“Nothing that would hold up under scrutiny,” he answered.
“I’m stoned right now, Dr. Grind,” Izzy said, surprising herself with this admission. Would she have to inform someone every single time she got high? It was predicated in no small part on the idea that Dr. Grind already knew and it would be worse not to acknowledge it.
“Well, Carmen said that you had been invited to a party. I suppose this was one of the possible outcomes,” Dr. Grind replied.
“I don’t do this normally,” she admitted. “Certainly not around the kids.”
“I am certain of that, Izzy,” Dr. Grind said, his voice betraying no sense of disappointment or surprise.
“Have you ever been stoned, Dr. Grind?” she asked.
“Yes. Several times. My parents made pot brownies for me sporadically through my childhood, just to test how it might affect my abilities to handle conflict. I did not enjoy it.”
Izzy realized once again that if she wanted a normal conversation, a life of understandable experiences, then Dr. Grind was not the person to talk to. And, still, this was what drew her to him, the understanding that, whatever strangeness had befallen him, he had somehow made it out alive.
Dr. Grind’s face was so open and inviting, the way he seemed to always find her to be worthy of fascination. David, when he looked at her, seemed to be looking only at her outline, as if there was nothing about her that truly held his attention. Continuing to compare the two men, she tried to imagine what it would feel like to kiss Dr. Grind, and, without thinking, she leaned over to Dr. Grind and kissed him.
He received the kiss the way she had anticipated, with tenderness and at a slight remove. He did, however, she believed, return the kiss. It had depth to it, she felt. She had an idea that a good kiss, held long enough, could be felt in the feet. And her feet certainly were doing something down there. When she broke the kiss, Dr. Grind either too polite or too involved to turn away from her, simply smiled, shaking his head.
“That’s not a great idea, Izzy,” he said. “That’s quite bad, actually.”
“I won’t do it again,” she said, immediately feeling ashamed, like a child. “I’m just . . . I’m high, you know?”
He nodded. “My responsibilities . . . ,” he said, though he seemed unsure of how to proceed and the words just hung there.
“I understand,” Izzy said.
“Good,” he replied, and he winced for a split second before returning her gaze.
“Do you want to make something?” she asked, desperate to change the tension in the room. And to her surprise, after a brief moment where he seemed to be thinking about it, he nodded. As if nothing had happened, he took a step away from her and leaned over the letters once more.
They spent the next two hours working on the letters. Dr. Grind would trace, while Izzy used the saw. Izzy resolved that she would not try to kiss him again, and, she was certain, Dr. Grind would never mention this moment again. It was, she decided, a fairly good compromise, better than being kicked out of the complex, and as the time passed and she further sobered up, she appreciated the fact that Dr. Grind, unlike almost any normal human being, would not hold this against her. He would be flattered and yet firmly principled and would forget it had ever happened. After they had finished a sentence, they took a break, and Izzy finished her coffee while Dr. Grind sat on the floor and looked closely at the wooden letters.
“Cap’s father was an artist?” he asked her, his voice steady and gentle, knowing the potential for sadness this would create.
“He was,” she said. “He was a painter, but he seemed more interested, once I met him, in more experimental forms of art. I think it was because his career didn’t really work out the way he had hoped, so he started to dismiss traditional art as boring. I thought his paintings were pretty wonderful, though. He hated them. He mostly did portraits but he did them on old doors, so they were really big and unwieldy. He had all these painted doors stacked up in his garage, not even covered or anything, just gathering dust and fading.”
“What do you think happened to them?” Dr. Grind asked.
Izzy realized that she had no idea, had never thought to ask. “I don’t know,” she said. “I hope they didn’t get thrown out, but I feel like that’s probably what happened. I wish he’d given me one to keep.”
“That would have been nice,” Dr. Grind admitted. “Marla was in a band and I sometimes listen to their album and it’s reassuring in some way.”
“And sad in other ways, I bet,” Izzy offered.