CHAPTER NINETEEN

I woke up Saturday morning and thought, I’m thirty-five years old . It sounded horribly ancient, cronelike, an age so advanced it was bereft of any possibility of romance or glamour. Strange how thirty-four had not sounded quite so dreary. It’s the benchmark numerals that really bring home the accelerating pace of the world.

I flipped to my side, bringing down the spigot from my water cache to take a sip. It was my birthday, I could lie in bed an extra hour if I wanted to, contemplating the ravages of time or perhaps, as my mood improved, more happy topics. I smiled. I could never forget a line from an execrable poem that one of my students had turned in years ago: Graceless as a grizzly, time lurches on. It was an image that still recurred to me on days that did indeed seem heavy-footed and inexorable. What’s the Noel Coward line about the potency of cheap song lyrics? Even when they’re bad, if they’re apt, they stick in your head.

When I finally got up, I took it easy. I luxuriated in a long shower with scented soap, ate two bowls of strawberries for breakfast, and talked to Marika for an idle half hour.

“You’re coming to my mom’s tonight, right?”

“Absolutely. Didn’t you say Azolay’s going to be there? And Domenic?”

“Oh yeah.”

“Wouldn’t miss it.”

It was noon before I bothered to check my email messages and found a handful of birthday greetings awaiting me. I went through them in the order received.

Domenic’s was a straightforward happy birthday message with the notation that he hadn’t had time to buy a present. I have never yet gotten a birthday or Christmas gift from Domenic within six months of the holiday. Jason’s was encrypted, so I had to search the apartment for about fifteen minutes before I found the damn sociology book and could do the decoding. God, you’re old. I bought you a sturdy cane down on Rush Street, with a skull’s head on the grip. Reminded me of you.

Marika wonders why I tell her she’s lucky to have no brothers.

Three colleagues from the Sefton English department had also sent me birthday greetings, as had Caroline. My cousin Azolay sent one of her bright little notes saying how much she was looking forward to seeing me tonight. I like Azolay, mostly, but a little of her goes a long way.

The next message was from Dennis, and I opened it with some trepidation. It featured a colorful graphic of a bunch of roses and came accompanied by a verse:

Roses are red

(I want to alert you all)

Except when they’re dead

Or paper, or virtual.

He’d spaced down a few lines and added, “And you thought it would be something embarrassing, didn’t you? Love you, sweetie. Mmmmwah (big fat kiss). Dennis”

I was still smiling when I opened the next message, which happened to be from Quentin. He had sent me the poem I had assigned as homework, preceding it with a note. “Dear Taylor: I hope you like this, though it doesn’t really seem like a present to me. And I hope you have a really wonderful, superjazz, marbro birthday. And Bordeaux did NOT help me write this (but she told me it was good). Love, Quentin.” The poem was based on Housman’s “When I was one-and-twenty.”

When I was barely nineteen

A woman came to teach.

She said, “I’ll show you poems—

‘Your Heart’ and ‘Dover Beach.’”

She said, “I’ll read you stories

Your young man’s heart will touch.”

Now I am almost twenty,

And I have learned so much!

I can’t describe how much this moved me. I put a hand to my mouth, as if to hold back a small cry of pain, and I read it again. A third time. Stupid woman, I thought fiercely, you’re going to cry. But I was five-and-thirty, and I had a right to be foolishly emotional.

The doorbell rang a little after one in the afternoon, and when I opened the door, I could barely see the face of a delivery person behind the wall of red roses he carried. “Looking for Taylor Kendall,” he called through the foliage.

“That’s me,” I said, and then thought about amending my reply to the more correct That is I, and then thought , Don’t be ridiculous , and then opened the door as wide as it would go.

“Come on in. Wow. That’s—wow. That’s a lot of roses.”

He brushed past me, leaving a light scent and a velvet sensation against my skin. The only surface big enough to hold the vase was the dining room table, so he carefully set it down there and gave me instructions on care and watering. “Yes, fine, thanks a lot,” I said, trying not to sound too impatient but really wanting him to leave so I could read the attached card. Finally, after what seemed like an hour, he was out the door. I practically tore the card from its little white envelope and devoured the handwritten words:

I sent thee late a rosy wreath

Not so much honoring thee

As giving it a hope, that there

It could not withered be.

And thou thereon didst only breathe

And sent’st it back to me,

Since when it grows and smells, I swear,

Not of itself, but thee.

And in the corner of the card, below the verse, the confident, legible signature of a man who wants to make it perfectly plain that he knows who he is, likes who is, and expects you to respect who he is: Bram.

I stared at the card, stared at the roses, stared at the card again. Where in the world had he come across the Ben Jonson stanza (which I much preferred to the opening octet)? I would not have believed it would have occurred to him to send me flowers, let alone such a lavish display; and if he had ever before this day opened a book of poetry, I would be astonished to learn it.

I bent over the massed roses till my face touched the petals, closed my eyes and inhaled. Exhaled. Thou thereon didst only breathe and sent’st it back to me . . . Reached into the bouquet at random and snapped off one of the tightly coiled scarlet buds. Touched my mouth to the petals and breathed again. Looked around the apartment for a sturdy envelope and wondered if Francis would be willing to give me Bram’s address.

*

If you count Jason as one of the guests, I was the second one to arrive at my mother’s, where the air was loaded with the irresistible scent of Traditional Dinner: roast and onions and baking potatoes and a cherry pie set out to cool.

“I’m too hungry to wait,” I said. “Let’s eat now.”

“I made a pie and a cake,” my mother said, “since there will be seven of us. Do you think that’s enough? I can send Jason out for ice cream.”

Jason was busy blowing up black balloons and distributing them around the house. He had tied one to the arm of my father’s chair, through the winking gold haze of the hologram; the ribbon appeared to be attached to the image’s wrist in a display of maudlin celebration. I had to admit, having viewed Duncan Phillips’ much more sinister collection of radiant portraits, my father’s glowing figure seemed fairly benevolent these days.

“I can’t go,” Jason said. “I’ve got to put up the streamers.”

“There will be plenty of dessert,” I said. “Jason, I don’t think we need black streamers. The balloons are enough.”

“I bought’em,” he said. “I’m putting’em up.”

“Why don’t you open your presents now, before the others get here?” my mother suggested, handing me a small square package and a large flat one. Her gift was a gold and opal charm for my slide bracelet; Jason’s was a book called Name That Vampire. “These are both great!” I exclaimed. “I love them!”

“What did you get from your boyfriend?” he asked.

I was blushing. “I don’t have a boyfriend.”

“Jason told me you’ve been seeing this nice man who works for Duncan Phillips,” my mom said.

I shot Jason a killing look, but responded casually. “We’ve had dinner together a couple of times. No big deal.”

“So what’d he get you?” Jason demanded.

“Roses,” I said defiantly.

“Well, isn’t that lovely,” my mother said.

“How many?” Jason asked. “If it was anything less than a dozen, don’t even waste your time with the heezling.”

“I didn’t count,” I said frostily. Thirty roses. Now twenty-nine.

The doorbell rang, and Mareek stepped in alongside Azolay. My cousin is a lean, ultrachic, ultra-energetic blonde who speaks in exclamatory sentences and doesn’t seem to have any clue how inappropriate most of her comments are. Or maybe she does, and that’s why she says them in her sugar-sweet don’t-I-love-you voice. “Look who I ran into at the teleport gate,” Marika said in an uninflected voice.

“I almost didn’t recognize her! I just adore her hair! Marika, promise me you’ll never cut it. I know people think that curls are so unfashionable—straight, straight, straight, that’s what all the style magazines say—but on you, they look outstanding.”

“Thanks, Azolay. You give me back my confidence.”

“It smells divine in here!” were the next words from my cousin’s mouth. “The past three nights, I’ve been out with people who’ve insisted on going to the most expensive restaurants. French crepes here, special creme sauce there. And I said to myself, ‘When I go to Taylor’s party, I’ll have a nice simple meal.’ I’m looking forward to it!”

“Domenic here yet?” Marika asked.

“Oh, no.”

“Too bad.”

“Bram sent Taylor roses,” Jason said.

“What? When? You didn’t call me?”

“It’s not that big a deal—”

“How many? What color?”

“Do you two have such dull lives that you have to live vicariously through me?”

“I do,” Jason said.

“You know I do,” Marika added.

“Quentin sent me a poem,” I offered.

Marika looked at Jason. “We’ll have to go home with her and see for ourselves.”

“Just what I was thinking,” he answered.

Azolay, after a quick trip to the kitchen to offer more disguised insults, came tripping over to us again. “Taylor! I brought you a card! I hope you’re having the best birthday ever!”

“Well, thanks, Azolay.”

“And here. I brought you a present,” Marika said baldly. Azolay made all of us rude.

First, I admired Azolay’s absolutely generic card, then I opened Marika’s present, a small box with about five yards of curled lavender ribbon exploding from the top. Inside, a tiny ruby sat pristinely on a bed of white cotton. “Another inset!” I said in delight. “Jazz without cessation.”

“For when you get the nerve to go back,” she explained.

“Bordeaux will be so proud of me,” I said, picking it up carefully and holding it to the light.

“You’re not actually going to have it grafted on, are you?” Azolay demanded. “I mean, seriously, Tay. You know what kind of women wear jewel insets.”

Marika brushed her hand across her cheek. She still hadn’t gone for the permanent installation, but she’d had the temporary topaz reapplied already, and I was betting her next trip back would be for surgery. “Trashy women,” Marika said. “Don’t I just know it.”

“Now, Marika, you know I didn’t mean—”

“Hey, no problem,” Marika said. “Just the kind of women I like.”

Before anyone had to think of a reply to that, the doorbell rang again, and my aunt Jennifer arrived. Jennifer was much like Azolay, only a little less so. Where Azolay was blonde, Jennifer was graying, and she didn’t have Azolay’s relentless energy. Something to be thankful for.

Domenic was right behind her. “Happy birthday, old thing,” he said, kissing me on the top of the head.

A few minutes later, we were all settled around the dining room table, where Jason and Marika had gone to some trouble to make sure Domenic and Azolay were seated side by side.

“Domenic!” Azolay exclaimed. “It’s been years since I’ve seen you, but I don’t believe you’ve changed a bit.”

“Thank you,” he said, reaching for the platter of roast.

“I remember, a few years ago, the high school kids in my neighborhood were doing that black-on-black style, just like you’ve got on today, and I thought, ‘That look is just too severe to be attractive.’ But you’ve managed to pull it off for a long time now, haven’t you?”

Jason was chewing vigorously and watching the action, just like a man eating popcorn at the movie theatre. Marika was staring at her plate, trying to hide her smile. Neither of the older women appeared to notice.

Domenic, of course, showed her no reaction. “I guess I’m not one to follow fads,” he said. It was a subtle dig at her own ensemble, a prairie-style dress in a small floral print.

“I have a style consultant,” Azolay began.

“Really? I wouldn’t have thought so,” Domenic said.

“Oh, thank you. It looks so effortless, you know, but I always appreciate her guidance. Maybe it’s time you dropped that bad-boy look and tried a more mature style. I’m sure Genevieve would be glad to give you some pointers if you’d like to consult with her.”

“I’d be glad to receive pointers from anyone named Genevieve,” Domenic said.

Marika dissolved into giggles and even Jason had to glance away. Azolay appeared bewildered. Aunt Jennifer said, “Well, Domenic, nice to see you again. You look just like you did when you kids were in high school. You, too, Marika. Only Taylor really looks her age of the whole bunch of you.”

“Thank you,” I said, toasting her with my glass of iced tea. “My birthday is now complete.”

That was the way the entire the meal went, with Azolay and Domenic sparring, Aunt Jennifer chiming in with the casual cut, and my mother offering everyone more roast, more green beans, more pie. We had left the table and were milling about between the living room, dining room, and kitchen when Domenic broke free of his nemesis and found a chance to talk to me alone.

“I told you I didn’t have a present,” he began.

“Truthfully, I didn’t expect one.”

“But I do. Of sorts. Information. They’re starting a new experimental program at Northwestern General to look into Kyotenin degradation.”

“Really? What kind of program?”

“Based on a very small one at Johns Hopkins that’s had some phenomenal results. Not in curing the disease but in slowing it down. Stabilizing it. It’s radical because it involves cloning, and the ban hasn’t been lifted all that long. I don’t have all the details ’cause I just heard about it yesterday, but I knew you’d want to know.”

“Yeah, but—apparently Duncan Phillips hasn’t let Quentin go for any kind of experimental treatment in the past few years. This probably won’t change his mind.”

“Lot of parents won’t do the experimental programs. They’re risky, and people die in trials. But this one’s had a high rate of demonstrable success. That might make him more open to the idea.”

I doubted it, but I was getting excited on Quentin’s behalf anyway. “So these kids in the Johns Hopkins program—they’re living past twenty-five? They’re retaining their motor functions?”

“Two of the subjects just turned thirty. Both of them are still in wheelchairs but have retained almost full usage of their arms and upper torsos, with some limited movement in their legs. And they both report a noticeable lessening of their habitual pain. Three of the other participants aren’t as mobile, but they’re still functioning and breathing on their own. And they’re twenty-seven and twenty-eight. It’s unprecedented.”

“Oh, Domenic, this would be so wonderful. You haven’t met Quentin but he’s such a great kid—I just can’t stand the thought—I’ve got to think of what to say to his dad. There has to be a way to convince him.”

We talked a while longer, Domenic giving me what information he had, until Jason and Marika joined us.

“This is a great party,” Jason enthused. “Tay-Kay, I think you should get older every day.”

“I heard Azolay invite you down for some event,” Marika said to Domenic. “Are you going to go?”

“I told her I was always busy. And she said, ‘Busy doing what?’ and I said, ‘Selling illegally harvested organs.’ So now I think she’s telling her mom that I should be arrested.”

“So you’re really busy forever?” Marika asked. “Because I wanted you all to come over Thursday night.”

“This Thursday?” Jason asked. “I can make it. Why?”

“I’m having a party,” she said mournfully.

Domenic laughed. “You don’t seem too excited about it.”

“I’m not. I got suckered into it. It’s a going-away party for Erika Sosher. You remember her, she was in all my classes in high school and we roomed together for one semester in college.”

“Vaguely,” Domenic said.

“Anyway, she’s moving to Paris or Marseilles or something. We’re not especially good friends anymore, but I’d already said I’d come to the party if Jodie held it, and then Jodie couldn’t hold it, and—anyway, now I’m hosting a party Thursday night.”

“Who else is going to be there that we know?” Jason asked.

She recited a list of people who had grown up in our neighborhood or attended high school with us. Most of them, like us, would be commuting in for the occasion. Half-a-dozen of them I would actually enjoy seeing again.

“Sure, I’ll come,” Domenic said.

“Me, too,” I said.

Marika frowned at me. “Well, of course you’re coming. You have to help me clean and decorate and get the food together. I can’t do this without you.”

“What if I already had plans?”

“Oh, please. You’re on summer break and you’re just tutoring twice a week. You’ve got nothing but free time, and I need you.”

I shrugged helplessly. “I’ll be there.”

Azolay descended on us in a little blonde whirlwind. “You guys, I just had the best idea! Let’s all get together next weekend! We can meet at my house. I’ll cook. Saturday or Sunday, either day is fine with me.”

“I can’t,” I said. “I’m going out of town.”

“Working,” Marika said.

“I need to help mom clear out the basement,” Jason said.

“Don’t want to,” Domenic said.

Azolay threw her hands in the air. “Honestly! The four of you make it so hard to stay friends! I guess I won’t see any of you again till Jason’s birthday.” And as she swirled away again, we all looked at each other in pure horror.

“Jason,” Domenic said solemnly, “you have to be a man about this. Kill yourself now.”

After Azolay and Aunt Jennifer had left, and after the rest of us had helped Mom with the dishes, Marika and Jason and Domenic and I went to a movie. Then the three of them came back to my apartment to count roses, and notice that there were only twenty-nine, and ask about that, and formulate theories about what the number could signify or whether the florist had accidentally miscounted. I handed out beers and said nothing, even after the guys had gone away and it was just Mareek and me. We stayed up talking until almost two a.m., discussing the menu for Thursday as well as our clothing options, and then I settled her on the couch and sought my own bed.

It had been a good day, start to finish. Perhaps thirty-five would be a pretty good age after all.