SO WE FOUR bobbed along through the fall and winter. Our days went something like this: I delivered Frank to school each morning. Sometimes he said “I don’t belong here” and refused to get out of the car. “Sure you do,” I said, unbuckled his seat belt for him, pried his fingers free of the car door, and aimed him in the direction of the schoolyard. After breakfast, Mimi disappeared into her office and banged away on her typewriter but never showed me anything. Xander puttered around the yard and house, trimming and painting and hammering and doing whatever else gave him an excuse for being there until I was done with my chores. Then quite by accident the two of us would end up together at the Dream House.
When I went to school to fetch Frank, per his instructions I’d stand by the station wagon in the parking lot, waiting for him to cross the playground and climb into the backseat. Even though the schoolyard was a swirl of kids in bright T-shirts and shorts, dresses and skirts, flip-flops and sneakers, you could spot Frank coming from a mile away. He looked like a peacock in a barnyard full of chickens.
I kept hoping to meet the famous Fiona. “So,” I’d ask as casually as I could manage, “what do you and Fiona do when you stay late at school to play?”
“We talk,” he said. “Then we join hands and run from our enemies.”
Though I kept angling for an introduction, I never got one. “So, what does Fiona look like?” I tried another afternoon.
“She wears argyle knee socks and saddle shoes,” he said.
“And?”
“Cardigan sweaters with little pearl buttons. Kilts that look like wool but are actually made of rayon, a wood-based fiber invented in 1855 but not popularized until the 1920s because until then it was highly combustible. Her rayon kilt feels like cashmere but is more suitable for playground wear as it is machine washable.”
“Her kilt feels like cashmere? You touched her kilt?”
“Of course not. She let me try on the sling that matches the tartan of one of her kilts. She alternates that one with another she has, in houndstooth. I liked her sling very much. I never realized before what a responsibility it is for the forearm to support the wrist and hand.”
“What does Fiona’s face look like?”
“She wears oversized hair bows,” he said. “I believe they’re made of taffeta.”
I thought about pressing for more details but doubted Frank could fill me in on the color of her eyes or even her hair. Besides, how many little Los Angelenos who looked like they’d stepped off the set of Brigadoon could there be on that playground?
I was proud of summoning that reference from my mental warehouse. In case you’re unfamiliar with it, Brigadoon is a 1954 film starring Gene Kelly and Cyd Charisse that’s about some town in Scotland that doesn’t really exist. I’d fallen asleep watching it with Frank back in July.
When we got home in the afternoons, Frank leapt from the car and ran to Xander. The two of them would go indoors to sit side by side on the piano bench, galloping through scales and melodies until it was time for dinner.
NONE OF THE stories Xander told were about Xander. For example, when I asked him what he did for fun when he was a kid, he said, “It was a small town in Vermont. I helped my dad fix things around the house. There wasn’t much else to do.”
“Is that why you ended up playing the piano? Your parents trying to keep you out of trouble?”
He said, “You want to see trouble? I’ll show you trouble.” Xander put his mouth over mine and after that I was too distracted to ask him anything else.
Another time I asked how he came to have a long thin scar down his right arm. “I broke my arm. In a couple of places. I needed surgery to fix it.”
“When did it happen?”
“When I was a senior at Julliard. I never finished school because of it. It hurt too bad.”
“Does it still hurt?”
“Every day. Not as much out here.”
“Does it hurt when you play the piano?”
“Especially when I play the piano.”
“What happened?”
“I was doing something stupid and I broke my arm. I really don’t want to talk about it.” He sat up and put his T-shirt back on.
“I didn’t realize you never graduated,” I said.
He shrugged. “It’s not the kind of thing you brag about.”
“Mimi never graduated from college either, you know,” I said.
“I know. I guess that’s one reason we hit it off.”
“How did you meet Mimi, anyway?”
“I was on the crew that put the wall up around the house. After the crew left, she decided she needed a handyman. I’m handy. I needed money. Simple as that. Any more questions?” He pulled on a pair of shorts, slung his jump rope over his shoulder, and headed for the ladder.
IT HAS BEEN over four months, Genius. Still nothing?
I had just gotten out of the teacup shower and was sitting on the edge of the yellow bed, braiding my hair, when I noticed the message light flashing on my cell. I bound my braid with an elastic I had around my wrist and hunched over my phone. Xander was still in bed, running his fingers slowly up and down my naked back.
Zilch, I typed.
Xander’s fingers crept along the crease where my left leg met my torso. “Stop it,” I said to him. “I’m texting my boss.”
Xander sat up. “Mimi?” he asked.
“Yes. I’m just telling her where we both are in case she’s looking for one of us.”
His hand fell away. “You’re kidding.”
I turned around and looked at him. “Are you kidding? Of course I’m kidding. It’s Mr. Vargas.”
“I was kidding, too,” he said. He got up and went to the Lilliputian loo.