Da Vinci and I hadn't found a moment to be alone together again the entire week after the wine festival. Though we had made out like teenagers in the front seat of my black station wagon in the field parking lot at the festival, I wasn't about to have sex with him in my car. Not even the darkest tinted windows (if I had them) could make me give in to desire. But almost. Especially after he whispered, “ Ti desidero. ” I want you. And I so badly wanted to be wanted. No, I needed to be wanted. But it had to be the right time. And in the car was not it. If I was going to give up my second virginity, it had to be special.
This, too, became my pursuit, though not a “write it down on paper, put it in a grief binder” kind of pursuit. The pursuit was within, the prick of desire that wouldn't go away, the wheels of our ultimate union were already in motion-the eyes, the flirting, the touching, the kissing-it all led down one road. If. If I let it happen. If I gave in to him, though my mind was telling me it might not be a good idea. Because he was my student. Because it was too soon. Because I was afraid what might happen if I did.
Remember, me not being the “just do it” type, also applied to just doing it. Everything in time. But soon.
Scheduling time for things like amore is difficult enough for married people, but nearly impossible for widows with two busy kids, a nosy mother and a needy sister. Zoe had another something Rachel wanted us to attend. Not sure if it was a recital (modern dance, jazz, ballet, singing), a play (where Rachel fought for the lead role each time) or a beauty pageant, but nonetheless, we were expected to be there for every single one of them. (Not that she returned the attention by going to my boys' events, because though she'd “love to,” the mini-celeb, rising star herself was just “too busy.”)
Da Vinci asked to come along, and my first instinct was that it was a very bad idea. I didn't want my family thinking there was anything going on with da Vinci, and it might look peculiar to have him tagging along to a family event. But he was lonely. And he loved children, saying often how much he missed his big family back in Italy. I worried that the kids liked him too much now, that da Vinci would move on from us and they would lose another male figure. Protecting my children from future heartbreak was more important than my own.
Yet I acquiesced-it was only an innocent play, I told myself- and we headed out to the production called Four Seasons, put on by the creative independent school Zoe attended. Zoe missed way too much school to go to public school, and because Rachel deemed the arts and individual expression the highest standard for an education, Zoe ended up at the Austin Creative Academy where parents hoped for future Mozarts or Dickenses or… well, da Vincis. It also happened to be where the A.D.D. kids who failed in a more regimented environment got stuck, so it was an interesting mix, to say the least.
We arrived late as usual-Bradley couldn't find his lucky socks and William couldn't find his light jacket and da Vinci had to shower in my bathroom because a pipe had busted in the studio. I know what you're thinking. Did I get a sneak peek at da Vinci in the shower to see if reality matched up to my fantasy?
Yes. And no. While I was busy shoveling through my kids' drawers and closets to find their missing items, I remembered that some of Bradley's clean clothes had gotten mixed in with my clothes by mistake. I'd seen them in my closet, which is of course off my bathroom where da Vinci was showering. I opened the door, the steam from the shower rushing out, and slipped into my closet. As I passed by the shower with the clear plexiglass stall, I could see the frame of a naked man and all I could think was that I couldn't believe there was any naked man in my shower, let alone a man like da Vinci. I tried to be quiet, but my closet door squeaked and da Vinci hollered out. “Is that you, Mona Lisa?”
And I could feel my whole body tingle from the toes up and answered. “I'm sorry. I'm looking for Bradley's sock.”
Da Vinci hollered back. “You've been keeping secret from me, Mona Lisa.”
“Oh, yeah? What's that?”
“Your shower is much better than studio shower. Not complaint, though. Only truth. No fix other shower, and I shower with you.”
He didn't laugh, but with his broken English, I couldn't always tell when he was kidding. I couldn't see his face. Until I turned, missing sock in hand, and saw da Vinci peek his head out from the shower door. With a big smile on his face. I saw six inches of his naked body from top down, but only the left side. “It's warm in here. Come and join me. I'll wash your hair.”
If we didn't have to be at the auditorium in ten minutes and if we were alone in the house, I would've leapt into the shower as if my feet were on fire. If my heart were beating any faster, I was sure it would explode. Still, eros would have to wait. “I'll take a raincheck,” I said, which da Vinci didn't understand. “That means next time.”
He closed the door again and started singing in Italian. I don't know what it was, but I could've listened to it all night long. “Whatever,” da Vinci said, which he had picked up from Bradley, only da Vinci didn't infuse the same sarcasm.
Now all I could think about was how badly I needed a shower.
My father hates to be late, and nearly all of my childhood memories involve my dad standing with his elbow in the air, his right eyebrow cocked, staring at his watch as if the house would explode if we didn't get out by the time the minute hand hit whatever magical number he had in mind for us to leave.
In all other regards, my father was an easygoing dad: fair, caring, and noble. Yes, like his name.
Noble: from Latin, (g)nobilis, “ noted, highborn” from the Indo-European root, gno. My father revered education, was a better Scrabble player than I am, and while other dads in my neighborhood hosted poker night, my dad preferred Trivial Pursuit. No one would dare call my dad a nerd. If so, he was a handsome nerd. Or at least I'd give him “distinguished looking.” Yes, like his name. He was easy to get along with because he knew enough about any given topic to keep a conversation going and tell you something you didn't know about your favorite topic. I loved that about him. He had also filled my head with many useless facts over the years, which I was surprised to have come back to help me years later. He taught me about anagrams, a word formed by rearranging all the letters of another word, when I was six. It was my favorite car game and before I knew it, everywhere I went I was forming anagrams. It became our “thing.”
“Cinema,” Dad would say as we were in line for a movie.
“Iceman,” I would quickly answer.
“Good girl,” he would say and pat my head.
No wonder I was getting a PhD in linguistics. I'd been trained like Pavlov's dog. My love for words grew from there-my pastime looking for root words and keeping a dictionary in my backpack (and later purse) to satiate my thirst whenever I encountered a word I didn't know. Then a notebook much like da Vinci's, though I still didn't know what was in his. Mine was full of words. I had pages of words I loved like:
butter
crème de la crème
avant garde
muse
monkey
poignant
And words that made me cringe:
asparagus
prison
death
And even words that weren't even real words, but ones I thought should exist like “mind-drift” and “love coma.” I tried these words (and many others) out over the years, but so far, none of them had caught on. I would have to get them in a Steven Spielberg movie or on MTV to accomplish adding a new popular phrase into the dictionary.
Noble was checking his watch in the dark (yes, it had a light in it, of course) when we arrived. Even in the near dark of the theater, his look spoke volumes. And he sighed as if to say, “Oh, Ramona, still late at thirty-six years of age.” Two boys had not improved my proclivity for tardiness. Another word I love: proclivity.