The Boy Who Granted Dreams

  “Would it bother ya if ya mother an’ I wuz t’live together?” said Sal.

  “Together, how?”

  “So accordin’ ta you, what da fuck does together mean? Together, fa Christ sake,” growled Sal. “Look. If I knock down this wall an’ put Cetta’s apartment wit’ da office, we’ll end up wit’ a three room house. I wanna make a big bathroom in here, wit’ a tub, an’ where da kitchen is now, dat’ll be my study. An’ one o’ da two bedrooms, dat’s da dinin’ room. It’ll end up bein’ an apartment for rich guys.”

  “And you and Mamma live together?”

  “Together, yeah.”

  “But why are you asking me?”

  “Because you’re her son, asshole. An’ because finally ya moved out an’ quit breakin’ my balls.”

  “Are you getting married?”

  “We’ll see.”

  “Yes or no?”

  “Watch it, Christmas. Don’t put my back to no wall,” Sal grumbled, poking a finger at his face. “Your mother ain’t never done it an’ I’ll be damned if I let you start now.”

  “Okay.”

  “Okay, what?”

  “You’ve got my consent.”

  Sal sat in his armchair and lit a cigar. “So now ya rich, huh?” he said presently.

  “Rich enough,” said Christmas.

  “Everybody gets t’ where he can in life,” said Sal, looking serious. He reached out an arm and made a circular gesture, including the walls of the apartment. “Your mother an’ me, we got this far. This is the life we got. I ain’t never gonna let her lack for nothin’.” He got up and came over to Christmas. “But I promise you, if one day I see I can’t provide her with what she deserves … I’ll come t’ you an’ I’ll get outa da way.” He tapped his finger on Christmas’ chest again. “But till then, you respect our life, like I respect yours. These walls are thin as the skin on your prick. I heard about the apartment.”

  Christmas looked down. “I’m sorry, Sal.”

  Sal laughed and gave him a little slap. “Don’t get the big head,” he said affectionately. “Pisser now, pisser you always gonna be, an’ don’t you forget it.”

  Christmas looked at him. “Can I give you a hug?” he asked.

  “Just try it, you gonna get a punch in da nose,” Sal said threateningly.

  “Okay.”

  “Okay what?”

  “It’s worth a punch,” and Christmas flung his arms around him.

  59

  Los Angeles, 1928

  The cottage was just the way Ruth had always imagined those houses would be. Clean but messy. Lightly scented, but with its own natural smells, too. Not sterile. Not artificial. Alive.

  This is what she thought as soon as she set foot inside the Slater house the very first time, with Daniel. It was a house where a family lived.

  Mrs. Slater, the mother of Daniel and Ronnie, was a tall blonde woman of about fifty, with a firm, tanned body. Her hair, bleached at the tips by sun and salt water, was pulled back at the neck in a simple knot. She had long, quick fingers. Daniel was her image: the same straight nose, the same fine straight hair. Mrs. Slater seemed to love being alive, in a simple and natural way. She liked sailing, but not to the point of eccentricity. It was a little boat she skippered herself, taking her husband and sons out on the ocean on Sundays. And Ruth would learn that the only thing she really liked to cook was apple pie.

  That day last week Mrs. Slater had greeter her warmly, unaffectedly, trustingly. As she would have greeted any of her son’s schoolmates. She brought her into the kitchen, still dusting flour off her sweaty arms. She’d extended her hand to Ruth, still wearing its oven mitt. She laughed, slipped it off, and reached out her hand again. Then she forgot to put it back on and burned her hand on the tart tin. She laughed again, along with Ronnie, who showed her his own wounded knee. Then Mrs. Slater lifted her youngest son onto the kitchen counter. She bent over to look at the hurt place, and then kissed it.

  “Eeeuw, yucky!” said Ronnie, making a face.

  “There is nothing yucky about my little boy,” said Mrs. Slater.

  But Daniel had never taken his eyes off Ruth. He had had her sit on one of the kitchen stools while he stood, leaning against the back door; just looking at her in silence.

  “If you put a piece of tart in your mouth,” his mother said, “your silence would seem more natural.”

  Daniel hardly blushed. He took a slice of tart, bit into it.

  Ruth saw how lovingly Mrs. Slater looked at him. And then she turned towards Ruth. “Sometimes I’m a little bit sharp with Daniel,” she told her. “You know — like some old maid auntie … it’s just that I can’t get over how big he is now. And that someday he’ll leave me.”

  “Oh, come on, Mom …” Daniel said, embarrassed.

  “You lousy bastard, you’ll have to deal with me!” yelled Ronnie, striking his pugilist pose in front of his brother.

  Daniel and Ruth laughed and looked at each other. Daniel grew serious again. But Ruth didn’t feel as if she were in danger. She turned back to Mrs. Slater, who was offering her a slice of tart with darkly caramelized sugar around the edges of the apples.

  “I’m not sure it was a good thing to have invented motion pictures,” the woman said. “Daniel never talked like that as a child, but Ronnie’s a disaster. Maybe I shouldn’t take him to the movies, but … I enjoy it so much when we all go together,” and she laughed.

  All together, thought Ruth. She looked at Daniel and Ronnie and Mrs. Slater. None of them was alone.

  “Are they waiting for you at home, or may we invite you dinner, Ruth?” Mrs. Slater asked.

  “I don’t have to ask anyone,” Ruth answered. “I’m on my own.”

  Ruth noticed Mrs. Slater’s expression. Just for a second, she’d looked at her differently. But not with suspicion. She wouldn’t judge her or label her, she thought. Rather, it was as though she thought that was something terribly sad.

  “My folks moved to Oakland,” Ruth said quickly, as if to distract Mrs. Slater, to fill in the emptiness she seemed to have recognized in her. “I’m a photographer.”

  “Do you photograph Hollywood actors, too?” Ronnie asked.

  Ruth didn’t answer right away. “Sometimes … that happens, yes.”

  “Wow!” cried Ronnie.

  “It’s six thirty,” said Mrs. Slater. “My husband should be home any minute. There’s turkey breast and scalloped potatoes with ham. So? Will you stay?”

  At that moment, punctually, as he did every other evening, Mr. Slater came home. He hugged his wife, loosened his necktie, gave Ronnie a playful cuff, clapped Daniel’s shoulder, and greeted Ruth, seeing her without staring at her. He was the same age as his wife. When they were in high school — Ruth learned all this during dinner — they fell in love, gave up their plans for going to college, and he started selling tractors and farm equipment in the Valley. Daniel was born the following year.

  “We thought we were going to raise a tribe,” said Mr. Slater. “But we had to wait almost seventeen years for this accident to happen,” he said, nodding at Ronnie.

  “I’m not an accident!” the child protested.

  “No, you’re right,” said his father. “A hurricane, that’s what you are. And, for your information, a hurricane is much worse than a plain old accident.”

  Ronnie laughed, pleased, and then suddenly pushed back his chair. “I forgot!” he said. “Look, Papa. I hurt myself. Will it leave a scar?”

  Mr. Slater put on a pair of reading glasses and examined the scrape. “No, I don’t think so,” he said at last.

  “But what if I fell down again … maybe tomorrow?” Ronnie asked.

  “There’s an easier way,” said his father, looking serious. He reached over to the platter of turkey and seized the big knife he’d used to slice it.

  Ronnie looked troubled for a moment. Then he laughed, but prudently put his leg back under the table.

  “If you decide you need it, I’m here,” Mr. Sl
ater assured him, with a quick wink at Ruth.

  Ruth could see that Ronnie and his father resembled each other. Mr. Slater also had a mobile face and big ears that stuck out.

  After dinner Ruth and Daniel went outside. They sat in the porch swing. They talked. Daniel told her that he’d gone to work as soon as he’d finished high school. His father had a business associate who sold used cars. He said that automobiles were the future. And so, while Mr. Slater was still dealing in tractors and farm equipment, his son was learning to sell cars.

  “My boss — Dad’s friend — says once I get good at it, he’s going to give it all up and sell us his percentage,” said Daniel. “It’s not creative work, like yours … but it’s decent pay. Enough to take care of a family.”

  Ruth looked at him. How reassuring he was. He’d be a great salesman. Anybody would buy a car from Daniel. And he’d be a loving husband and warm-hearted father. You could tell by the way he treated Ronnie. He’d grown up in a family. A real family. He’d had all the time he needed to learn what a family was. But Ruth knew that Daniel had no idea how lucky he was. To him it was simply the way things naturally were.

  When he drove her back to Venice Boulevard, in his father’s car, Ruth got out immediately. She didn’t explain anything. She couldn’t tell him about Bill, the only boy she’d ever been alone with in a car. But then she paused on the sidewalk. Daniel got out of the car and came over to her.

  Ruth held her camera bag in front of her, as protection. Daniel hadn’t come too close to her.

  “Can we see each other again?” he asked her.

  “Don’t you have a high school sweetheart, too?” she asked him.

  Daniel shook his head. “No,” he said softly. Then he reached out a hand, shyly touching the camera bag that formed a barrier between them, fingering the shoulder strap. “I wish I could …”

  “I don’t think so,” said Ruth brusquely.

  Daniel looked at her. “I wish I could see your photos,” he said.

  Ruth didn’t say anything.

  “I’m not saying that to impress you,” said Daniel, laughing.

  Ruth smiled. “No?” she asked him, with a touch of sarcasm.

  Then Daniel turned serious. “No. If you could see my mother when she’s sailing you’d understand that I really mean it. You can’t understand anything about her if you haven’t seen her out on the boat.” His gaze was clear and transparent as he spoke. “And I think that your photos must mean the same thing for you.”

  “Will you ask me to dinner again tomorrow?”

  “Of course,” and Daniel’s eyes lit up.

  “Lean on that lamppost,” Ruth said. “And don’t move.” She took out her Leica and snapped a picture. “At your house?” she asked him.

  “Six thirty.”

  “Six thirty.”

  The next evening, at the Slaters’, Ruth showed them her photos of Ronnie and the one of Daniel. When Mrs. Slater looked at the one of him under the lamppost, her eyes grew moist. She touched a finger to her son’s face in chiaroscuro, his head slightly bent, and the lock of shining hair across his brow. Then she stroked her son’s face, still with the same troubled look on her face.

  “What’s the matter?” Ronnie asked his father in a loud whisper.

  “Nostalgia,” said his father, looking thoughtfully at his wife.

  Mrs. Slater reached across and took her husband’s hand, smiling through her tears.

  “Women,” commented Ronnie, and everyone laughed.

  Ruth laughed too, and looked at Daniel.

  “Can Ruth come sailing with us Sunday?” Daniel asked, never looking away from Ruth.

  “Well, if you haven’t risked drowning while my wife tacks about,” Mr. Slater said, “then you’re not really one of the family.”

  The following Sunday, Ruth could still feel the salt spray in her hair when Daniel asked her to the movies. She could still hear the slap of the sea against the keel. And the flap of the sails in the wind. Her eyes still could see the blinding light reflected off the surface of the ocean, turning it into a mirror. “There, now you’re part of our family. And you didn’t even drown,” Mrs. Slater told her.

  “What are you thinking about?” Daniel asked her.

  Ruth looked at him and smiled. If she told him he wouldn’t understand.

  “Nothing,” she replied.

  “Shall we go to the movies?” he asked her again.

  “All of us? Together?” Ruth said, glowing.

  Daniel’s face darkened for a moment. “I was thinking — you and I. By ourselves.”

  No, he wouldn’t understand, Ruth thought. He wouldn’t understand the feeling of warmth the Slaters gave her, all of them. Together. Her hunger for warmth. “I was joking,” she said.

  The Arcade, at 534 South Broadway, had a severe aspect. Columns, rectangular windows in neoclassic style. As Daniel went toward the ticket booth, Ruth thought that it had been the movies that uprooted her from New York, that destroyed her father, that turned her mother into an alcoholic. She ran up to Daniel and tugged at his arm.

  “I have to go,” she told him, and saw the disappointment in his clear eyes. “I can’t explain. But it’s nothing to do with you.”

  “But you have to go?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay, I’ll take you back to Venice,” said Daniel, with a melancholy smile.

  “Why?” said Ruth. “I don’t want to go to the movies, but I’d like to be with you.”

  Daniel’s handsome face broke into a radiant smile. “Who cares about a movie?” he said happily. “What would you like to do? Do you want to have dinner at the house?”

  Ruth thought there was nothing she’d ever like better than being with the Slater family in their pretty little house. But what she said was, “Would you like to take me out to eat? In a restaurant?”

  “The two of us,” said Daniel softly, solemnly. As if he was saying it to himself. He took Ruth’s hand in his. “Let’s go,” he said.

  At the Mexican restaurant on La Brea, the headwaiter told them they’d have to wait an hour for a table.

  “How long would it take for some tacos to go?” asked Daniel, instinctively. “How about if we eat on the beach?” he asked Ruth.

  Ruth stiffened. The sun was going down. She saw herself in the car, and then on the beach, alone, with Daniel. She stepped backwards. Waiting to feel the fear. It came. But suddenly she knew she couldn’t stay in that prison any longer.

  So they got back in the car and drove to a sandy dune overlooking the whole ocean. Slowly Ruth’s tension drained away. They had laughed and joked. And little by little, Ruth no longer felt herself to be in danger. She never saw the slightest trace in Daniel’s eyes of that dark gleam she had glimpsed in Bill’s so long ago.

  When they finished eating they packed up the papers and the bottles. Then an unnatural silence fell which neither of them could break. The longer that silence went on, the more uneasy Ruth felt.

  Ruth’s hand was open, playing with the grains of sand still warm from the sun.

  Daniel rested his hand next to hers.

  Ruth looked at it. He had his mother’s long firm fingers. A man’s hands, that were also feminine.

  “Does it disgust you?” said Ruth suddenly. She sank her hand into the sand.

  “What?” Daniel asked, bewildered.

  “I’m missing a finger, haven’t you noticed?” Ruth said in a hard voice, turning to look at him.

  “Yes,” said Daniel, and found her hand under the sand. He touched it softly, delicately. “But there isn’t a single thing about you that I could ever think was …” He stopped, and shook his head. “I don’t even want to say that word. It has nothing to do with you.”

  Ruth looked out at the horizon, where was still a faint orange stripe where the sun had gone down.

  “Ruth …”

  Ruth turned her head. Daniel came closer, slowly, looking into her eyes. Ruth could smell the odor of his skin. Something clean and fre
sh. She remembered the sachets of lavender that used to be in the linen closet. A scent that wasn’t frightening. That didn’t distress her. The odor of family.

  Daniel put his lips against hers. A light contact. As gentle as Daniel himself, thought Ruth as she closed her eyes and abandoned herself to the kiss, stiffly. Her first kiss. The kiss that she had never given to Christmas. Daniel took his hand out of the sand and held Ruth’s neck, drawing her to him more courageously. Ruth immediately felt her heart starting to beat more wildly. She tried to pull away, but Daniel’s hand was strong. Suddenly she thought she couldn't move. She was immobilized. Her eyes widened and a wave of fear churned inside her, violent and impetuous. Troubling. But then she saw Daniel’s closed eyes. And his tousled blond hair. This isn’t Bill, she thought. It’s Daniel. The boy who smells like lavender. And then she tried to shut her eyes, inhaling that clean scent that little by little made her feel less threatened, and she fought down the fear. She opened her lips slightly. Tasting the gentleness, not the strength. Savoring the mild sensation of that kiss. Trying to yield, to overcome the past.

  But just then Daniel caressed her shoulder and started to move his hand down her thigh, his hand open, pulling her urgently, passionately, closer.

  “No!” Ruth pulled away from him. Her back arched, shrinking away from his touch. “No,” she said. The old fear had come back into her eyes.

  “I — I …” Daniel stammered, “I didn’t mean to do anything bad … I didn’t want to …”

  Ruth laid a finger against the beautiful lips she had just kissed. She silenced him. She felt her breath swelling inside her. She felt a terrible yearning for the gauze bandages that had flattened her breasts and hardly let her breathe. “I don’t want to be touched,” she said.

  Daniel looked down, mortified. “Forgive me, I’ve ruined everything,” he said. “But I didn’t mean to …”

  He couldn’t understand, thought Ruth, without anger. Daniel couldn’t know. No one knew. Only Christmas. The child from the mysterious realm of the Lower East Side, the one she’d decided to kiss four years ago, on their bench in Central Park. For whom she’d worn a faint touch of lipstick. He was the only one who knew. He was the only one who could change all of mathematics because she had nine fingers. The only one who had given her nine flowers. The one who was going to make everyone in America count to nine. Only he would have known how to kiss her.