The Marriage of Sticks Part 7

"No, we're just practicing. Miranda Romanac, this is Courtney Hill and Ronan Mariner. We work together."

"Your music is wonderful."

"Our lunch hour. Come on, sit down. We're going to run through this again and then we'll talk. We're playing 'Ferny Hill.' Do you know it?"

"I'm sorry, I don't."

"You'll love it. Let's go."

They started playing. I started crying. I didn't realize it until Courtney looked at me and her eyes widened. Then I felt tears on my cheeks and gave a gesture that said it was the music. And it was, more than anything else. Nothing could have been a more perfect antidote to what happened earlier. Irish folk music is the most schizophrenic I have ever heard. How can it be so sad and happy at the same time, even within the same note? Simple and direct, it tells you yes, the world is full of pain, but this is the way through. As long as you're in the music, the bad things stay away. They performed the tune perfectly. For those few minutes, I cried and was more content than I had been in days.

Finis.h.i.+ng with a flourish, they looked at each other like kids who had sailed through a great adventure without a scratch.

"That was beautiful."

"It was good, huh? But let's get down to business. What have you brought us?" Hugh looked at me and obviously saw the tears but said nothing. I liked that.

I undid the strings and paper around the painting and held it up so all three of them could see it at once. They looked at it, then at each other.

"Is that what I think it is? A Lolly Adc.o.c.k?"

"Yes."

Hugh took it from me. They huddled over it, making quiet comments, pointing here and there.

"Hugh didn't say anything about you bringing in an Adc.o.c.k."

"I would have, if I'd gone to Dublin," Hugh said.

Ronan rubbed his mouth. "You know what my gut reaction is? Stay the h.e.l.l away from it, Hugh. Even if it's real, after the Stillman fiasco, people are going to be gunning for anyone who authenticates an Adc.o.c.k."

Hugh brought it close to his face and sniffed. "Doesn't smell fake."

"It's not funny, Hugh. You know exactly what he's saying."

"I do, Courtney, but that's our business, isn't it? We call them as we see them. If we're wrong, then we're wrong. Who knows, we may find out it's a fake when we check it out."

"I still agree with Ronan. Whatever we might get out of it, it's not worth the trouble." She looked at the painting and shook her head.

"Fair enough, but would you begin to check it for me?" He spoke quietly. The others got quickly out of their chairs and headed for the door.

We sat and listened to them walk down the hall. Far away, a door closed.

"Why were you crying?"

"I thought you were going to ask where I got the picture."

"Later. Why were you crying?"

"Does it matter?"

"Yes. When you came in, your face was somewhere else. Someplace bad."

"Excuse me?"

"You weren't expecting this." He held up his violin. "You had a different face on and you had to change it very fast. For one second I could see you brought something awful in from outside. The tears proved it."

"You're a good detective, Hugh."

"It's only because I care."

What could I say to that? We sat long moments in silence.

"Someone hit me."

"Do you need help with them?"

"I don't think so."

"Why would someone want to hit you?"

"He thinks I'm a b.i.t.c.h."

Hugh took two yellow hard candies from a s.h.i.+rt pocket and handed me one. As I unwrapped it, he opened the other and popped it in his mouth; then he picked up the violin and began to play quietly.

"I don't think I'm a b.i.t.c.h."

He smiled. "Who is he?"

"A man I've been dating."

He nodded, silently saying, Go on. He played the Beatles' "For No One."

I started out slowly but was full speed ahead in a few moments. I described how we'd met, the dates we'd had, things talked about, what I'd thought of him right up until the fateful slap.

"A painting licker."

"What do you mean?"

"There's a man in England who goes around licking the paintings he loves. Locking's not enough for him. He wants a more intimate experience with his favorite pictures, so when he's at a museum and guards aren't watching, he licks 'em. He has a postcard collection of each one he's done."

"Crazy."

"It is, but I understand it. I think that's what happened with your man: he couldn't have you and it drove him crazy. So he did the only thing he could do to own you for a few minutes: scared you. It always works. For today, or however long you're going to be afraid of him, he does own you."

"d.a.m.n it! d.a.m.n that power men have. Whenever they don't like something, they can always. .h.i.t us. You'll never know that feeling. Always that little bit of fear in our heart."

"Not all men hit women, Miranda."

"But you can, and that's the difference."

A small white bullterrier ran into the room and over to Hugh.

"Easy! Miranda, this is Easy. Whenever we play, she runs and hides. The only dog I've ever known that actively dislikes music."

"That breed always scares me."

"Bullterriers? She's a cream puff. She only looks like a thief."

She looked more like a bleached pig, but her face was sweet and her tail was wagging so furiously that I couldn't resist reaching out to pat her. She moved over to me and leaned like a stone against my leg.

"Why do you call her Easy?"

"My daughter named her. No reason. I brought her home from the kennel; Brigit took one look and said her name was Easy. Simple as that."

"How many children do you have?"

"A daughter and a son. Brigit and Oisin. Oy-sheen."

"Oisin? Is that Irish?"

"Yes. Both kids were born in Dublin."

"By the way, why didn't you go to Dublin?"

"Because you were coming. When you said you'd be happy to see my a.s.sistant, I thought, Uh oh, when would I see her again? I knew I had to be here."

Once again I tried to figure out how to respond.

"You say things that throw me off, Hugh."

"People say I'm too direct. I didn't go to Dublin because I had to see you again. It's that simple."

Courtney called out from down the hall, asking him to come. He stood up, put the violin on the chair, and started out of the room. "I was going to call you the other day but you called me. I didn't want to wait any longer. Ever since we met, most of my days seem to be about you."

He left me sitting with Easy leaning against my leg. It took a while before my body started shaking, but when it did, it came on strong. So strong that it roused the dog from her doze. She looked up at me. I closed my eyes. My heart pounded inside its cage of bones. I couldn't wait for him to return.

Here I am, an old woman with a shaky hand and a cheap pen, writing about s.e.x. Is there any greater irony? Most of the time I cannot even recall what I ate yesterday. How do I presume to remember and write honestly about that most evanescent act, fifty years after it happened?

I will stand up and walk to the kitchen. On the way I'll think about how to do it. There are some chocolate cookies left. I want to eat two and drink a gla.s.s of cold water. Eating is s.e.x for old people.

This is my home, what's left of a life in its final few rooms. There are some photographs. My parents. Hugh and me. Zoe on the porch of this house. The only piece of furniture I have kept over the years is Hugh's easy chair. Despite having been re-covered two times it is shabby-looking now, but I would never give it away. On the table nearby is a photograph of Frances in her New York apartment. All of her possessions surround her, the paintings and rugs, that lush abundance of color so much a part of her being. The difference is, Frances wanted to remember everything. I don't. Better to keep my last surroundings simple. Avoid any fatal memory or malevolent connection from things best left to their uneasy sleep in my heart.

Certain things must be here. Most importantly the pile of sticks in the fireplace. Every one of those pieces of wood is important. Written on each is a date and a reason. I have never counted, but would guess there are twenty now. Hugh's collection was much larger, but he started his years before I did.

It was his idea: When anything truly important happens in your life, wherever you happen to be, find a stick in the immediate vicinity and write the occasion and date on it. Keep them together, protect them. There shouldn't be too many; sort through them every few years and separate the events that remain genuinely important from those that were but no longer are. You know the difference. Throw the rest out.

When you are very old, very sick, or sure there's not much time left to live, put them together and burn them. The marriage of sticks.

An hour after I visited his office to have the painting appraised, Hugh Oakley and I were walking through Central Park. He told me about the marriage of sticks and suggested I start my collection right then. I was so nervous about what was about to happen that without thinking, I did. It was from a copper beech tree. I knew nothing about trees then. Foliage, plants, things that grew. I was a city girl who was hurrying to a hotel to have s.e.x with a man I knew was happily married with two children.

"What's the matter?" He stopped and turned me so we were face to face. We were holding hands. A moment ago we'd been racing to get to a hotel. I a.s.sumed he'd been there before. How many other women had he sped along like this, rus.h.i.+ng to get them into bed?

"You look miserable."

"I'm not miserable, Hugh, I'm unstrung! Somebody hit me this morning, and now I'm here with you." I stared at our clasped hands and kept staring while I spoke. "I don't do things like this. It's everything together, full volume. Dangerous, right, wrong... Everything. I thought you'd be in Ireland. I thought your a.s.sistant was going to appraise the painting and I'd go home. Not this. This is all new territory for me."

He looked around and, seeing a park bench, pulled me to it. "Sit down. Listen to me. What you're doing is right. It's your heart and the adventurous part all saying go. Our checks and balances hold us back too much from risking anything.

"Don't let them, Miranda. Do it. If nothing else, you'll remember this later and say it was crazy but you're glad you did it."

My eyes were closed. "Can I ask a question? Will you answer honestly?"

"Anything."

I straightened my back. "Are you worth it?"

I heard him take a sharp breath to answer but he stayed silent a long moment. "I think so. I hope so."

"Do you go to hotels a lot with women?"

"No. Sometimes."

"That doesn't makes me feel special."

"I'm not going to apologize for the person you didn't know till today."

"That's facile, Hugh. This is a big thing for me."

"I'll do whatever you want, Miranda. We can stay here and talk. Go to a movie, or go somewhere and make love. It's all the same to me. I just want to be with you."

Two Rollerbladers pounded by, followed by a bunch of kids in crooked caps, carrying a big boom box.

We watched the parade pa.s.s before I spoke. "Know what I want to do? Before anything else?"

"What?"

"Go to the Gap and buy a pair of khakis." It was a test, plain and simple. I said it only to see how he would react.

His face lit up and he smiled. It was genuine. "Sure! Let's go."

"What about the hotel?"

He paused. When he spoke his voice was slow and careful. "You don't get it, do you? I'm not twenty, Miranda. I don't ride my c.o.c.k around like a witch on a broomstick. I want to be you. If that's in bed, great. If not, then together is all the matters."

"Then why were we going to a hotel?"

"Because I do want to touch you. I thought you felt the same. But I was wrong. Big deal. Let's go buy your trousers."