Dating da Vinci (10 page)

Cortland's smile fell. He seemed embarrassed he hadn't been told as well. “God, I'm sorry. The last couple of years have had to be hell on you.”

I caught my breath. “Thank you. Yes. As a matter of fact, it has been exactly like hell. Though Pastor Feelgood never said those words to me.”

“Pastor Feelgood. That fits him, doesn't it? I'm afraid I may never be able to call him by his real name again. How come I've never seen you in church?”

“You mean you didn't spot me among the 10,000 other attendees?”

“Fair enough. But I think I could pick you out in a crowd.”

He raised his eyebrows. I did the same. I felt the coffee swirl inside of me, and I fidgeted to break whatever connection was forming between us, especially so soon after mentioning my husband's name. My sister wanted this man, or at least his pool. I was just the driver, her personal assistant for the day. I should go.

“Well, thanks for the coffee. I have to pick up da Vinci before Bradley's game.”

Cortland stood and stretched again, puffing his chest towards me. “Did you just say you had to pick up
da Vinci
?”

I laughed. “He's an immigrant student of mine that's living in my garage studio. His name really is Leonardo da Vinci. And to answer your question earlier, my husband Joel was an architect. A very good architect. He actually designed your hospital.”

“Wow. He did great work. The hospital is a masterpiece.”

“Thank you. I'm sure he'd be happy to hear that.”

“And I'd love to meet this da Vinci of yours.”

“So would my sister. We'll have you over soon.” I noticed I had said
we
as if da Vinci and I were together. “I mean,
I'll
have you all over to my house soon. Although it's nothing like this.”

Cortland waved it away. “This was my wife's idea. Ex-wife's. She would've wanted the house in the divorce, only the guy she left me for has a house twice this size.”

“Ouch.”

“Very ouch. But looking back, it's better this way. And I'm actually thinking of downsizing. I prefer a cozy little space.”

“Don't tell that to my sister.”

He scrunched his brow. “What do you mean?”

I shrugged, regretting opening my big mouth. “Oh, nothing. I just mean I'm sure she really likes your house. And your pool.”

“It does have a nice hot tub,” he said. “It's nice to get in with a cup of hot chocolate when it's snowy outside. That I'll invite you over for. I mean, Rachel and I will invite you and da Vinci over.”

Our eyes locked again, and I wanted to make a snide remark about hell freezing over before I'd get in a hot tub with my hard-bodied sister, but I didn't think that was really the point. The point, if I was really paying attention, was that we had just made two plans to see each other again.

A FEW THINGS GRIEVERS don't do: We won't tell you to look at the “bright side"; we steer clear of couples' hang-outs; and we absolutely, unequivocally avoid weddings like vampires shun sunlight. The blushing bride and tearful groom and gaggle of well-wishers and sweet sanctimony don't sit well with my kind. We tend to ignore any nuptial events that come our way. (We have nothing against you lovebirds; it's just best not to throw acid into a seeping wound.)

We normally send a nice Target gift card instead.

But this wedding invite could not be swept under the rug or stashed in a file because the bride was none other than the daughter of Mahatma Panchal, as in
the
Panchal Center for Cultural Diversity, as in my
boss
.

Besides, Griever or not, I had watched his American-born daughter Marcy sprout from a curious ten-year-old to the girl who gave the commencement speech as the valedictorian at her high school and again when she received her engineering degree from UT four years later. And now, how could I not be there to celebrate her next journey just because it involved love? I had attended nearly every type of cultural wedding over the years, and even though Marcy was marrying a white man, she had decided on a traditional Hindu ceremony, one of my favorites.

Before I lost Joel, weddings had become a sort of hobby for us. I rarely turned down a wedding invite and with so many students each semester I got my share of them. I'd seen them all: Jewish and Greek
and Christian and Catholic. But a Pakistani wedding was right up there with Vietnamese in my book: colorful and long and full of symbolism, something every great linguist admires.

Joel had made fun of our pastime, and like most guys, generally preferred skipping the wedding ceremony and going straight for the reception, preferably with a stocked bar and lots of food. When we were on a tight budget, sometimes weddings were our very own date nights, and each time, at the close of the reception when we were among the last dancers on the dance floor, Joel would rub his nose against mine and whisper, “I do.” And I would answer with a kiss, “I do, too.”

This small renewal of our vows had become my favorite part of our wedding nights, and we enjoyed our very own honeymoon each time after, our lovemaking revitalized by the romance of the affair.

Post-Joel, weddings altogether lost their sparkle for me, not just because Joel would not be my date, but because I did not believe I could celebrate in coupledom as a widow. I thought my very presence there would send a signal of half-support, of what “could happen” if the other perishes. I know this half-empty-cup mentality was just my excuse for avoiding any more undue suffering, but this day and this night, I felt like celebrating.

Anh, my date for the evening, remained a strong believer in eloping after three failed marriages, but with the promise of free booze and a buffet, she agreed to come. “I say, 'save your money for the honeymoon, because if you break up later, at least you got a decent vacation out of it.'”

“Please don't repeat that this evening.”

“What? As if half the guests wouldn't agree with me. You know I say
half
because that's the divorce rate, right? And what good is having a ceremony and a blessing when you can just change your mind, anyway? No one's going to hold their feet to that sacred fire they're going to walk around tonight, I'll tell you that.”

“We're seating you in the bitter section at the far corner of the church,” I told her. “Come on. Just suspend your ill will toward Cupid for one evening. Can you do that for me?”

Anh turned to face da Vinci in the back seat, where he sat in perfect view in my mirror. I had stolen glances at him the entire twenty minutes to the church, and it seemed he had never taken his eyes off of the rearview (hence, off of me). “What do you say, da Vinci, are you a hopeless romantic or a skeptic like your namesake?”

Da Vinci smiled broadly. “My namesake loved all beauty, and what can be more beautiful than two people in love?”

Anh stuck her finger in her mouth as if to gag. “I'm seriously going to be sick. This car is full of sappy romantics. So you're telling me that you actually
like
weddings? Because most
American
men despise them.”

Da Vinci had shrugged his massive shoulders. “As you say, hopeless romantic. Only Italians maybe ten times more than Americans.”

Anh shook her head. “And how you keep this one as far away as the backyard, I'll never understand.” She turned back and faced da Vinci again. “Have you met any girls you like at school yet?”

“Many pretty girls, but not mature enough.”

Anh raised her hand. “I need to book a one-way ticket to Italy, don't I? See American men
love
immature girls. And Leonardo, if you want mature, I'll give you mature.” She raised a brow to me as if to say,
why not?

When we arrived, da Vinci went through the service entrance where he would work for Panchal's catering company, which was started primarily as a way for Panchal to help employ the new immigrant students. I entered with him to say hello to my former students when Barack, a Nigerian who managed the catering company, spotted me and wrapped me in a hug. “How is my favorite teacher?”

“Excited about the wedding. My purse is full of nothing but Kleenex.”

“You always were a sentimental one,” Barack said, reminding me of how hard I cried at his graduation. I couldn't help it. To see them come over, sometimes with fewer than a dozen words of English and transform themselves into often brilliant communicators amazed me. “Leonardo is my best employee,” Barack said as da Vinci grabbed his first silver platter and headed into the reception hall. “What is it the man cannot do?”

“I haven't figured that out yet,” I told him. “Cecelia said he can do everything he's asked to do, but the one complaint we get back is when he thinks he's done with a project, he's done. Just stops working and starts daydreaming. Or writing things in his notebook.”

“Well, here there is no time to daydream. Only smile and keep bringing the food.” Barack shrugged. “And what about you? You look great. Working out to your sister's show, eh?”

“No. I've actually started running in the mornings after the kids go to school. With da Vinci.”

Barack raised his brow. “So he is good personal trainer, too, correct?”

“You could say that,” I said, rubbing Barack's arm as a way to end the conversation. Personal trainer. Gardener. Football coach to Bradley. Chess buddy to William. And cook for us all. The only way not to gain weight from having da Vinci in my life was to watch what I ate when he wasn't around and not insult him by not eating when he was. And running three miles every morning, rain or shine, our steps in sync as we drew long stares from the neighbors. The pounds were finally coming off.

I said goodbye to the crew and slipped into the church and next to Anh, who was staring intently at a man three rows up. She elbowed me in the ribs. “You know the only good thing about weddings is that occasionally you can meet a nice man, or at least one who you think is nice at first.”

The lights were dimmed so I couldn't make out who she was staring at, but he did have a nice head with thick, blondish-brown hair.
He seemed to be alone, probably why Anh assumed he was available. “Make sure he doesn't slip away,” Anh whispered as the music began to play. “I want that one.”

We drew our eyes to the back of the church where Marcy and Panchal began to walk down the aisle. Marcy wore a red dress, a sari, symbolizing happiness. Since she was the only one allowed to wear red at the wedding, she could be spotted like a cardinal among sparrows. Her hands and feet were decorated with henna, called
mehandi
, in highly exotic, intricate patterns. It was believed that the deeper the color, the stronger her love for her husband. Her silken black hair was in a bun covered with a crown and veil, and sandalwood had been artistically applied to her face in the same design as her crown.

One look at her made me weep. It wasn't just the red—she embodied happiness and I was at once envious and happy for her. For all the mixers and place settings and toasters she would get, there was no greater gift than that feeling. If only I could've wrapped that up and put it in a time capsule for her to open on a distant day in the future when she may forget what it feels like. Instead, I got her a clock, but not the clock I wanted to give her—the one that allows time to stand still or even go backwards—but had to settle for a regular stainless steel number that ticks on and on infinitely. But still.

Her groom, Thomas, looked equally happy as he awaited her at the altar, wearing a white silk brocade suit, sword and turban— slightly unusual looking on a Caucasian male, but worn with pride. White flowers were tied in suspended strings over his forehead where sandalwood was decorated with gold, red, and white dots.

The Hindu wedding, a sacrament called Sanskara, brings together the spirit (Purush) with matter (Prakritti), emphasizing three core values: happiness, harmony and growth. Though the names of the wedding traditions were different, it shared many of the elements of an American wedding: the father giving away the bride (Kanyadan), and the unity candle (Havan), which is the Lighting of the Sacred Fire. The
couple invokes Agni, the god of Fire, to witness their commitment to each other (the part Anh has a problem with). Crushed sandal-wood, herbs, sugar, rice and oil are offered by the bride and groom into the fire.

Instead of the exchange of rings, they performed the Tying of the Nuptial Knot (Gath Bandhan), with scarves placed around the bride and groom, symbolizing their eternal bond, and pledged to love each other and remain faithful.

Next, they walked around the fire four times, each circle representing goals in life: Dharma, for religious and moral duties; Artha, for prosperity; Kama, meaning earthly pleasures; and Moksha, spiritual salvation and liberation.

Marcy led the walk first, representing her determination to stand beside her husband in happiness and sorrow. Next they took Seven Steps Together (Saptapardi) to signify the beginning of their lives together, each step signifying a marital vow.

First step:
To respect and honor each other

Second step
: To share each other's joy and sorrow

Third step
: To trust and be loyal to each other

Fourth step
: To cultivate appreciation for knowledge, values, sacrifice and service

Fifth step:
To reconfirm their vow of purity, love, family duties and spiritual growth

Sixth step:
To follow principles of Dharma (righteousness)

Seventh step:
To nurture an eternal bond of friendship and love

My heart swelled with pride, as I could honestly say Joel and I had tried to live up to every one of those vows. We had only stumbled on step three, or it felt more like being tripped, when Monica Blevins tried to get Joel back. I wanted to give Joel the benefit of the doubt that he was not the pursuer.

I braced myself for whatever I would learn and then that would be that. No matter what, it would not change the fact that I loved
him. It wasn't my love I had doubted. No, that wouldn't falter. I just wish I didn't care so much about his love for
me.

As I watched Marcy and Thomas receive their blessing, I felt with every fiber of my being that Joel and I had been blessed. Our marriage was not perfect—none are—but we were blessed with joy and two boys who would live on as our legacy.