In the morning I find Carmen sitting in—is it an office, or a lounge, or the dreariest conference room of all time? A big fake-wood table dominates the center, and then there are more folding chairs and an olive vinyl sofa dragged kicking and screaming out of 1979, and another mini fridge, and—I focus on it to the detriment of all else—a coffeemaker burbling serenely on an end table, next to a box of donuts.
“Breakfast, boy-o,” Carmen says, following my gaze. And then she turns back to the two people she’s talking to.
I take it as an invitation to help myself, because at least it wasn’t a direct order to get lost. And once I’ve found a mug, I turn to perch on the fridge, three donuts in a wobbling tower on my knee, and really observe Carmen’s visitors for the first time.
One is a very tall, slim, exceptionally dark-skinned Black man with buzzed hair and severe features and an elegant, flowy dove-gray suit. Cheekbones like silver scythes, narrow skull. He glances at me with zero interest, but then his gaze backs up and he peers harder, just as I bite into a donut and a blurt of gory jelly splatters my cheek.
The other is a truly beautiful old woman; realistically she’s probably close to Aunt Margo’s age but she’s a completely different kind of creature. She’s golden brown and has long silver hair in a ponytail and a straight black dress to her ankles. Huge, searching brown eyes. A delicate necklace made of beach pebbles drilled through and linked with silver hoops. I’d like to flop down and rest my head in her lap and ask her to adopt me. She’s gazing at me too.
The sleek, suited man breaks out in a crooked smile. It’s not aimed at me, and it wouldn’t seem friendly if it was.
“Beamer?” he asks Carmen. Say what?
She smiles back. “I knew you’d catch it, Julian. Want to guess?”
He spreads his hands. “Surprise me.”
“That,” Carmen says, and clocks her head sharply my way, “would be Gus Farrow.” Did the word beamer refer to me, then? What sense does that make?
“Um, hi,” I say. “Carmen, I don’t mean to sound unappreciative, but I really prefer Angus.” But it’s like I didn’t speak at all. Julian’s eyes do a sort of ironic pivot in my direction, then his shoulders roll back and he cackles. What exactly does he think is so funny?
The beautiful silver-haired woman amps up her soft-focus attention. I think she likes me.
“Gus Farrow!” Julian says, with bone-dry amusement. “Still working it out, then, I take it? He didn’t hew too closely to tradition either. There’s quite a look of embellishment to this one.”
“Working what out?” I ask, keeping my tone as polite as I can. “You know, I am right here.”
“That’s what he does,” Carmen agrees. She and Julian both have stopped looking at me. I’ve progressed from inaudible to invisible, and only the silvery woman still keeps her brown gaze hovering around my face. “Works it out, and out, and out, ad nauseam. Lots of juice, not a lot of what you’d call new ideas. But as far as that particular trick goes, you know he’s invented most of the major innovations.”
It almost sounds like a very confusing compliment, but what trick could she be talking about?
“And that really doesn’t concern you, Carmen?” the silvery woman asks. Almost tenderly. “You don’t have any objection to participating in that?”
Carmen does one of her inimitable dismissive twists. “It’s his way. Not like I could stop him even if I wanted to, and I don’t see why I’d bother. Besides, he’s making it worth my while.”
“Stop me?” I say. I’m still trying to sound calm and mature, but my voice is getting prickly. “From what? I haven’t done anything!”
Julian gives a huffing chuckle of pure disdain, and Carmen flicks me the smallest possible fraction of an annoyed glance. “You can run along now, Gussy boy.”
Hell yes, I will, I want to say. I’ll run straight out of this dump, and you can find someone else to spew your incomprehensible rudeness at.
But then the silvery woman stands up, steps closer, and holds out her hand to me, graciously waiting for me to shake it.
“Hello, Angus,” she says. “I’m Dolores Rojas. You can call me Lore for short, but I promise I won’t ever call you Gus.”
And just like that, I completely forget about storming out. Instead I hurry to wipe jelly on my pants and reach out for her slim, strong hand, her fingers heavy with carved-stone rings.
“Hi, Lore. I’m happy to meet you!” It’s such a relief to make eye contact after the way Julian and Carmen have been acting that I decide not to be hurt anymore by what she said, the You don’t have any objection to participating in that? part. “Carmen hired me yesterday to help out here. I’m going to do my best to be a good worker.”
It sounds defensive, because I’m still not sure if she thinks there’s something wrong with me.
“Yes,” Lore says. “I’m sure you’re bringing the best of intentions to everything you do.”
Her gaze, though, expresses something different. Something under shovelfuls of warm brown soil. I just can’t tell what it means.
“Lore,” Julian breaks in. I’d like to give him the benefit of the doubt, but there’s really no mistaking his tone. He’s disgusted. Disgusted that she’s touching me? “You know what that is.”
“Angus is an innocent boy,” Lore retorts. But the whole time she’s holding my eyes, not looking back at Julian at all. “And he deserves better than this.”
Thank you, thank you, thank you. Someone, at least, thinks I should be treated like I’m human.
Carmen shrugs. “Run along now, Gussy. Can’t you mop, or something?”
“It’s my lunch break,” I snap at Carmen, and then I swing toward Julian. “What’s a beamer?”
His teeth set on edge and his eyebrows shoot up, like he can’t believe I’d have the gall to speak to him.
“Just tell me,” I say. “You want to get rid of me so badly, all you have to do is answer one question. If I’m going to be insulted for no reason, I’d like to at least know what it means.”
He thinks it over for a few seconds. Smiles like an iron spike aimed at my skull.
“Think of movies, Angus. Do you like movies?”
Even with the derision in his voice, I feel a flutter of pleasure. “Yeah, I do.” I love them: the sweeping emotions, the involute intrigue, the sheer scale of the drama. What I despise are tiny, twiddling conflicts, whose turn is it to take out the garbage and why didn’t you say you were running late, and the cramped, romance-depleted love that goes with all of that. I’m a believer in bringing it on, all of it, whole towers of it balanced on war elephants. A goddamn stampede.
“Well, then think of the beam of the projector, traveling through the darkness. Beamer alludes to that. To projection.”
“Oh,” I say. Not that I actually understand, but I don’t want to sound dim in front of this guy. Not when he already looks down on me. And I like the idea of seeming like a movie: luminous, vibrant, and larger than life. I glance at Lore for confirmation, but her face is sad and watchful, not giving anything much away. “That doesn’t sound so bad.”
“Indeed not, to you. Now think of the end of the movie.”
Now I really don’t understand why he thinks beamer is an insult. The end is the thrilling part, victory and kisses. You go through all the misery and danger, you earn the payout. Why would I mind that?
“Then I guess we’re good,” I tell him after a moment. “I can be a beamer, if that’s all it means.”
“You have little choice in the matter,” Julian tells me, and he’s still smiling. A revolted smirk, as if I were some kind of thousand-legged spider, but at least he’s looking at me. Lore, though: she isn’t smiling at all. “Now. Carmen told you to go away.”
I think about it as I go. A movie. A light in the darkness, carrying visions from long, long ago. It’s a beautiful idea, actually.
If I’m a movie, then I hope I’m something classic. Old. Black and white. A love story, naturally, full of grand passions and heartache and doom and ultimate triumph.
And, of course, there just has to be a kiss! One that goes on and on, or maybe again and again.
A kiss like snow, eternally falling.