I was single again. But I still didn’t believe it. I was functioning, instead, in a kind of suspension, a place where I moved through thick air, blurred conversations. I was a hit-and-run victim walking, and I was in shock.
Yes, Fry kept texting, and I guess that didn’t help. What did, though, was shutting the phone off before I left for the cove that afternoon. As I got closer to the sea, the tang in the air and the cheerful, wordless hum of voices behind the dunes lifted my spirits. It was summer, after all. I had survived trigonometry and not getting a lead in our school play. I had weathered the bash and, now, losing Fry. Best of all, I was sort of friends with one of the most famous poets on Earth, and my beloved Untouchables were together again.
Well, most of us were together: Brett and Thea had weekend jobs, but all the rest were at the cove when I rounded the bend and found them, spread out like jewels on the rocks: Alicia in her mango-colored swimsuit; Marcia, her tattoos and nose stones making her look exotic, even in a sweatshirt and jean shorts; George, quiet and brilliant and utterly hopeless in his adoration of Wanda; my beautiful, flaming Wanda, who would never feel more than friendship for George, but who let him follow her everywhere; and of course, crazy Eli. . . .
Even though the water in the cove was only wading depth, Eli looked as though he’d signed on for a diving expedition. While the rest of us wore bathing suits and shorts, he was sporting a full-body wet suit, complete with a snorkel mask pushed off his face and buried in his dark curls. “Sarah doesn’t return to the fold every day,” he said. “This is a special occasion, and I wanted to dress for it.”
I laughed. “I’m deeply honored,” I told him. “But I hope you don’t scare the fish.” I grinned at the crazy friend I’d missed more than I knew. “Maybe you should have worn tails?”
Eli shook his head at my horrible pun, then slapped one rubber thigh. “She’s back,” he said. “She’s definitely back.”
The cove was just as I remembered it, certainly not deep enough for diving, but full of echoes and magic. The coral covering the rocks facing the sea was pink and gray above the water, but underneath, it turned purple or orange. The larger boulders that formed the horseshoe in which we sat were full of cracks and crevices, so at high tide, the ocean would poke its wavy fingers through the holes and make soft, swishing sounds. I couldn’t believe how much I loved being there, and I couldn’t believe how long I’d stayed away.
Naturally, everyone wanted to know about the course. And about Rufus. I studied the drops of water on my bare arms, my toes under the water, white and glabrous as minnows. I thought about what I really wanted to tell each one of these friends—how much I’d missed them, how sorry I was to have sold them short, to have left them to the not-very-tender mercies of the cool kids. But it was hard to go back, harder to explain how busy I’d been, how wrong.
So I told them about Rufus, instead. I shared what I knew they’d never guess, things about my poet that surprised them and made them wish they’d been hauled into court, too. No, I didn’t mention Rufus’s dead sons. That was something that felt private. But I talked about our class in the garden, how there wasn’t a plant or an animal he didn’t know by name; I told them he was the best teacher I’d ever had, the only one who made me feel changed for having listened, looked, tasted, and touched. I described the way he’d opened H’s locked car, the way he held both your hands in his, the way he made your memories and your feelings matter.
“It’s true, it’s all true.” Wanda opened her arms wide, hoping the right words would fall in her lap. “Rufus Baylor is, well, he’s dear and awesome at the same time. He’s like a king disguised as a commoner.” She shrugged, helpless to explain. “Like when he talks? You have the feeling he’s giving you all these presents, but you don’t have a big enough place to put them.”
“You two sound like you’re on drugs,” Marcia told us. “A Rufus Baylor trip.” She grinned at Wanda and me. “You should see your faces when you talk about him.”
Wanda and I smiled at each other like groupies. Groupies who shared the same delicious secret. Of course, I told them about the new poem Rufus had written just for our class. But even though it was short, I couldn’t recite it when George begged me to. I remembered some of the words and all of the feeling. Still, I knew getting even one word wrong would change everything, and I didn’t want to spoil it. Rufus had lots of words to choose from, we all do. But he’d chosen the ones that sang his kind of music. And that, as he would have said, made all the difference.
It turned out, though, it didn’t really matter. George and Wanda knew a lot of Rufus’s old poems by heart, especially the famous mountain odes. They were dying for an excuse to trot them out, and it was thrilling to hear them. Even if Wanda put her hand on her chest and sounded too much like Miss Kinney when she recited.
There was one poem they tried to teach us. It was short, and it used the same lines over and over on purpose. Only they were shuffled around till they became a sort of bell, like the one our class had made on that first day with Rufus.
Or they should have made a bell. And if we’d each been able to say our lines at the right time, they would have. But somehow we always managed to get things in the wrong order, so they made no sense at all. One of the words that kept repeating was “Fall! Fall!” And finally, that’s what we did. Eli started it. Whenever Wanda pointed to him, he didn’t even try to remember the line he’d been assigned. He just clamored to the top of the rock he’d chosen as a seat and jumped off, gasping, “Fall! Fall!” as he went.
Soon everyone was parachuting off whatever height they could find, screaming, “Fall! Fall!” as they plunged down. And even though I scraped my knee on my last jump, and even though we never did learn our lines, I knew one thing as I watched us dive-bombing and shouting Rufus’s poem: He would have loved it. I could imagine him there with us, conducting our leaps, fine-tuning our lines—right up until high tide, when the water filled the cove and chased us out.
* * * *
That night, when I walked to Mamselle’s, Shepherd was waiting for me. Menu in hand. “What do you think?” He handed me a list of special table d’hôte options on elegant card stock. “Manny worked his buns off on this. Kind of good, huh?”
I pulled off my sweatshirt, scanned the menu. It wasn’t just good; it was amazing. Under Mamselle’s logo and a design of cresting waves were the words “The Last Verse: A Celebration of Sentences Well Served.” And below that was the description of a meal that made my mouth water just reading it: There was a choice of caprese salad with artichokes or mini shrimp kabobs in mango marinade; the entrées were basil-crusted mahimahi with sweet potato flan and roasted vegetable couscous, or filet mignon with asparagus and blue cheese topping served with garlic and rosemary mashed potatoes and spinach-stuffed baked tomatoes gratiné. For dessert? A flaming baked Alaska at each table.
“This is incredible,” I told Shepherd. “Has Rufus seen it?”
“I read it to him this morning over the phone. He said to ask you what the kids would think.”
“What will they think?” I asked. “They’ll think crime pays!” I studied the oversize card again. “This has got to be the best menu I’ve ever seen.” And then it hit me. “Wait,” I told Shepherd, “there’s something missing.” My father might not have been to college, but he was nobody’s fool. “You forgot the price.”
Shepherd wouldn’t look at me. He focused on the menu, instead. Could he really have made such a giant slip?
“I didn’t forget,” he said at last, finally finding my face. “Hey, how often does my daughter graduate from poetry school?”
This was a present from Shepherd? A present that would cost him at least a month’s salary? I thought of those cowboy pajamas. I thought of Shepherd, who left home at fifteen. And then I thought of our talk at Shake It Baby: I’ve got your back.
“Thanks,” I said. And I meant it. “Thanks a lot.”
I’m not sure why, but I held out both hands, just like Rufus. And sure enough, we did the double-handshake thing, only Shepherd didn’t let go. He just stood there, looking at my hands in his. “We’re going to do better, you and me,” he said at last. Then he smiled. Not the way he smiled at regulars. Or even at Manny. It was only for me, that smile, and I’m glad somebody dropped something really heavy in the kitchen just then. Otherwise, I would probably have turned into a soggy mess.
* * * *
I knew Shepherd’s plans for the party were going to be less than a hit with my mother. And I didn’t want to have to break the news to her by myself. Which is why, for the first time in forever, I asked Shepherd to come in when he dropped me at home after work.
Given the fact that he wasn’t any more inclined to confrontations than he was to Hallmark moments, I might have been pushing my luck. But when I asked him to help me tell Mom where Rufus’s good-bye dinner would be held, he didn’t say a word. He just sighed, turned off the ignition, and walked me right up to our front door.
So it was the two of us who sat in chairs on each side of my mother as she stared at the menu, which Shepherd laid on the coffee table beside the latest copy of Her. And it was the two of us who watched her go to that quiet, throat-clutching place she went whenever she was upset.
“It’ll be fun, Mom,” I told her, feeling half sorry for the way we’d sprung this on her. “Besides, Mamselle’s is the only place in town big enough. Shepherd’s going to set up microphones and everything.”
“We’ll be closed to the public,” Shepherd said. “And Rufus asked me to make sure there’s room for anyone you want to invite.”
I don’t know if it was me and Shepherd teaming up, or Shepherd calling our poet Rufus, but my mother was quiet for a really long time. She just sat there, all alone on the couch, looking much smaller than I’d thought possible.
“Mom?” I didn’t know what to say, so I said something dumb. “I’m sorry.”
It was as if she hadn’t heard me. She didn’t move. Aunt J. must have been out, because there was no noise from the kitchen and no TV sounds from upstairs. Nobody was going to save us with a dropped pot or a loud commercial.
“Kate,” Shepherd said at last. “I need your help with the seating. You know, which muckety-muck goes where?”
My mother, the statue, wasn’t even looking at the menu. It was as if she were staring through it at something much farther away.
“I was thinking I’d put all the kids at the head table with Rufus,” Shepherd went on. “He said he wants to do some kind of poetry thing with them.”
Silence. If my mother blinked, I didn’t see it.
“Then I was going to put the mayor with some of the newspaper people—”
“You can’t do that.” Mom’s eyes focused on the menu, then on Shepherd. “They just did an op-ed against his decision to run again.”
“See what I mean?” Shepherd grinned at me. “Next thing you know, I’d be mixing the commoners with the royalty.” He shrugged, sounded serious. “I really need you to sort things out, Kate.”
“And you’ll have to split the magazine into two tables. The board needs to be with editorial, but production has to be with art.”
“You’re talking to the wrong guy,” Shepherd said. “You know I’m no good at spit and polish.”
My father is not, as I’ve said before, a dummy. My mother was awake now, looking around the room like someone released from a spell. “I’ll need a seating chart,” she said.
“I can get you one.”
“And what about flowers?”
“Oh, jeez. Can’t we just use our regular table vases?”
“Let’s not cut corners on this, Shepherd.”
Shepherd, a.k.a. My Brilliant Father, turned to me. “What did I tell you, Sarah?” he said. “Thank goodness we got a little class going for us here.” He plucked the menu off the coffee table and handed it to Mom. “Kate, choose whatever you think works with this theme, and with the food.”
My mother straightened the magazines on the table, then studied the menu again. “It will take time,” she told him. “I mean, there are three florists in town. I’d have to see what’s in season.”
Shepherd looked at her, then at the menu. “You’re the boss,” he told her.
My mother was livelier now, calculating again. “I’m thinking orchids,” she mused. “Purple for the head table, navy for the rest.”
“Orchids!?” Shepherd shook his head. “Now, hold on, Kate. You think I’m made of money?”
My mother gave him her Katherine Wheeler look. “Are you putting a price on elegance?” She studied him pointedly, that eyebrow raised. “On good taste?”
Shepherd winced, sucked in his breath. “Listen, Kate,” he said, “you can push me just so far. I only got so much blood.”
“Orchids or nothing.” She folded her arms, waited. There was the shadow of a smile at the corners of her mouth.
“What can I say?” My father bowed his head, like a gladiator conceding a match. “You’ve got me over a barrel. I need this done right.”
“It will be.” My mother stood, still holding back a smile. She was good at that. “We should probably throw some dahlias into the mix. A touch of mauve.”
Shepherd stood, too. “I’ll call you tomorrow from the restaurant,” he said, already running for daylight. “We’ll order whatever you want.”
At the door, Shepherd gave me a conspirator’s grin, then turned and said just loud enough to carry back to the living room, “Your mother’s got a knack, Sarah. A real knack.”
So do you, Dad, I told him in my head. So do you.
Linville Gorge
On the lip of joy,
I hear the rude hawks
calling, “Fall! Fall!”
above a sun-flecked stream.
I hear the rude hawks,
yearning, god-eyed
above a sun-flecked stream
coasted with pale cliffs.
Yearning, god-eyed,
I spot from my safe perch,
coasted with pale cliffs,
the distant promise of love.
I spot from my safe perch
on the lip of joy,
the distant promise of love
calling, “Fall! Fall!”