Call Me Zelda (20 page)

“No,” he said. “If I bring up Padre Pio, confession, and atonement you will shut down.”

“You’re right,” I said. “Let’s not talk about it.”

We reached the end of the passage, and climbed up the stairs and out of the front entrance of the cathedral. It was a relief to breathe the fresh autumnal air. A large banner showing Edgar Allan Poe hung from the windows of the Enoch Pratt Free Library across the street.

“I love reading Poe at this time of year,” he said.

“Me, too. Though I feel as if I’ve been living in a Poe story in that creepy house with those unsettled people.”

“Then you really must stay,” he said, “if for no other reason than to see how the story ends.”

“I just hope it doesn’t end with the house collapsing in on itself and its haunted inhabitants.”

“And their psychiatric nurse, ooooohhhhh.” He held out his hands like a Frankenstein monster and squeezed my shoulders. I couldn’t help but laugh at the old woman passing us, watching with disapproval at the priest behaving like a schoolboy.

He waved to her and then pulled me by my hand. “Come on.”

“Where to?”

“Poe’s grave.”

T
he fall sky wore the marbled gray threat of precipitation, and a chilly wind slid between the city buildings. We pulled our coats up around our necks, remarking on the sudden change in the weather.

The Poe grave was located at the corner of Fayette and Greene streets. The large stone monument was supposed to mark his grave, but rumors persisted that his real burial site was in the back of the cemetery. The monument was a beautiful tribute to the troubled writer, with its impressive arched top, large engraved name, and black bas-relief bust of the man’s face.

Peter and I stood before it for a moment, then walked around the cemetery noting the older, more crumbled slabs and remarking on the macabre beauty of our surroundings. Near the back, I
came upon a headstone of a child. She was only five when she had died, and I felt connected to those who had lost her. My daughter, Katie, rested across town in the Green Mount Cemetery. It was one of the reasons I’d chosen to work at Hopkins and live in the city: to remain near her. It had been a long time, however, since I’d visited her grave. Too long. I was surprised to find that thinking of her did not depress me, but rather, reminded me of the time I’d had her, a human thread connecting me to Ben and to who I once was.

I felt Peter’s hands on my shoulders and reached up to touch one of them.

“Are you okay?” he asked. “Would you like to leave?”

I turned to him. “No,” I said. “No, it’s good to be here. To remember things.”

“I’ve always admired you, Anna,” he said.

I was surprised by his words and couldn’t think why he said them.

“Why?”

“Your courage,” he said. “I don’t have a tenth of your courage. It’s why I am what I am.”

The wind picked up around us, rattling the newly colored leaves of the tree hanging over us. One of the leaves let go and floated down to rest near a gravestone.

“How can you say that?” I said. “You have the hardest job of all. I can’t imagine doing what you do, being alone like you, responsible for so many the way that you are.”

“How is that different from you?” he said.

“I guess it’s a little bit the same, but so, so different,” I said. “At least I have my freedom.”

“Don’t you see, though? I’m free. You, who’ve loved as you have, who have lost what you lost. Look at you and Ben. Katie. Look at Scott and Zelda, slowly killing each other by stray
bullets meant for themselves. That’s what happens with love. It ends. By death or separation.”

“I never knew you to be such a pessimist,” I said.

“I’m a realist. All human relationships will end. I’ve already lost my love, the Lord. Now I just have to live well to get back to him. I couldn’t bear what you’ve lost. You’re a far stronger person than I could ever hope to be.”

I looked down at the red leaves that had fallen prematurely, and let his words sit heavy in my heart.

I
’d invited Peter to dinner that night and told him I’d include Sorin. Sorin hadn’t spoken much since the day he’d delivered the song. Though he knew Peter was my brother, I believed the strain of reaching out and giving me the song had irreparably taxed his nerves. He blushed whenever he saw me, stuttered responses to my greetings, and made a general mess of every small interaction we had in the hall.

I had been practicing “Anii” on the piano for weeks and knew he had to have heard through the walls of our building, as I often heard him. The music was exquisite. Two simple melodies drifting in and out of each other, with the sadness of Chopin and the depth of Beethoven. It made me cry the first time I played it correctly from start to finish.

It also worried me. There was so much feeling in the song, and while I couldn’t deny that I was drawn to Sorin, I felt as if I didn’t deserve his affection and couldn’t possibly return it. It occurred to me that his creative fevers reminded me of Zelda’s, and while this fascinated me, I did not need another project.

As I pulled the rosemary-scented chicken out of the oven, the phone rang. It was Peter, full of apologies. The bishop and a number of notable clergy were coming to dine at the rectory, and he hadn’t found out about it until that afternoon.

“That can’t be true, Peter,” I said. “You set me up.”

He laughed and I knew I was right in spite of his insistence that he didn’t know.

“You just want me to have a date with Sorin, and I don’t appreciate your meddling in my love life.”

“Anna, if I could swear on the Bible, I would. I did not set you up. I have to confess that I’m glad it worked out this way, but I didn’t orchestrate it.”

I groaned and hung up on him, frantic at the thought of dining alone with Sorin in my apartment, but thankful for living in the city where I at least had a telephone and could be notified of such a late change in plans. Maybe I still had time to invite the ballerinas. I checked the clock and saw that I had ten minutes before Sorin was due to arrive. Taking the steps two at a time, I reached Rose and Julia’s door out of breath. I knocked and waited, but no one answered. I knocked a little harder, but they weren’t there.

Would it be rude to back out, fake sickness, and send Sorin a plate? As I started down the stairs contemplating how I could get out of this awkward situation, he walked up from his apartment. His hair looked freshly cut and he carried a bouquet of wildflowers. I couldn’t help but smile.

I
put on an Al Jolson record and poured two glasses of bootlegged wine. I hoped the music and the alcohol might help me relax.

“Those are beautiful,” I said, pointing to the flowers. “Peter won’t be able to join us. I made so much food I thought I’d ask Julia and Rose to come, but they weren’t there.”

“They would not have eaten much anyway,” he said.

“You’re probably right.”

We stood and stared at each other for a moment before
turning away and studying various items around us so we wouldn’t have to look directly at each other. I was horrified to think that Sorin might suspect I had finagled a dinner with just the two of us. I felt terribly awkward until the buzzer on the stove let me know the rice was ready. I ducked past him into the kitchen.

“Can I help you with anything?” he called.

“No, thank you. I’m just about ready.”

While I put the rice and vegetables into bowls and set the table, I saw Sorin walk over to the piano and touch the sheet music. I returned to the kitchen to slice the chicken, and when I came back to the table with the platter, Sorin had my wedding picture in his hands. It startled me and I nearly dropped the plate of chicken. It landed on the table, rattling the cups and plates. He looked up.

I wiped my hands on my apron. “I’m sorry. I’m a little clumsy.”

He held up the picture. His brows were furrowed.

“This is a beautiful picture,” he said.

I knew I had to tell him something so he didn’t think the worst about me.

“Thank you,” I said. “My husband, Ben, fought in the war.”

I wanted to explain, but I just couldn’t find the words.

“But he did not come home,” said Sorin.

So simple.

“Yes,” I said.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asked.

I shook my head in the negative. Sorin placed the picture on the piano and walked over to me. He reached for my hands and I placed them in his. His palms were calloused and warm, and his face was open and kind.

“Thank you for inviting me here,” he said.

I exhaled and felt relief filling me. The awkwardness left the
room and our connection from his simple physical gesture put me at ease.

“It’s my pleasure,” I said.

He looked at the food and then back at me. I clung to his hands.

“Anna,” he said.

“Yes?”

“I am starving.”

I laughed and released his hands.

I
t gave me such pleasure to see Sorin enjoying the meal so much. He ate his first helping quickly and looked bashful about asking for seconds.

“Please,” I said. “Eat it all. And I’m sending you home with what you don’t eat now.”

“Thank you,” he said. “You are a good baker.”

I smiled at him. “Thank you. It’s nice to cook for someone else.”

“You are alone much, yes?”

“Yes,” I said. “Well, no. I have my work, and my family is close by.”

“You are a nurse.”

“Yes,” I said. “I’m a psychiatric nurse.”

“What is this psychiatric?”

“I help people who suffer from mental illness,” I said, pointing at my forehead. “Schizophrenia, melancholia, other such ailments.”

“Ah, yes, melancholia,” he said. “Do you like the work?”

“I do, mostly,” I said. “It’s hard, though. In a regular hospital I could help patients heal from physical wounds. Wounds of the mind aren’t so easy to fix.”

“I can believe that,” he said. “Why do you do it? This kind of nursing.”

That was a hard question to answer without dragging in too many of my past hurts, but I tried. “After the war,” I said, “I
realized that some wounds are worse than those of the flesh. I wanted to help those people.”

“I understand,” he said.

A dog barked from somewhere outside on the street, and the bells of the cathedral rang the hour. When they finished, Sorin asked, “Your brother…Peter, is it? You are close to him.”