loved my telescope. I loved
looking out at the depth of the universe and contemplating its whys. But love
with someone else, an actual person, was another matter. People got hurt doing
that. People cried and wrapped their arms around themselves and rocked with
loss. Loving words got turned to fierce, sharp, whip-cracks of anger that left
permanent marks. At the least, it disappointed you. At most, it damaged you. No,
thank you.

So I sat down on that floor and grabbed my snow
globe, the one that had a bear inside. I have no idea where I got it; it's just
something I've always liked and have had forever. Just a single bear in the
snow. He used to be anchored to the bottom, but now he just floated aimlessly
around, and maybe that's why I liked him so much. I

29

related. I turned it upside down, let him float
and drift as the snow came down, down. Oh shit, I thought. Holy shit. My heart
was actually thumping around in some kind of heaving-bosom movie-version of
love. I could actually hear it. God, I never even came close to experiencing
anything like this for Adam Peterson, and look where that got me. I breathed
deeply, but it was like a magnet had been instantly surgically implanted in my
body, drawing everything inside of me toward that person out there.

My headache had hit the road, replaced with
some super energy surge. I told myself I was insane and an idiot and a complete
embarrassment to my own self. The snow settled down around the bottom of the
globe as the poor bear just floated, his head hitting the top of the glass as if
in heartfelt but hopeless desire to rise above his limited world. I got back up
and peeked out the blinds. The yellow dog sat on the sidewalk with the most
patient expression I'd ever seen on animal or human--just peace and acceptance
with his waiting, appreciating the chance to enjoy what might pass his way. The
boy had come inside, I guess. And then it finally occurred to me--he'd come
inside. True enough, there were voices downstairs. I opened my door a crack,
heard Dog William being forcibly removed from the house, his toenails sliding
against the wood floor.

"We'll work in my study." Dino.

"Can I get you or your dog something to drink?"
Mom asked.

"That'd be great--my dog would love some
water," the boy said.

30

"What's his name?" Mom again. "He's a she.
Rocket."

"Shall we not waste valuable time?" Dino said.
You should have heard his tone of voice. That's what could really piss you off.
I sent a silent curse his way, that his tongue would turn black and fall out. I
heard my mother fish around in the cupboard, probably for a bowl for the water.
My heart was doing a happy leap, prancing around in a meadow of flowers, tra la
la, without my permission. His dog's name was Rocket. I liked astronomy. It was
that thing you do when you first fall in love. Where you think you must be soul
mates because you each get hungry at lunch time and both blink when a large
object is thrown your way.

I started to put the pieces together. Boy with
violin, Dino and his study. Maybe Dino was giving him some kind of lesson. But
Dino wasn't a teacher. First, the best music teachers weren't necessarily
virtuoso players. I knew that. Teachers are usually teachers and players are
players. As far as I knew, Dino had never taken a student before. But more
importantly, Dino didn't have the patience instructing would require. He would
get irritated when he couldn't figure out how to turn on the television, for
God's sake. You'd think he of all people could locate a power button.

I got a little worried for that boy now, alone
with Dino in his office. I went downstairs, caught Mom coming back inside from
giving Rocket her water. She had little gold dog hairs on her black
skirt.

"What's going on?"

"Dino's taking a student," she said to
me.

31

A student. He was going to be Dino's student. I
thought about what this would mean. He'd be coming back. And back again. I
swallowed. Wished my jeans were a size smaller. Wished my hair was something
other than brown, that I had a better haircut. Shorter, longer. Anything other
than medium length. I forced the casual back into my voice. 'Why's he taking a
student? He's not a teacher."

"Well, one, because the opportunity came up,
and two, the boy needed someone."

"Dino's not exactly patient," I
said.

"He's a master. The boy's lucky to have him.
And Dino's not charging a cent. A friend of Dr. Milton's set him up." Dr. Milton
was Dino's psychiatrist. "God, I'm starving. It's a good thing I'm not home
during the day. I'd weigh three hundred pounds." Mom rooted around in the
cupboards.

Dino teaching for free surprised me. I knew how
he glared when I threw away a bread crust. "That's generous of Dino," I
said.

"Well, they both get something out of it.
Andrew Wilkowski's got this deal in the works with Dino's old record company and
the Seattle Symphony. He's got to have three pieces ready to perform for a taped
concert to be held in March. He's got two that he started a long while back, but
they need more work. I guess the composing has been torture in the past and he's
only got six months."

"So, what, the student helps him?"

"Aha!" she said, and held up the last Pop-Tart
she

32

found. She removed it from the foil, threw away
the empty box, and took a bite without bothering to warm it up. "No, the student
doesn't help literally. The lessons just provide a structured
environment--another focus, a place he's got to be. They're trying to avoid all
of this open time spent obsessing about creating and not creating."

"Maybe he should pay the student,
then."

Mom devoured the Pop-Tart like Dog William
devours a . . . well, anything. "Ian needs Dino. That's his name. Ian Waters.
He's preparing for an audition that's coming a couple of weeks before Dino's
concert. Sometime in March, too, I think. You know who he really should have?
Someone like Ginny Briggs. He's that good, from what I hear. But you've got to
mortgage your house to get her."

"What's he auditioning for? The youth
symphony?" I asked. It was a hopeful question. If he was that good the answer
could be Julliard, which meant he was heading to New York.

"No. Curtis."

"Wow," I said. My heart sank. It more than
sank; it seemed to clutch up and evaporate. The Curtis Institute of Music. Only
the best of the best went there. Better than Julliard, lots of people thought.
Every student was on full scholarship. He was heading to
Philadelphia.

"Yeah. Ian was asked to perform at the Spoleto
Festival in Italy last year. He was only sixteen. You know who else performed
there at that age."

"Clifford, the Big Red Dog?" I guessed. "No,
wait. Donny Osmond."

33

"Very funny," Mom said.

"Is it George Jetson?" I'm sorry, but it just
always bugged me how everyone was supposed to know Dino's entire history. Dino
composed his first piece of music at twelve. Dino made his first armpit fart on
June 12, 1958.

"Okay. Never mind," Mom said. "You
asked."

"No, I'm sorry. Okay? I'm sorry."

"Anyway," Mom said. She paused for a moment,
deciding whether to forgive my brattiness. "That's why he's taking Ian on. He
and his mother moved here when she lost her job. From California. You know that
little house by the ferry terminal? Shingles? The one that used to put the
sleigh in the yard at Christmas?"

"And keep it there until spring?
Yeah."

"They moved in there. Whitney Bell taught him
in California. For little or nothing."

"He'll be going to my school."

"Kids like that don't go to school. They have
tutors. They learn at home. He's probably working on his GED now. They get into
college early. More time for the music. I think the plan is, he applies in March
and if all goes well, he moves to Philadelphia in June."

"Lucky," I said. Nine months. That's as long as
he was going to be here.

"I don't know. This prodigy business . . . look
at Dino. The ultimate love-hate relationship with that violin. I hope this
teaching really does help. He'll have to start writing, and he hasn't picked up
his instrument in weeks."

"Or his socks," I said. Lately, whenever Dino
arrived in

34

the front door, his shoes and socks would come
off immediately. They lay in the entryway like they'd just had a thoroughly
exhausting experience.

"He always went barefoot growing up. It's hot
in Italy."

Italy, Italy. That was another thing you got
sick of hearing about in our house. How much better it was than evil and
endlessly annoying America. How Italy had per capita more beautiful and
intelligent people than here, how they invented the human brain, how they could
take over the world using fettuccine noodles as weapons if they wanted
to.

"Well, I hope Dino's nice to him," I
said.

"I know."

"So that's why you're home early."

"Just keeping an eye on things."

It was my personal opinion that my mother
didn't have a relationship as much as she had a babysitting job.

Mom went upstairs, probably reading my mind and
trying to prove me wrong. From the kitchen I couldn't hear anything coming from
Dino's office. I lingered outside the door for a while, listening to the rumbles
of conversation without the definition of actual words, and then I heard the
tuning of a violin. I did something I shouldn't have. I sat down right there
with my back against the door so that I could hear better. They discussed music,
what piece the boy should begin with, and then he began to play.

I can tell you that I have heard Dino play many
times, and have heard the best of his performances on his

35

recordings. As I've said, they send chills down
your spine, even for someone like me who still chuckles when some musician
mentions the G string or the A hole. Dino's playing was a storm thrashing waves
against rocks; all of the earth's emotion jammed into a cloth bag, then suddenly
released.

But Ian Waters's playing was different. It was
tender as that hand brushing the violin case, as open as his face as he rode
down that road with the maple trees on either side. There was a clarity, a
newness. A hopefulness that made your throat get tight with what could be
tears.