Boy, Snow, Bird(27)

“Okay, I get it, Boy.” He laid his hand flat between my shoulder blades; I felt a print forming in the lotion. “You don’t want to be alone with me.”

“That isn’t true, and you know it.” I picked up the bottle, walked around him, and worked my hands down his back.

“Could have left Snow with either one of her grandmas . . .” he said.

“You do that too much. And I like having her around. I like having you around too.” I nipped his earlobe, laughing when he looked around and asked me if I wanted to get us barred from poolside. Later that evening, when Snow was fast asleep, we went out to the beach with blankets and torches, and the sound of the waves swept around us, rising and falling. Water raked the sand we lay on and locked our bodies together, tugged us apart a little. But only a very little. Only as far as we let it.

As we walked back to the hotel, I said: “So we’re never going to talk about Julia?” A straight question, just as Mrs. Fletcher would have asked it. (Why am I always imagining that I’m other people?)

Arturo asked what I wanted to know.

“What do you want me to know?”

He looked down at our feet. We were walking in step, which was taking some effort on my part.

“Our parents were good friends, double-dated all the time—it felt like they’d picked us out for each other. Whatever they did, it worked, because she’s almost everything I remember about being a kid and being a young man—I got my first job so I could buy her an opera record she just had to have; still remember what it was—Offenbach’s The Tales of Hoffmann. It was never ‘Will you buy me candy?’ with her; she always wanted stuff that . . . I don’t know, stuff you always felt in danger of losing her to. Books, music. If you took her to one of those big art galleries, you wouldn’t be able to find her again until closing time. I was in a running battle with the Phantom of the Opera. The Phantom won, but—”

“Arturo.” I held him closer, walked with my head above his heart.

“I gave him a run for his money. I never had eyes for anyone but her, right up until she died. And even then, for a long time after . . . it just didn’t seem true that she was gone. She had to have Snow by Caesarean, and when she came home, she got a fever. She said she was just tired, and she’d just sleep it off. I knew why she was saying that: She hated it at the hospital; didn’t want to see any more white coats or nurses’ uniforms. Two days, she kept saying, I’ll just sleep it off, Arturo—don’t fuss. Her mother and mine kept telling me I didn’t know what it was like for a woman after she’s got through childbirth, that I should just let her hold her baby and rest. She died in the night, Boy. It seemed impossible. She was laughing and singing to Snow in the afternoon, then in the middle of the night she woke me up saying Call a doctor, call a doctor, and I was downstairs for an hour or so trying to get hold of someone. I couldn’t. It was Saturday. I went back upstairs and Julia was so quiet. It didn’t feel final; it was more like she was thinking and was about to speak. It looked like she was breathing, but it was just air escaping. I remember I covered Snow’s eyes. And . . . I don’t want to say any more.”

He sighed when I told him I was sorry. “I’ve still got Snow,” he said. It sounded rehearsed, a phrase he’d assembled around his real feelings like a screen.

“Hey. Hey, you. I’m here too.”

I thought that was that, but in the morning I woke up to find him kneeling beside my bed. His eyes were on me; I think they had been for a long time.

“Say you love me,” he said. The sun hadn’t been up for long, and Snow was snoring in the bed beside the window. She wriggled when he spoke, then tucked her head deeper into her pillow. I tried to fake a return to sleep myself, but Arturo said: “No. Say you love me.” I sat up and he trapped my heel in his hand, so hard that my other foot, the free foot, drew up in a weak pirouette.

“I’ll stay with you,” I said. We both spoke lightly, we were both smiling, but I didn’t know what Arturo was going to do if he found he couldn’t make me say I loved him. Not much, surely. Snow was right there, after all. And she wasn’t sleeping. She didn’t give herself away even for a second, but that kid was keeping tabs. I knew and she knew.

He stood up and went over to his suitcase. “I made you something.”

It was the first piece of jewelry he ever made me, and it was the equivalent of an engagement ring. I say “equivalent” because it was a bracelet, a white-gold snake that curled its tail around my wrist and pressed its tongue against the veins in the crook of my elbow. When I saw it lying on its bed of tissue paper, I didn’t want to pick it up, let alone put it on. All I could think was: I will fear no evil, I will fear no evil, I will fear no evil. That snake was what he’d made for me, it was what he thought I wanted, was maybe even what he thought I was, deep down.

I’d said I’d stay, so I stayed. I put it on for him. I said I’d marry him. He said: “Are you sure?”

I ran my fingertips over the scales, dozens of colorless hexagons that warped even as they reflected. According to them, the room was a lilac-wallpapered blur, and my forehead was west of my nose. I didn’t go inside Arturo’s workroom, and he’d never invited me there, just came out when he was done for the day, sweating hard. He said it was because of the details, having to get them right. The switch from pliers to magnifying glass to the rubber mallet, back to magnifying glass, then the reach for the scoring knife. He said that most of the time he felt as if he were making a monstrosity right up until the last step. It’s not work I could do, breaking something and then breaking it again and again until it looks the way I want it to. I’d falter, and try to go back to where I’d started. I’d just be there all day making solid gold blobs.