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I HAD A LATE LUNCH date with Donnie. He works through the lunch rush at the Drive-Inn, so he doesn’t take his lunch break until around two. The timing meant I was going to miss an important meeting. At one-thirty, my faculty colleagues were convening to forge a sternly worded resolution concerning the Student Retention Office’s “streamlining” of our curriculum (that is, removing the history requirement).
The real reason for my absence wasn’t simply a schedule conflict. It was pure, self-serving cowardice. Attending the meeting would be tantamount to opposing the Student Retention Office publicly. I would have to be out of my mind to do such a thing, especially before I had tenure. It was better for me to be off-campus entirely while the meeting was going on.
The aroma of garlicky puttanesca sauce tickled my nose as I approached the front door. Donnie makes his puttanesca with plenty of green and Kalamata olives, goes light on the capers, and serves a generous helping over perfectly al dente linguine. I reached for the doorbell but paused when I heard my stomach growling. I hadn't eaten since breakfast, and I was starving. Once the visceral clamor had subsided, I rang the bell.
Donnie greeted me with a kiss on the cheek.
“I have to show you something.” He took me by the hand and started to lead me down the hallway. Where the bedrooms were, or so I remembered from the one time he’d given me a full tour of his house. Donnie’s master bedroom, I recalled, was as elegant as the rest of his place. A low slung platform squatted on the luminous, perfectly inlaid maple floor. Three framed lithographs by a local artist depicted the Hawaiian creation story in sepia ink on cream paper.
Was he actually planning on our rumpling those raw silk sheets while puttanesca sauce bubbled away on the stovetop? This was so oddly out of character for him that I wasn’t sure how to react. Should I feel flattered? Annoyed? Concerned?
We paused at a closed door, and he released my hand. As it turned out, I wasn’t going to see the master bedroom today.
“Do you remember Davison’s room?” he asked.
“Not really.”
“This used to be a little boy’s room. Now Davison’s a grown man, the bunk bed and posters, all those little-boy things, those aren’t quite appropriate anymore. I thought I should buy him some grown up furniture.”
“To mark his being an independent adult,” I said.
“Exactly. I have a furniture wholesaler in L.A. I like. I sent Davison a catalog and let him pick out the bedroom set he wanted. And he did, all by himself.”
“You must be very proud of him."
“You’ll appreciate this, Molly. He chose something from the ‘Italian Classic Bedroom’ collection. It’s called Barocco.”
Had I ever mentioned to Donnie that I’m not actually Italian? I couldn’t remember. It would seem petty to bring it up now.
“Davison told me he liked this bedroom set because it reminded him of his truck.”
“His truck? How does a bedroom set remind someone of a truck?”
“It’s black with a lot of silver trim. It took a while to get everything shipped in and set up, but it’s finally done.”
Donnie swung the door open with a flourish.
I gasped.
The hulking bed had a headboard and footboard of rococo silver leaf, set off with tufted black leather insets. Like Davison’s truck, it was massive and black and gaudy. At least I didn’t see a “Power Stroke Turbo” badge anywhere. The matching dresser was black lacquer, festooned with some kind of curly silver trim and topped with a smoked, silver-veined mirror. A gold-framed print of Botticelli’s Birth of Venus hung over the headboard.
“Oh my goodness," I stammered, grasping for something nice to say. "Is that a, uh, heart shape in the trim on the headboard?” The headboard design only vaguely resembled a heart. What it really looked like was an angry little fat face, with two hostile button eyes.
“I didn’t see that before. It’s sweet that you noticed, Molly.” How could Donnie look at this and sound so happy?
“Didn't this room used to have a hardwood floor? Like the rest of the house?” I asked, poking a tentative toe at the plush carpet. “The red color is definitely striking. Have you read The Masque of the Red Death by any chance?”
“No, doesn’t sound familiar. The hardwood’s still under there.”
“And look at that chandelier! Are those candles made out of black leather? Isn’t that a fire hazard?”
“They’re not real candles. They just look like it.”
Donnie reached into the room and flipped a switch. The “flames” on the “candles” flickered mechanically.
Donnie must have a real blind spot when it comes to Davison, I thought. An actual, literal blind spot. It was the only explanation. The rest of Donnie’s house looked like it sprang into three dimensions from the slick pages of an architecture magazine or a high-end furniture catalog.
I think I keep my house clean and well organized. Pat and Emma would even say I take my penchant for tidiness a little too far. But then I go and spend time in Donnie’s perfect house, and I come away feeling like one of the Collyer brothers.
“Gosh, Donnie, it’s a very different aesthetic from your...” I flopped my hands helplessly as I searched for a synonym for “good taste.”
I finally came up with,
“...your more understated décor.”
“It’s only missing one thing now,” Donnie said.
The severed horse’s head?
“Davison.” Donnie put his arm around my shoulders and gave me an affectionate squeeze. “Now his room is the way he likes it, I think he’ll be spending more time here. He can come back and stay whenever he has a break from school. Summer vacation, spring break, whenever.”
“Oh,” I faltered. “That’s, um, great.”
“In fact, I’m trying to bring him back for a short visit before his school term starts. And Molly, I know you’re already teaching, but I think it would be nice if you two could spend some time together, and get to know each other better.”
“Oh, I think I know Davison pretty well. Remember, he was my student. I mean, of course I’d be delighted.”
At least the part about Davison being my student was true.
“You know he’s calling himself ‘Dave’ now. It sounds more Californian, I suppose.”
Donnie gave me another quick squeeze and released me.
“Let’s go eat.”
Even Donnie’s delicious pasta couldn’t soften the shock of seeing Davison’s bedroom. The new decor was hideous, of course, but I could live with that. I mean, I could always close the door. The problem was what Donnie had said about making sure Davison spent as much time here as possible, with me acting as some kind of mother figure. I allowed Donnie to refill my wine glass. Was this my second glass? My third? In my distraught state, I had lost track. And I still had to drive back up to campus after this. So much for my Mother-Figure of the Year award.
I couldn’t think of anything positive to say about Davison’s new room, so I steered clear of the topic. Instead, I chatted about Emma’s upcoming canoe race. I mentioned I’d be going to the leeward side of the island with Emma to keep her company and enjoy the long Labor Day weekend.
“I might have business over there,” Donnie said. “Where are you staying?”
I told him.
“Isn't that a coincidence.” He grinned. “I might be over there too. Should we plan to meet for dinner?”
“What a wonderful idea." I smiled back. At least there wouldn’t be anything over on the other side of the island to remind him of how much he missed his awful son.