Viola in the Spotlight

  “Want an ice cream?” Andrew asks.

  “Dairy Delight.”

  “The fake stuff?”

  “Yeah, it’s good. They have real ice cream too.”

  “I’d rather have Baskin-Robbins,” Andrew says.

  “Okay, we’ll go there and I’ll have a diet soda.”

  “You aren’t getting all girly on me with the dieting, are you?”

  “No way. I had two chili dogs, french fries, and a cookie for dinner.”

  “I hate it when girls don’t eat.”

  “I can’t control all girls, Andrew.”

  “I know.” He smiles. “I think we’re going to get Mrs. Holloman for English this year.”

  “She’s great.”

  “That’s what I hear.”

  “How is Caitlin’s schedule?”

  “We only have her for lunch and stagecraft together. She has concert band and strings combo. You know she has to take that to get into Juilliard,” Andrew explains.

  “I know. By the way, she told me that she and Maurice write long letters to each other. On paper. With a pen and ink. Like my parents used to do.”

  “Still no email at the Pullapillys?”

  “Maybe in a hundred years. I don’t know what I’d do if I couldn’t email the girls.”

  “You miss your roommates, don’t you?”

  “A lot.”

  “They were great.”

  “I thought you would fall in love with Suzanne.”

  “Why would you think that?”

  “I don’t know. Every boy does. And you know something? I’m happy for her. Watching her in the world is like looking at great architecture, or an amazing painting, or that feeling you get the first time you hear a perfect song. You’re just happy to be in the presence of that particular thing. It’s that way with Suzanne. It’s just a gift to be around her.”

  “I feel that way about you.”

  “And I feel that way about you, too.”

  “Viola, sometimes I think you don’t really understand.”

  “Understand what?”

  “How I feel.”

  I am deeply insulted. “Are you kidding?”

  “About most things, yeah, you get it, but some things you just ignore.”

  Okay, what is going on here? Andrew is being critical. He is almost never critical. So I ask, “Like what?”

  “It’s been all weird since I kissed you.”

  “Yeah?” The truth is, he’s right. I am very confused about my feelings for Andrew. On the one hand, I see how perfectly good and kind he is, and how handsome. And I don’t know how I’ll feel when he gets a new girlfriend. I might hate it, or who knows, I might like her. For the most part, things have been completely fine, and just as they always have been, but that kiss really did seem like the end of one chapter and the start of a new one. The only problem is, I haven’t really read the new chapter. I just sort of tossed the book off to the side, as though that key event were somehow The End.

  “Do you ever wonder why?” he asks.

  “Sure. It just took me by surprise, I guess. I think you missed me when I was at school, and you were leaving for camp, but you got overwhelmed.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “Well, that’s what I think is true.”

  “Okay, fair enough,” Andrew says.

  “Are we arguing about this?”

  “No, no, not at all,” Andrew says, lowering his voice as if to prove the point that this is not an argument. “Wouldn’t it be great if we started LaGuardia this year in a whole new way?”

  “In what way?”

  “I don’t know. Like going together.”

  “Like dating?”

  “Yeah.”

  Andrew wants me to be his GF. I think back over the summer, and when I wasn’t running interference for Caitlin and Maurice, is it possible that Andrew was trying to get my attention? Well, he did kiss me, and then he went on to have a GF at summer camp, which I took as a sign that he wasn’t interested in me in that way. When he came home, he broke up with Mel, and came over every day, and even dropped everything to tour the city with my roomies. I don’t have a single other guy friend who would do that. Only Andrew.

  “Well, what do you think?” Andrew says as he opens the door to the ice-cream shop for me.

  “I think we’re BFFAAs, and I don’t want to ruin that.” I feel a huge sense of relief being honest and saying that out loud.

  “I worry about that too.”

  “Then, I guess, if you have to have an answer, I would say that I’m not ready.”

  “Okay,” Andrew says. “Now I feel pretty dopey that I brought it up at all.”

  “It’s not dopey. I think it’s refreshing to know that there’s a guy in the world who actually knows what he is feeling and speaks up.”

  Andrew smiles. “Only with you.”

  “That makes me feel very special.”

  “Because you are,” he says.

  This is the moment in all ice-cream runs when something is said that triggers the next moment, which leads to A Kiss. But Andrew doesn’t move toward me, nor do I toward him. The bright lights in this corner shop, along with the scent of vanilla, do not inspire kissing, but the opposite, loud chatter and histrionics. Plus, I’ve asked for more time, and Andrew is absolutely willing to give it to me.

  School starts in a couple of weeks, and almost on cue, autumn arrives. Overnight, it seems, I don’t need the fan in my room. The night breeze pushes the blade around, making a soft clicking sound. I probably won’t turn it on again, and I’ll remember to take it out in the morning and put it back in the closet, until next summer.

  I go online to check my emails. One from Romy. Three from Marisol, including a forward about keeping a pink woman running across the screen to raise money for the cure for breast cancer; two from LaGuardia High School with announcements about class schedules; and then a new one, from Kevin Santry. I never get emails from Suzanne’s brothers, so I open it first.

  Dear Viola,

  My mom asked me to email you and your parents. We are at Chicago General Hospital with Dad. He has taken a bad turn and is very sick. The doctors are not hopeful. Mom wanted you to know. We are all here with him. When he was still talking, he told us all about the trip to New York. He had the time of his life.

  Anyhow, we will keep you posted. Suzanne is not checking her phone. She is, as you can imagine, beyond upset. In fact, this is hitting her the hardest. If you can let her friends know, we would appreciate it. We will be in touch. Love, Kevin

  I reread the email. I freeze, not knowing what to do. So first, I paste it and send it to Marisol and Romy. Then, without closing the computer, I run into my parents’ bedroom. Mom is reading and Dad is watching TV. I look at them, so normal in their bed, perfectly healthy, and I burst into tears.

  Mom jumps out of the bed and comes to me, putting her arms around me.

  “What happened?” she asks.

  “Mr. Santry.”

  FIFTEEN

  THE DRIVE TO CHICAGO, WHICH WOULD UNDER ANY other circumstances be fun, is a blur. The fields of Pennsylvania give way to Ohio, and as we go through Indiana, I remember the day my parents dropped me off at the Prefect Academy. We are in Chicago by nightfall.

  There is something soothing about being in the car with my parents. When the call came that Mr. Santry had died, it was Mrs. Santry who called. She wanted Mom and Dad to know how much their new friendship meant to Mr. Santry. That’s just like her—like the whole Santry family really. They are thinking about everyone else’s feelings, while they are in the worst of their grief.

  Suzanne and I talked on the phone, but I did most of the talking. She was very quiet and cried a lot. I just let her cry. When we hung up, I had a good cry too.

  Mom, Dad, and I are staying at a hotel in Oak Park, near the Santrys’ home. Mrs. Santry asked us to stay with them, but Mom wouldn’t hear of it.

  The room is nice, blue wall-to-wall carpeting, a blue flowere
d bedspread, and beige curtains. I crawl into one of the two beds while Dad and Mom tend to their funeral outfits. Dad is hanging his suit; Mom irons a blouse.

  I am wearing a dress that, strangely enough, Suzanne gave to me. It’s a beautiful hand-me-down, a simple black dress with a plain black belt.

  I email Romy and Marisol, whose parents decided that they couldn’t afford the same trip twice in two weeks, because the girls are due back at Prefect for the fall semester. I’m going to represent them at the funeral, as they would do for me in the same situation.

  “Mom, do you think I should give them the DVD of the footage I cut?” I spent the last couple of days with Andrew, making a story out of the New York trip with the Santrys, Romy, and Marisol. We added some music, some of Mr. Santry’s favorites, including “Waltzing Matilda,” which he used to play a lot.

  “Absolutely,” Mom says.

  Once we’re unpacked at the hotel, we get back into the car to go over to the Santrys’ house. Mrs. Santry is having dinner brought in, and the neighbors (evidently) have dropped off enough cakes and pies to last the year.

  Strangely, I know my way to the house. I actually know the turn off the circle, and can pick the street. Dad makes the turn, and it’s easy to find the house. It’s the one with all the cars parked outside.

  Dad finds a spot and we get out of our car. Mom and Dad make their way to the walkway. I can’t move. Mom turns to me. “Honey?”

  I still can’t move.

  Mom and Dad come back to me, by the car.

  “What’s wrong, honey?” Dad says.

  “I never knew anyone who died.” I begin to cry.

  Mom and Dad put their arms around me. “We’re so sorry.”

  “This is part of life. And we wish you never had to face it,” Mom says.

  “You’re only fifteen,” Dad says. “And we were hoping that you’d be older when you had to deal with this.”

  “I feel horrible for Suzanne,” I tell them. “Because I can’t imagine the world without you.”

  Mom and Dad hold on to me for a long time. Their embrace gives me the courage to walk up the sidewalk into the house. We push the door open. The Santry home, just as it was last Thanksgiving, is filled with laughter, and music, and lights. I look at Mom and Dad.

  “This wake is like the man himself,” Dad says. “Full of joy.”

  I can see Suzanne through the doorway to the kitchen. Mrs. Santry is putting out food. Kevin and Joe are busy attending to guests. She sees me, excuses herself from talking with a small group, and runs to me.

  “Suz, I’m so sorry,” I tell her as we embrace.

  “Thank you for coming. My dad thought the world of you,” she says in my ear. Then Suzanne hugs my parents. “Dad felt he found long-lost friends when he met you. Thank you for New York.”

  Suzanne takes us into the kitchen and introduces us to cousins, aunts and uncles, and friends from the neighborhood.

  “You must be so tired,” Mrs. Santry says to us.

  “No, we’re doing just fine. How are you?” Dad asks her.

  “It’s hard.”

  “Bob was a great guy,” Dad says.

  “Oh, he felt he found a brother in you, Adam,” Mrs. Santry assures him.

  “Is there anything we can do?” Dad asks.

  “You have done too much already. You came all this way. I can’t tell you what it means to our family.”

  I reach into my purse. “Mrs. Santry, this is the DVD of the movies we made when you came to New York.” I place it in her hands. She looks down at it, as a person would who has waited a long time for a letter, some correspondence that was lost, and suddenly found. She holds the DVD close to her heart. “Thank you.” She gives me a hug. “And thank you,” she says to my parents, tears brimming in her eyes.

  After the wake, we walk back to our car, and the first chill of fall settles on us.

  “Dad?”

  “Yeah, hon?”

  “That wasn’t bad at all.”

  “No, it wasn’t, was it?” Mom says.

  “What were you expecting?” Dad asks.

  “I was afraid they would be so sad that they wouldn’t know what to say to us. And I would never know what to say to them.”

  “Viola, sometimes, and you just learned this—all you can do is show up. Just be present when you’re needed, and that means more than anything you could ever say.”

  Me: Are you up?

  AB: Waiting to hear from you.

  Me: Funeral this morning.

  AB: How is Suzanne?

  Me: A wreck but strong.

  AB: How are you?

  Me: A wreck but strong.

  AB: You’ll be okay. Hang tough.

  Me: Thanks. I gave Mrs. Santry our DVD.

  AB: I never heard “Waltzing Matilda” before.

  Me: Dad loves it. He loves folk music.

  AB: It was easy to find on iTunes.

  Me: Mom is calling me to get ready. So, gotta go.

  AB: Hey, Vi?

  Me: Yeah.

  AB: Being BFFAAs is totally enough for me.

  Me: Thanks.

  AB: Nothing has changed.

  You think life is one thing, that it’s going one way, but that just isn’t the case. I swore that Tag Nachmanoff would stay cute, that I’d always be good at math. I swore I’d never leave Brooklyn, and I did, to go to Prefect. And I was certain that my yellow flats would never go out of style. I took too much for granted. I didn’t believe that change applied to me as long as I stayed put. But Mr. Santry’s death shows you never know. You just never know.

  Andrew, who is usually right about everything, is wrong about change. Everything is changing. We are trying to hold on to a lot of things, and none of them are stable. Suzanne is going to finish high school and then college without her dad. It seems so unfair.

  I’m surprised when Caitlin logs on to IM right when Andrew and I are saying good-bye.

  CP: Give my love to Suzanne.

  Me: I will.

  CP: Maurice sends his best.

  Me: Is Mom letting you e?

  CP: Yes, from time to time.

  Me: Good!

  CP: If Maurice lived in Brooklyn, no way!

  Me: I know.

  CP: Mom and Dad are better now. They want you and Andrew to hang here where they can keep an eye on us.

  Me: Fabulous.

  CP: I’m laughing.

  Me: I’m sure you are.

  Mr. Santry’s funeral is my first ever. My parents only go to church on Christmas and for funerals. Technically, we are Episcopalians, but it’s more generic than that. We go to whatever church has the best music at holidays.

  The Santrys are Methodists. The church is very plain, yet pretty. Stained-glass windows, walnut benches, and simple chairs around a plain table altar. We join the throng going into the church. Mr. Santry has a standing-room-only funeral.

  I feel oddly comforted by wearing Suzanne’s hand-me-down. There is no casket at the service, as Mr. Santry was cremated. There’s just a large framed photograph of him with his family on the altar. It’s a blowup of the one that Suzanne kept on her nightstand at Prefect. It’s black and white. Everyone is beautiful. Everyone is laughing. And Mr. Santry is sitting in a regular chair and doesn’t look one bit sick.

  The family files in, and it’s as though there is no time for tears. They stop and talk to people in the aisles as they make their way to the front.

  Then the minister says a prayer. Mom and Dad bow their heads, and so do I. Then Kevin makes his way to the lectern.

  “My dad taught me the important things in life. How to bait a hook. How to throw a baseball. And how to ask a girl to the prom. But I would say the biggest lesson he taught me was how to live. He threw himself into everything he did. He never let illness or sadness or defeat define his life, or who he was. Rather, his idea of success was just to keep going, keep moving forward….

  “This summer he and my mom and my sister went to New York City. He had a rough m
onth before they left, but somehow, the trip, and the anticipation of seeing the city with his good friends, gave him the energy he needed to see it through. Suzanne’s friend Viola shot some film when they were there, and last night she left this with my mother. We all watched it, and to see our dad in the city, even rowing a canoe in Central Park, reminded us of how strong and determined he was, but also, that he knew how to have fun. So, we’d like to show it to you now.”

  The minister and Kevin pull a screen forward. Mom takes my hand on one side, and my dad’s on the other. They lower the lights, and the opening guitar riff of “Waltzing Matilda” scores the opening shot of the Santrys’ arrival in New York. There are wolf whistles and cheers as the scenes unfold. Central Park Lake, romantic kisses between Mr. and Mrs. Santry, at night in our yard, when the parents had wine, and then during the day as we covered New York City like New Year’s confetti.

  As the final shot goes into close-up, the frame freezes (Andrew’s idea) on Mr. Santry laughing. The mourners exhale one breath together as they look up at him. The image of him laughing, enjoying his life, and enjoying those he loved on an adventure to New York City says everything about the man. A movie can do that. An image can say it all.

  Sometimes I think my camera is my friend. Sometimes I think it’s my diary. And sometimes, like today, I realize it has a higher purpose—to record what people feel.

  No matter how sad I am for Suzanne and her family, I can’t help but be happy that I got to know Mr. Santry. And no, it wasn’t for long, but it sure was important, and I will never forget him.

  The entire population of Chicago is crammed into the Santry home. Or at least it seems that way. Suzanne has been cornered by her great-aunt and cousins. Mom and Dad want to get on the road in daylight, so I rescue her from her relatives.

  Suzanne hugs me. “Thank you for coming.”

  “I’ll always be here for you,” I promise.

  “And I will always be here for you,” Suzanne promises right back.

  I wish I didn’t have to leave her. I wish that all my friends lived in one city, and that we could run a few blocks to visit anytime we wished. But part of growing up is expanding your world (as my dad likes to say), and my world has definitely grown.