Pure Red (14 page)

meat pie ufo

It d
awns on me, when I crutch into the condo at seven thirty after eating w
ith Liz, that Dad said we’d have dinner together tonight. I never answered him, but still, you’d think he’d
be here, slaving away in the kitchen. I’m stuffed, so it’s a good thing he’s not here. Plus, I’m pissed at him.

Only when I get out of the shower at eight thirty do I realize he is home. I put on a pair of crimson pajamas, actually the top from one set and the bottom from another, and plunk down in front of the TV.

“Ah,
ma jolie.
” Dad’s standing in front of me, holding a spatula and wearing the apron I bought him last Christmas.
Kiss the Cook
. Nice try.

I don’t feel pretty, so I don’t answer him. Instead, my eyes are locked in a dead heat with Will Jackson from the new show
Splitsville
until he turns to kiss his girlfriend.

Dad finally gets the picture and heads back to the kitchen. “Dinner will be ready in five,
ma cherie
.”

I look at the clock on the DVD player: 8:50. Does he think I’ve waited this long to eat?

As the credits are rolling on
Splitsville
, Dad calls me to the kitchen. The table in there only has two seats, so I guess there’s no chance someone else is going to save me.

Even though I’m still pretty full from China Moon, the food does smell good, so I shuffle over to the kitchen without my crutches.

I pick at my ravioli and watch Dad slurp down his.

Finally he looks up from his plate. “Aren’t you hungry?”

“It’s a little late.” I point to the microwave clock. “I ate with L
iz at five.”

“Yeah, I tried to get out of the gallery early today, but it got very busy.”

“Sure.” I make an impression in the ravioli’s skin with the tines of my fork.

Dad gets up to refill his plate. “So, did you see all the construction going on at the new high-rise? Those apartments are going to be svelte.”

“Svelte?” He’s definitely trying too hard to make everything seem normal when really we’re less than two weeks away from Mom’s fortieth birthday. Which, I just realized, happens to be on the same day as our most important basketball game—the game that decides whether we make the finals or not
.

“Yes, it means … ”

I clank my fork down onto the plate. “I know what svelte means, but nobody uses that stupid word anymore. It’s embarrassing.”

“You can take a man out of France, but not France out of the man.” Dad laughs so hard I think he’s going to pop a vein in his neck.

I cover my face with my hands and shake my head.
Urggh.
What does Graham see in him?

Dad holds up a ravioli with his fork. “Ravioli is an amazing thing. If you let it boil a second too long, it will burst, and a second too short, it’s not edible. And it’s no good the second day.”

I push my fork deeper into the ravioli’s skin. I pierce through to the other side. “Your daughter’s no good the second day either,” I blurt out.

Dad’s patting his chin with a cloth napkin, and then it just falls to the ground. “Listen, Cassia. Is this about the painting in the closet?”

“No, it’s about the skeletons in the closet.”

Dad’s jaw drops. I can’t believe I said that. I can hear Liz cheering me on in the background:
You go, gir
l
!
But I can hear Lucien in the other corner:
Your dad loves you more than you’ll ever know
. But I’m tired of this charade. It’s bad enough growing up without a mom, but it’s even worse with only a few memories to hold on to.

Dad struggles for words. “Ahh, Cassia, I … I … I … ”

Then the doorbell buzzes. Whoever it is got past security downstairs.

Dad eyes the door, then me. “Just answer it,” I say, and get up from the table. I pick up his ravioli-stained napkin on the way out and throw it in the trash. Who has time to bleach it clean, anyway?

–––––

I turn on my stereo to drown out our mystery guest. Even if it’s the cable guy, I don’t want to see him. I think of calling Graham, and every reason not to. He hates me. He’s watching reruns of
Cops
. He’s having quiet time with his mom after his little brother goes to bed. There’s a purple sale at Macy’s … I stop after that one and dial his number. At this point my day couldn’t possibly suck any more than it already has.

“Psychic hotline,” the person on the other end answers.

“Huh?” I plunk down at my desk. “Oh, sorry, wrong number.”

I’m about to hang up but the voice stops me. “Cassia? It’s me. Graham.” He laughs. Guess I threw my sense of humor away with the cloth napkin.

“Oh, right,” I say, flustered. “I wanted to apologize for today. Sorry I blew up at my dad in front of you.”

“Don’t worry, I have parents too.” I hear a soft knocking on my bedroom door. What happened to the mystery guest? I pretend not to hear. Then Dad whispers, “It was just Mr. Alvarez from 1201.”

Phew. Hell-ga doesn’t have an in with the doorman.

“Right.” I swallow hard. “
I
only have one parent.”

“I didn’t mean … ”

“It’s okay. I know you were just trying to make me feel better.” I hear Dad clomping back down the hall.

“It was stupid of me to show you the painting in the closet.”

I straighten out the collection of ceramic dogs on my bureau. I arrange them in order from smallest to biggest. “I’m glad you did. My dad and I have gotten by for so long mentioning my mom as little as possible. I’m sick of it. I want to know everything about her.”

“Well, your dad seemed pretty shaken up. Don’t be mad, but I told him you were upset about the unfinished painting in the closet. He kept on saying he thinks about finishing it all the time.”

How can I be mad at Graham? He was only trying to help.

“I’m not mad.” I pick up a pencil from my desk and start doodling hearts up and down the margins of my notebook.

He takes a deep breath. “Good, because I didn’t know what else to say. Lucien came by after you left and they were talking about a time when all four of you went to the beach. Your dad took a whole roll of film of you and your mom. Your mom got so annoyed with the camera that you guys threw wet sand at him and chased him all over the beach.”

I laugh. “We packed the wet balls of sand tight and called them meat pies.” I scribble a meat pie on the page and a smaller one next to it. They look more like UFOs.

“You’re making me hungry,” Graham says.

“I can do that to people,” I laugh.

“I knew there was something different about you.”

“For real?”

“Yeah, sure. So many girls I’ve known turn out to be superficial. All they care about is looks. You’re much deeper than that
. Nice.”

I’ll ignore the “so many girls” part and focus on me. He said I’m deep and nice. “Thanks, I think.”

“Trust me, it’s a compliment.”

My heart beats fast. It’s now or never. “Hey, do you want to grab a bite to eat tomorrow?”

“Where?” he asks.

“Well, I haven’t thought about it, but … ”
China Moon, third table from the back where the light is dim, but we can still stare into each other’s eyes. The perfect table for a kiss, far enough away from the kitchen and right in front of the statue of a Chinese dragon. Somehow I think this may bring good fortune.
“Let’s say China Moon, tomorrow at seven.”

“Oh, man, I totally forgot, I can’t go … ”

But before he can finish, I cut him off. “Maybe another time.”
I kick the side of my desk.
Ouch, not a good idea when you’re barefoot and your other foot is already damaged goods.
I should’ve listened to my inner voice. I’m not his type. I only met him because of my dad, so why would he be interested in me?

“How about Wednesday? Same time, same place?”

So maybe there is an inkling of hope for us, Cassia and Graham. Cinderella and Prince Charming. Romeo and Juliet. Vanilla and Chocolate.

“Great,” I say quickly, before he takes it back.

I can’t believe he said yes, just like that. I was really beginning to think it was all about my dad, that I should’ve started off the conversation by luring him with promises of a sneak peek of Dad’s early sketches, his college transcripts, and his prize possession (an autographed Picasso lithograph).

I hang up the phone and stare down at the piece of paper. At the meat pie UFOs. My smile seems to stretch for miles. “Mom, you’d really like Graham,” I say aloud, just in case one of those flying saucers can transport the message to her.

mud stains

The best thing about today so far is that at my checkup, the doctor told me I can ditch the crutches. I don’t have the green light to play ball yet, but he thinks in another few days, I’ll be back on the court. That means when I meet Graham tomorrow for dinner, I don’t have to look like the Hunchback of Notre Dame hanging over a set of poles.

I can’t believe we’re really going on a date. Liz said it’s definitely a date, even if I asked him. She said the definition of a date is a girl and guy, who like each other, going out alone. But I said, how do I know the feelings are mutual, and she said he wouldn’t have said yes if he didn’t like me. But I’m not too sure. We’re talking about the same guy who would kill to share a burger with my dad.

This morning, I managed to tip-crutch out of the condo and avoid Dad. I didn’t feel like rehashing where we left off at dinner last night or, even worse, at the gallery.

–––––

I get off the elevator and fumble for my keys when the condo door swings open. “Hey, Dad,” I say before I can stop myself. It’s one in the afternoon. I thought he’d be gone by now.

He looks up a second before slamming into me. “Oh, I didn’t see you. You’re off the crutches. That’s great.”

“Yup.” I wiggle my leg. “Surprised you noticed.”

“Wonderful.” He gives me a peck on the cheek. “I’ll catch up with you later
, ma cherie
.
I’m running late for a lunch appointment.” He holds the door open for me.

“With who?” I don’t budge from the threshold of the door.

His cell starts playing the chicken dance and he
quickly
flips it open. Who set that ringtone for him?

I’m still standing in the doorway, waiting for an answer. He walks down the hallway and throws me a backwards wave. I don’t even know why I asked. The answer is obvious.

–––––

I veg out on the couch until it’s time to leave for ceramics. Since I’m trying to get my ankle to heal as fast as possible, I’m stuck taking the bus. I’m really looking forward to class today, “to get to know the wheel” as Mr. Parker would say.

With the bus sched
ule, you can either be early for things or late. I choose early. “Hey, Mr. P, I mean, El
i
, mind if I get started on the wheel?” I say as soon as I enter the art room.

He looks up from his computer screen. “Ah, Cassia. Sure, be my guest.”

I peek over his screen. “No Photoshop transformations today?”

He laughs. “Nope. I’m writing a recommendation for an old student of mine. He’s applying for an artist’s grant. Lyle’s a talented guy. He’s going to have a couple pieces on display at La Reverie Gallery next month.” He starts walking with me toward the back. “Some great works on display there. Ever been?”

“Sounds familiar,” I say. Only about half the works belong to my dad. I give him a long hard stare. Mr. Parker couldn’t have bought
Lady in Red
, could he? I don’t want to talk about my dad, not now especially.

“See, I’m off the crutches.” I smile.

He looks me up and down. “Indeed you are. You’ll be back in top form in no time. Maybe even ready to play some ball next week?”

So they talked? Well, duh. Coach Parker is his wife. “Yeah. I kind of miss being on the court. Coach is good, too.”

“Isn’t she.” He laughs deep. “Ceramics and basketball have a lot in common.”

“They do?” I grab an apron, then sit down at the wheel and st
retch my leg out. The pain from walking on it has kicked in, but it’s not nearly as bad as when I first hurt it.

“Sure. You need good control for both activities. Keep your eye on the ball. Keep your eye on the clay … ”

“Stay centered,” I add.

“Exactly.” Mr. Parker hands me a ball of clay. “If you need any help, give me a holler. I’m finishing up the recommendation before the rest of the students get here.”

I nod that I’ve got it all under control and sink my hands into the wet clay. It’s slimy and soothing at the same time. The fact that you can mold it into almost anything is amazing. It’s hard to believe that humans could quite possibly be formed from the Earth’s clay. Did God just sit around one day and create Adam and Eve from the very substance I hold in my hand?

I start the wheel and carefully guide the clay to the center. The clay spins to the side and I have to ball it back up and start over again. The classical music that is playing in the background is my focus today. I’m not going to think about my dad or my mom. This afternoon is mine.

I slap the clay down on the wheel again and this time it centers. I’m in synch with Beethoven, creating my own symphony. The naked clay and I engage in a stare off. Terra-cotta. The color of history. Ancient artifacts, thousands of years old, just dug up, don’t look much different than the bowl I’m making. This piece will outlast me for hundreds of years and never lose its beauty.

Looking at it now, I don’t even know if I want to style it up with glaze. The natural beauty of the clay is amazing, like a beautiful girl without makeup. Like a cake straight out of the oven, all golden brown, right before you add the frosting.

I know if I try to make an opening again I could ruin everything. “Eli,” I call in a panicked yelp. “I need help.”

I don’t want to move my hands in case the whole thing leaps off the wheel like a flying saucer. Mr. Parker rushes over to me
.

By now I’m in full panic mode, and I don’t want to move my
hands even a centimeter or I’ll ruin what I already have. “I’m tra
pped!”

“You’re forgetting rule number one,” Mr. Parker says sternly.

“But my hands are wet, I’ve got the wheel at the perfect speed, my centering is dead on, and … ”

“You’re not relaxed.”

“Oh, that again.” I let out a puff of air and slink my shoulders.

“I’m waiting.” Mr. Parker taps his fingers on the table.

I think about how this bowl is mine. I exhale once more, then ask Mr. Parker to show me how to make an opening in the clay again. It’s overwhelming and I really want to make sure I don’t miss a step. I try to appear as calm as possible, so that he believes me.

He tells me to use both hands. One hand must steady the other. I press my thumb into the middle of the mound. It sta
rts off as a small hole, but quickly deepens as I press harder. Much better than my other attempts.

I’m using both hands to widen the center when a vibration goes off in my pocket. It makes me jump and my right thumb slips. It takes a second to register that it’s my cell going off. I quickly smooth out the ripple in the clay. Whoever it is can wait, unless it’s Graham. He better not be calling to cancel our dinner tomorrow night.

Nia sits down and takes the wheel next to me. “Wow, you’re really getting the hang of it. Don’t tell him I told you, but it took Scott like ten tries to center.”

“Really? Thanks.” I look toward the front of the room and see Scott leaning over Mr. Parker’s desk. “It’s pretty intimidating, but I like it,” I say.

“As soon as you get the opening you want, slow your speed.” Nia dips her hands into the bowl of water. “Then it’ll be much easier to pull up the walls.”

My cell vibrates again, but I can’t stop now. I’ll lose my momentum. My thumb is stuck in the middle of the clay like that nursery rhyme where the boy sticks his thumb in the Christmas pie.

Nia and I sit side by side the whole class. She reaches over whenever I need a little guidance. I don’t have to call Mr. Parker even once.

I’m one with the clay. We have a rhythm going like two singers in perfect harmony. Around and around it dances, securely on the wheel with my foot manning the pedal.

I’m ready to move to the next step—the walls—when the classroom door busts open. It’s the burgundy lady, only now she’s wearing sea foam. “Do you see her, Mr. Bernard?” she says, trying to catch her breath.

Mr. Bernard? Holy crap!
It’s my dad and he looks like he just swallowed a venomous spider. I let go of the pedal momentarily and the wheel skips a beat. My soon-to-be bowl goes flying and lands on the ground with a loud plop. My symphony ends on a deafening note.
Squashed Beauty
.

Dad stands in the center of the class, scanning the faces like a vulture scans the landscape for prey. His eyes stop on me and zoom in like a wide-angle lens. He lets outs a huge sigh of relief that I can hear all the way in the back. “Yes, that’s her,” he says, pointing to me.

All heads turn. Suddenly, ten pairs of eyes shoot me sympathy missiles. Dad thanks the burgundy lady and walks toward me, pounding the linoleum with each step. I can’t move. Not even to pick up my mush of clay. What’s he doing here? And why is he so pissed off all of a sudden? Mr. Parker is a few steps behind him. What does he think? Dad’s some kind of deranged psycho who might go postal any minute?

Mr. Parker and Dad speak in a whisper. I can’t make out what they’re saying, but I can tell Dad’s apologizing for barging into the class. He’s wearing his cheddar-yellow T-shirt that says
Got Cheese?
and has sweat stains under the armpits. How embarrassing. No matter how much Shout I put on his shirts, I can never get the pit stains out.

Dad’s standing in front of me now. “Cassia, I was looking all over for you.” His face is red. I don’t kn
ow if it’s from the heat or anger or a combination of both, but I’m not sure if I want to know the answer.

“Why? What happened?” I gasp.

Dad tucks his head into his chin. “I thought I’d surprise you and go to your basketball game today. When I didn’t see you there, I got worried.”

Worried? Most of the time he has no idea where I am and now, when he actually looks for me, he’s worried? Puhleese!

“But Dad, I just got off my crutches today. I can’t play yet.”

I notice Nia has left her wheel and is cleaning up my mess on the floor. I mouth, “Thank you.” She gives me a quick smile and transports my now-defunct bowl to the bin of recycled clay. Hopefully it’ll get better treatment from another potter.

“Didn’t think about that.” Dad shakes his head. “I asked a few people watching the game and they had no idea where you were.”

“Liz’s mom knew I was here,” I say to the wheel.

“She eventually saw me and told me where to find you.”

I stare down at my hands. They’re stained with dried, cracked mud. Worse than any of the clothes Dad’s ever left in the dirty-clothes hamper. “Oh. That’s good.”

“You still should’ve told me that you were here.” Dad sighs.

I throw my hands up. “Why?” My words hang in the air.

I quickly realize that Dad and I are the only ones talking, and that everyone in the room can hear us.

“Let’s get out of here,” I say.

Dad thanks Mr. Parker for his hospitality and I follow him out.

“Call me Eli. I’m a big fan of your work,” Mr. Parker replies.

Dad pats him on the shoulder. “Stop by La Reverie any time, Eli.”

“I should’ve put the two names together,” Mr. Parker says to himself as we make our way out.

After he shuts the door, Dad pulls me by the arm and says we’ll take a taxi and talk at home. But we don’t even make it to the corner where the taxis usually line up.

“You’re limping,” Dad says. “Let’s stop here.”

We plop down on the first bench in the Spirited Gardens, a block from the Y. It’s a little garden that a widower set up after his wife died back in the 80s. The place is small but beautiful, and for the most part goes unnoticed. I’ve never seen more than one or two couples here. Today, there’s nobody.

Dad opens his mouth to speak first. I know he’s composing his words. He can paint anything, but when you ask him to talk, he’s tongue-tied.

I’m not at a loss for words. I know what I want to say. Have wanted to say. I’m tired of pretending everything is fine. “Why don’t we ever talk about her?” I blurt out.

“That’s what this is all about?” He crosses his legs.

“Yes,” I yell, but then am not quite sure. “And no. I mean, we tiptoe around our feelings. But I didn’t tell you where I was because you never asked. Where did you think
I was when I couldn’t play ball all these days?”

Dad fumbles with his cigarettes. I shake my head and point to the hand-painted
no smoking
sign behind him. Tiny daisies surround the letters. The daintiness of the flowers and harshness of cigarettes make such a weird combo.

Dad shoves the pack back into his pocket without turning around. “I thought you were taking it easy at home or going out with your friends.”

“That’s your problem. You always assume things instead of asking.”

He presses his fingers against his temple. “Time always seems to escape me. There are not enough hours in the day.”

“That’s your excuse for never coming to any of my games before?” I lean forward and rest my elbows against my thighs.

“I had every intention to, but things got in my way. I know that’s no excuse—that’s why I showed up today.”

“A bit late,” I scoff.

“I realize that, Cassia. Will you just give me a chance?”

“But you’re always absorbed in your work. I feel like you never have enough time for me.”

“No, no.” He shakes his head. “You come before my art. Always.”

“But even when you’re here, I feel like you’re somewhere else.”

“I’m working on being a better listener. You have my full attention now.” He looks me straight in the eye. His eyes are like soft-serve ice cream. Mine are as hard as ice.

“I’m not even sure if you know anything that’s going on in my life.”

“I want to know everything that’s going on with you. You’re the most important thing to me. From the moment you were born, I fell in love with you. Your mother used to say that if I stared at you any longer, there would be nothing left to paint.” He cups his hands and looks me in the eyes. “Sorry I’ve been distracted.”

“It’s her, Helga, isn’t it?” I grit my teeth as I say her name.

“Her what?”