Chapter title is a lyric from "She's Something Special" by Eric Clapton (owned by EC and not me)

At the end of May, for the long Memorial Day weekend, I was driving to visit my parents.  Alone.  I’d been missing my mother so much and there was something about becoming a mom that made me want to take one giant step back and just be a kid again.  My parents had visited me and Jim a few weekends and we’d gone there to visit, too, but I just wanted them all to myself and I was really looking forward to it.  Staying in my old room, having my mom cook dinner, doing a little shopping, seeing my sister and her baby…I couldn’t wait to just be me for a weekend.  Pregnant me, or… me plus one, but still me.  And as long as I promised to call him once on the drive and once when I got there to let him know I was okay, Jim was totally fine with me going alone.  He said he was going to have a poker game on Saturday night, but promised to have the house cleaned up and the strippers gone by the time I came home.  I told him he’s hilarious but he needs to work on his delivery.

It turned out that Melinda really did need help with the Spring Art Fair and it wasn’t just a ruse to get me back in the game.  I took a couple hours off work on a Thursday to help her and her students set up the auditorium and get tables and tags and other little details ready for the fair on Friday night.  She was right – the kids were so excited to be showing their stuff off and even though it was a struggle to get them to calm down enough to focus, they were a lot of fun.  Melinda introduced me as “Mrs. Halpert” – her son Jim’s wife.  Some of the kids knew Jim from a summer basketball camp he’d helped run, and a few of the girls started giggling and whispering behind hands as they were pretty obviously checking me out.  They came up to me later and asked, “Is Jim really your husband?” like I was married to Brad Pitt or something.  The giggling commenced in earnest after I told them he was, and they told me he was sooooo cute! And soooo tall!  I couldn’t resist…I said he was a good kisser, too, and they screamed with laughter and pointed at my belly and said, “oooooh, Mrs. Halpert!” They wanted to know all about the baby and when I was due and what I was having (I wish I could have told them!) and what I was going to name the baby and would I name it Jim Junior if it was a boy.   I couldn’t wait to tell Jim about his fan club.

When I got home that night, Jim was out in the garden weeding and thinning out the lettuce and the spinach.

“I hope you’re in the mood for salad, Beesly.  Like for the next three months.”

“I tried to tell your father we didn’t need so much, but…”

“Yeah, he’s a stubborn old man, isn’t he?”

“Yeah, but he’s a big old softie, too.  Like father, like son.”

~~

It doesn’t take too long for me to figure out why Jim had warned me not to let Steve boss me around.  I might as well throw my plans away, because he’s got very definite ideas about how the rows need to be planted and how much of each vegetable needs to go in.  Out of respect for his experience and the fact that he’s helping me with my first garden, I don’t argue, but I warn him that the flowers are going in my way or else, and he agrees.

Pretty soon, we settle into a comfortable rhythm of me digging the holes and Steve following with my seed tray and watering can.  He’s watching me like a hawk and occasionally mutters “too close, Pam” or “not deep enough” and I follow his instructions but I’m starting to get a little cranky, so I decide to distract him a little.

“I had a lot of fun at the art fair yesterday.”

“Good turnout this year.  Mel gets so worked up every year making sure everything’s perfect. She appreciated your help.”

“You know, I always wondered…Melinda’s so talented.  I always wondered why she decided to teach instead of…doing her own thing but then I saw her with the kids…”

“She’s something, isn’t she?  Kids that age…they’re tough.  They tend to be so full of themselves and think they know everything and she’s so good with them.  I wish I had her at my school but she likes teaching the younger kids.”

“She told me the first five years she was teaching…it was a little rough.”

Steve laughs.  “The first year, they ran all over her.  She was young and she looked even younger than she really was.  The kids knew she was a new teacher and they just…she had a lot of discipline problems and she came home crying or ready to quit every other day, it seemed.”

“I can’t imagine that!”

“I think the first year is tough for any teacher.  You’re a little in love with the idea of teaching, but the reality of it…well, she overcompensated the next year.  Someone had told her the old saying about how a teacher should never smile before Christmas…”  He laughs again.  “She went into her second year determined not to have a repeat, so she went into it with guns blazing and made all sorts of rules that even she had trouble sticking to.”

“I can’t imagine that, either!”

“She really hated it, too!  And she was pregnant with Jon that year and she really struggled with being the mean teacher.  She just didn’t have it in her and the mean teacher act didn’t last until Christmas.”

“What happened?”

“It’s pretty funny, the way I remember it.  Not funny at the time…but she had a little bit of a meltdown in the classroom  when one of the boys told her she didn’t have to be so mean.”

“Oh, no!  That's terrible!”

“Yeah.  She came home and told me that she just burst into tears right in the classroom!  About the last thing you ever want to do!  Because she was pregnant, the kids all felt sorry for her and she told me a couple of the girls ran over to her and brought her some tissues and were patting her on the back and the boy…he felt awful and kept apologizing to her.”

“Oh my God!  I can see it…but, wow.  That’s not the woman I saw yesterday.”

“Well, that was a long time ago, Pam.  Even though she always knew she wanted to be an art teacher, it still took her a few years to find her own way in the classroom.”

It’s getting to be lunch time and it’s also getting pretty hot, so I say we should take a break and go in the house for lunch.  I don’t want him overdoing it.  I pour him a glass of iced tea and fix sandwiches and when I join him at the table, he smiles at me and squeezes my hand.

“You and Jim…Mel and I are so happy…the way everything’s worked out.”

“Oh, Steve!  That’s so sweet!”

“He didn’t talk a lot about it, but I knew from what little he did say…he was in love with you for a long time.”

His words take me by surprise and I feel tears stinging at the corner of my eyes.  It’s been a while since I’ve thought about it, but it only takes Steve’s few words to bring it all back.  My life…I can’t even think of how different things would be now.

“Jim…we worried a little about him.  I mean, he was a good kid…a little bit of a hell-raiser, but he was always the charmer, too, and if he got into trouble, he never failed to charm his way out of it.”

“He’s still doing that!”

“He never really had a clear idea of what he wanted to do, you know?  He was good at a lot of different things…sports...writing…”

“The trumpet…”

“Oh, Jesus God, no!" 

We both laugh.

“He found his way with you, Pam.”

“Oh, Steve…”

“It’s true.  I saw it the first night you came to the house for dinner.  It was just like I told him it would be…just like it was for me and Mel.”

“You know, I don’t think I even know how you two met.”

“Really?  Well, let’s start on your flowers and I’ll tell you the story.”

He tells me about how he came to Buffalo in the early seventies, working on his Masters degree, wanting to be a high school principal, organizing and campaigning for McGovern, and exploring the city.  He tells me he was far too serious then, like the typical angry young man, but there was a lot to be angry about back then.  I tell him he’s mellowed and he says that he can still get fired up, but back then, he had a lot of dreams about how to change the world.  He says he was on campus that Sunday, working on a student activist newsletter, when some fellow students told him he should get out, enjoy the sunshine, and head over to Allentown.  There’s an art festival going on, hadn’t he heard?

~~

I’d explored the neighborhood a bit when I first moved to Buffalo and spent a few afternoons playing chess at a bar called Nietzche’s, listening to stray blues players noodle around…jamming and had a wild night or two at a place called Mulligan’s Brick Bar.  So I knew the neighborhood, but I was still blown away by this art festival going on in the middle of the Allentown streets.  I checked out some of the booths, grabbed a hot dog and a beer and just wandered.  I listened to an old harp player with a basket at his feet and threw a dollar in before moving on.  I stopped at a booth full of small wooden boxes, all different shapes and finishes, and I picked one out for my keys and loose change (okay, Steve, whatever) and while I was waiting to pay the artist for it, I turned back out to the street and...there she was.  I’ve always said it was like I was hit by a thunderbolt and it’s true.  I was afraid it had fused my sandals to the street because for a minute, I couldn’t even move. 

She’s across the street, a few booths down, gazing at some weird acrylic paintings.  She’s not very tall and her hair…her hair reaches her waist in the back, pulled into a loose ponytail with a white ribbon that I stare at so long, I can almost feel it coming loose in my fingertips.  It’s silly but true, how there seemed to be a light all around her, even in the bright sun.  I see her in profile, with one finger at her lips and it’s like I’m being pulled by a string.  I set the box down, not even interested now, and I walk slowly across the street. 

I stand a bit away from her and watch as she moves around the outside of the booth, taking time to study each painting.  I take my eyes off her for just a second to look at the first painting she was studying.  It’s titled “Hidden Village” and it’s strange…a bit cartoonish and I can’t see the attraction.  I want to hear her voice telling me what she sees, what she likes about it.  I’m still hanging back when the artist greets her.  I move a little closer and I listen, learning that they know each other slightly from school, he’s seen her around campus.  He’s a grad student at Buff State, where she’s an undergrad.  I hear something about getting a drink sometime and I am not liking the sound of any of this at all, so I move a little closer.  I don’t even think about how it’s a little creepy, what I’m doing.  I just know I want to get her away from this guy, I feel like I have to protect her.  I hear him asking what she likes about the painting and she tells him “it looks like a dream I have” and he tells her that it’s funny she says that because he paints from his dreams and all I know is this can’t go any further.  He’s tall and blond and a little too smooth…just this side of sleazy and I don’t like the way he’s looking at her at all.  He’s so wrong for her!  I can tell just by the look in his eyes that this guy, this artist, he can’t even see the light around her.  This has to stop and I finally make a move.  I ask the guy, ‘hey, do you have one of these already framed?’ and the artist, eager to make a sale, steps away from her.  I keep one eye on her while I make the transaction.  I can’t believe I’m doing this and I’m thinking there are going to be a lot of peanut butter sandwiches in my immediate future. 

By the time I finish, she’s moved to the next booth, lightly touching the collection of metal sculptures and I move to her side, holding the painting in front of me.  I’m close enough to her that I can smell her hair and hear the silver bracelets on her arm jangling together.  I’m aware that I feel too tall, too gangly, and so awkward, as I notice her hands…small but with long, graceful, beautiful fingers and a simple silver band on her left hand.  My heart drops when I think she might be married, and then she notices me standing next to her.  For the first time, I see her whole face turned up to me and I get blasted by the thunderbolt a second time.  I can’t even describe how beautiful she was.  Her eyes…her beautiful skin…I’m dead in the water.  She smiles at me and…bury me at sea…she says, ‘oh, you bought that painting!  I really love that one” and I say ‘yes, I saw you looking at it” and she laughs.

We’re standing in the middle of Allen Street and I’ve gone deaf to everything but the sound of her laughter.  The only thing preventing me from making an absolute fool out of myself by dropping to my knees and promising my eternal love and devotion, is that small silver band on her finger.  If she’s married I’m going to hurl myself over Niagara Falls and not even bother with the barrel, so I ask her.  She laughs again (I know she’s laughing at me and I don’t even care) and…sweet merciful Jesus, she says no.  She says she was engaged but broke it off recently and she feels naked without a ring there.  She’d bought it just that day at Allentown from a booth on Delaware.  I ask her name and she says, ‘Melinda but everyone calls me Mel’ and I repeat it after her.  Melinda.  I tell her my name and she points at the painting and asks me if I bought it for her and I say ‘no, but if you tell me the dream, I’ll let you borrow it on the weekends.’ And she raises her eyebrows at me, teases me about eavesdropping, and laughs some more and I feel that light that’s all around her…it’s starting to spread over me, too.  She says it’ll cost me dinner if I want to hear about the dream, but it’s a good dream and totally worth it. 

I take her to this little Italian place, Santasiero’s.  The menu’s written on the wall, the wine’s served in little jelly jars, Sinatra’s on the jukebox, and there’s a candle dripping down an old bottle of chianti on the table. She tells me the dream while she looks at the painting propped up on the empty chair beside her. I start to like that painting a little, the more she talks about this house in the woods she always dreams about and by the time she asks me about my dreams, I really like the painting, but I’m in love with her.  I’m just totally in love with her and when she asks me up to the third floor studio with the creaky floorboards and the noisy neighbors, I say I’ve changed my mind.  The painting belongs with her, she should have it, I tell her.  She says, 'okay, but you can visit it on the weekends' and laughs.  I say, 'I plan to visit every weekend and maybe more, if you’ll let me, because I’m in love with you.'

~~

We were close to finishing the setup when a quiet girl with glasses named Jane, who had been kind of following me around for the last hour, asked me to help her hang her painting.  I asked if she had her title card ready and she nodded.  Then she handed me her painting and my heart stopped.  I couldn’t believe the girl standing in front of me had done the painting I held in my hands.  It was a watercolor of three small children playing on the front porch of an old house and it was insanely good.  Everyone kind of has this idea that watercolors are easy because nearly everyone remembers playing with watercolors as a kid, but to do watercolors well...it takes a lot of skill to get it right.  But this was pure, raw talent and I studied her painting, admiring the shades of color in the children's hair that hinted at movement and late afternoon sun.  It was like a dreamy photograph and the colors were soft but vibrant.  I asked who the children in the picture were and she said she didn’t know.  I cocked my head at her and she said the picture came from a dream she’d had.  She thought it might have been a memory from when she was little and played with her sister and her cousin, but she wasn’t really sure.

“Do you paint a lot?” I asked her.

“Yeah, I like to draw, too.  Mrs. Halpert says if I want to, she’ll help me when I’m in high school.  You know, like after school and stuff.”

“Jane, this is really good.  I mean, I can’t believe someone your age did this painting.  It’s amazing.”

She blushed about nine shades of red and asked if I was serious.

“I’m dead serious.  Are you kidding?  You really don’t know how good this is?”

“Well, I like doing it and it comes pretty easy to me.   I guess I didn’t think…”

“It’s wonderful.  Really beautiful, Jane.  I love it.”

The look on her face.  I’ll never forget it.  It was like I had reached up and plucked the moon out of the sky and handed it to her, just like that.  And it was so easy to do…to encourage her, tell her she was good. 

The next night at the fair when she took first place, she ran up to me pulling her her mom by the hand and introduced us and she was waving her ribbon around, so proud.  I told her mom how talented Jane was, how beautiful this watercolor was.  Her mom thanked me and told me that my mother-in-law had really sparked Jane’s interest this year.  She said she’d dabbled around before, but her interest in art had turned serious this year and she seemed intent on pursuing it.  I congratulated Jane and shook her mother’s hand and as I drove home that night, I was smiling the entire way, thinking of Jane. 

I was still smiling when I came into the house to find Jim sitting on the floor of the nursery putting together the baby’s crib.  

“Hey.”

“Hey, what are you all smiley about?”

“At the art fair…I met this girl.”

“Yeah?”

“She painted the most amazing watercolor, Jim.  I couldn’t believe it.  She doesn’t even realize how good she is, but she was so excited and it just…made me happy.”

He motions for me to bend down and kiss him and when I start to lose my balance, he catches me and lowers me down to his lap.  I wrap my arms around his neck and take his ball cap off and wind my fingers through his hair, kissing him.

“Wow.  Maybe you should go to art fairs more often.”

“Yeah, maybe I should.”