I'll Be Your Everything Read online

  He took down the “wall” so he could watch me wake up? That’s so odd. He could have torn down that “wall” and had his way with me. “You wanted to see me at my worst? Hair a mess, breath humming, crust in my eyes?”

  “You were the most beautiful person, place, or thing I have ever seen in my life at that moment.”

  It’s nice to be wanted, and everything he said was true, but ... I was at my worst.

  “I’ve, um, I’ve never spent the night anywhere with anyone, Shari,” he continues. “And you’ve had me staying with you three nights in a row. This is a big deal for me.”

  Never? Well, I can see why. He barely fits in any bed. “You never stayed the night with Corrine?”

  “No. She always kicked me out.” He sighs. “She didn’t want me to see her in the morning, and for that, I am eternally grateful. But you ... I want to wake up with you.”

  This is so ... sudden. He skipped the “best friend” part and went to the “love” part. “You never stayed the night with anyone else?”

  “No.”

  “So because you spent the night and saw me yawning, you know you love me.”

  “That’s not all, Shari,” he says. “It’s how I felt about staying, how I felt when I held your hand all night, how I felt when I got to see you wake up. I was here to see it. I saw you when you thought I was asleep, and I saw you. I saw you. Just you. I didn’t see the room anymore, didn’t see the window, didn’t see the bed, the ceiling, the floor, the bedspread, or the ‘wall.’ Just you. I saw you, Shari Nance.”

  He’s saying such wonderful things. Why isn’t my heart aching or something? “Was I floating in the air?”

  He stops smiling and drops his eyes. “You weren’t floating in the air, Shari. It’s hard to explain.”

  Man, he’s serious. This is serious. I can’t play this off. And I certainly can’t tackle this man. I’d bounce off.

  “It was like ...” He looks up for a moment then back into my eyes. “You know those photographs where the subject of the picture is in crystal-clear focus while the rest of the picture is fuzzed out? That’s how you looked. You were in focus while the rest of the world disappeared.”

  “Maybe you just had sleep in your eyes.” What an insensitive thing to say, Shari! Why’d you say that?

  He looks away. “I saw what I saw. And I feel what I feel.” He slides closer to the headboard, and I have no choice but to come with him. He looks toward the window. “Sun’s setting.”

  I look at the window. It looks pretty. “I’m rarely here to see it on a weekday.”

  Tom is silent.

  Shoot.

  “So, what’s on the agenda for tomorrow?” I ask.

  Tom is still silent.

  “Tom?” I don’t ask what’s wrong. I know what’s wrong. He loves me, and he now knows that A, I don’t believe that he loves me, and B, I don’t love him in return.

  He sighs. “Shari, I’ve just told you that I love you.”

  “I know.” And it scares me.

  “Doesn’t it affect you in any way?” he asks softly.

  “Um, it’s still sinking in. I feel ...” What a time for Chaka Khan’s “I Feel for You” to play in my mind. “I ... I feel good about it, Tom.” Thank you, James Brown. “I feel bliss. My heart is uncluttered, and my mind is open.” Is that what love truly is?

  “No ... comets, shooting stars, rainbows, fireworks?”

  No. Well, I did have those a few moments ago, and from a booty rub! “I just had quite a few of those during my, um, back rub.” But that’s not what love is. Comets fly by, shooting stars burn out, rainbows fade and go away, and fireworks blow up and leave lots of smoke. “I feel ... calm. Content. In the right place.” I feel ... tears? I’m crying? “I feel home.”

  “Do you think that it might be love?” he asks.

  What is happening? And why am I crying? “Yes. Yes, it might be. I’m where I should be, and it’s with you. I don’t have a care in the world.”

  He wipes a tear from my cheek.

  “This is so familiar, Tom,” I say, and it is. “You there. Me resting on you. Us talking, making plans. I want this.” I watch my tears dot his T-shirt. “Yes, Tom. Yes. This must be love.”

  That night, after tearing down that silly “wall,” I sleep with a real man for the first time in my life without having sex with him. It is the most intimate thing I have ever done in my life. I touch him, hold on to his arms, feel his breath on my hair, hear him purring in my ear, and it is glorious. Bliss, sheer bliss.

  It has to be love.

  Love is here.

  Love is home.

  I’m finally, really home.

  Chapter 26

  We’re much quieter on Thursday.

  I didn’t think it would ever be possible.

  We’re actually kind of shy, trying to be all business. We wander with the bike and two helmets, my tote bag clipped to the rack in back, me in boots, my North Face jacket, and brown corduroys (about as dressy as I want to be for this shot), Tom in jeans and a sweatshirt. Tom carries the photography bag over his shoulder and holds my little hand with his big hand. To anyone watching, they’d think we were two young (hey, twenty-seven and thirty-four aren’t old) lovers out on a stroll on a cool but sunny fall day.

  We are actually looking for the largest pothole in Brooklyn.

  We find a nice fat canyon on Dean Street in Boerum Hill in front of an immaculate row of redbrick brownstones. The pothole seems so out of place for such a nice block, but it’s November, and I read somewhere that there are 73,000 unfilled potholes in Brooklyn. Who goes around and counts them all? Your tax dollars at work. It’s obvious that even Boerum Hill isn’t immune to bad roads. The problem is a red Honda Element parked dangerously close to where we’d have to land after our leaps. I set up the tripod on the sidewalk near a metal railing and take a few quick shots as some cars go by.

  “You’re thinking Photoshop, aren’t you?” Tom asks.

  I snap away, even though I know very little about this camera. Auto-focus is the bomb. “I don’t want either of us eating a bumper today.”

  “We could find another pothole,” he says.

  I look at the pothole. “This is by far the deepest one I’ve ever seen. Sound echoes in that thing. We may even find Jimmy Hoffa and Amelia Earhart down there. We will use this one somehow.”

  I swing the tripod a few feet into the street and take several more shots with the black railing and a door framed in the background.

  “I could try,” Tom says.

  “I like your teeth.”

  Tom places the bike in the pothole and swings up onto it. “What if I make it fly?”

  I knew he was Superman. “Go for it.” I ready the camera.

  Tom bends his legs, hunches down, then yanks up on the handlebars, and the bike jumps about a foot off the ground.

  Very cool. “Do that again, and look straight ahead with a smile on your face.” I snap away, reminding him to smile, reminding him to look ahead, encouraging him to be Superman. I lower the tripod after about twenty “jumps” to make it seem that he’s leaping higher.

  “Your turn.” He takes over camera duties as I get on. “Remember to smile, look ahead, and be cute, Superwoman.”

  I have trouble keeping the bike balanced, and my first few attempts only raise up the front wheel.

  “Wheelies are so cool,” he says, clicking away.

  The first time I completely get my balance, I drop down, bend my legs, and jerk up.

  “Three inches,” he says. “Didn’t even clear the top of the pothole.”

  Shoot. “This bike is heavy, Tom.”

  He lies on the sidewalk beside the pothole and points the camera up at me. “Try again.”

  “I’ll land on you,” I say.

  “Just ... go.”

  I make several more attempts until my arms and legs start burning. “No more.”

  He turns the camera around. “Take a look.”

  I don’t know
what settings he used, but it looks as if I’m much higher above the pothole than I really was. I’m even smiling. “How’d you do that?”

  “I read the manual.”

  “When?” We fell asleep together and woke up together.

  “While you were dreaming. I couldn’t sleep.”

  I don’t even remember dreaming. Weird. I always remember my dreams. I smile at Tom. Yeah, he’s the reason I’m forgetting them now. I was in the arms of my dream all night.

  An elderly white woman wearing pink slippers, plain white tube socks, and a parka over a pale yellow housedress covered with flowers comes out of her brownstone. “You from DOT?”

  The Department of Transportation? Is she kidding? Tom and I are actually visible.

  Tom smiles. “Good morning, and no, ma’am.”

  She stands next to the bike and stares at the pothole. “I’ve been calling about this eyesore for weeks.”

  “It’s a dandy,” Tom says.

  “Tell me about it.” She looks at Tom, shielding her eyes from the sun. “Then what are you doing?”

  Hmm. Camera. Tripod. We must be taking pictures. “We’re doing an ad campaign for this Peterson bicycle,” he says. “Do you know who owns the red Honda?”

  “You’re selling a bike by taking a picture of a pothole?” she asks.

  “Well, we actually want to jump the pothole,” I explain, “and the red Honda is in the way.”

  She looks at me. “What for?”

  “To show the bike’s capabilities,” I say. “You know, this bicycle is able to leap deep Brooklyn potholes in a single bound. You know, Superwoman, Superman.”

  She blinks at me. “That’s crazy. The best place for a bicycle is on the ground.”

  I can’t argue with that. “Yeah, it is. How would you sell this bike?”

  She looks the bike over from back to front. “Oh, I don’t know much about advertising. I ran a market with my husband for fifty years, but food sells itself.” She slides her wrinkled hand over the seat. “This bicycle reminds me of my first Schwinn. Mine had fenders. Chrome. A basket on the front. A little bell.”

  “Did it have tassels?” I ask.

  Her face erupts into the sweetest smile. “Oh yes. Pink and white ones. And whitewall tires. I used to ride it all the way to Coney Island and back when I was a young lady.”

  “You still have it?” Tom asks.

  “Oh no,” she says, a trace of sadness in her voice. “It’s long gone.”

  Tom takes her picture.

  “You just took my picture,” she says. “Did you get my good side?” The woman is a born flirt.

  Tom takes out a little notepad. “What’s your name?”

  Her eyes widen. “Anne Collier. Is this really for an ad, like on a billboard?”

  “That’s what we’re hoping for, ma’am,” Tom says. “Why don’t you move it to the sidewalk. By the railing.” He takes several shots in succession. “You want to ride it?”

  “Oh, oh my,” she says. “I haven’t ridden a bicycle in sixty years.”

  I know she wants to ride it, even after sixty years. “Would you like to try?” I ask. “It’s a very safe bicycle.” I offer her my helmet.

  “Well, I suppose I could try,” she says.

  I help her with the helmet, and Tom helps her up onto the bike, steadying the handlebars while I hold the back tire in place.

  “Well, I’m up here,” she says.

  “I’m going to let go,” Tom says, “and you can just coast if you want to.”

  “Okay,” she says, “but don’t let me fall.”

  “I won’t,” Tom says.

  Her face is shining! This is so beautiful.

  Tom lets go, Mrs. Collier pushes down on the pedal, and as she coasts down the sidewalk, Tom runs backward and shoots away, Mrs. Collier’s housedress fluttering behind her.

  She even shouts, “Whee!”

  She squeezes the brakes too hard and nearly falls, but Tom catches and steadies her. He helps her off, and they walk back to me.

  He turns the camera around to her. “Look.”

  “Ha! That’s me!” She beckons me over. “Oh, would you look at my face! Ooh, my hair is flying every which way! And I’m wearing slippers and white socks! I look a sight! Ha!”

  I get a look. That is a picture of pure joy. That is a picture of pure abandon.

  “It’s like I’m riding my first bike all over again,” she says.

  Goose bumps race up my legs to my chin.

  Tom blinks at me and mouths, “Wow.”

  I quickly write that one down. I note her address. “Mrs. Collier, thank you for being such a good sport.”

  “Um, it’s Mrs. Harland Collier. Harland is ... no longer with us, but I still keep his name. He’s why I rode all the way down to Coney Island so often.”

  That’s so sweet and sad.

  She looks from Tom to me. “Are you two ... an item?”

  “Yes ma’am,” I say quickly. “Yes, we are.”

  “I knew it.” She folds her arms in front of her. “I could see it in your eyes when I was watching from the window. Harland and I ran our market for fifty years together over in Carroll Gardens. Isn’t it wonderful to work with the man you love?”

  “Yes.” I smile at Tom. “Yes, it is.”

  “When will I be up on a billboard?” she asks.

  “We have to win the account first,” I say. “But if we win, very soon.”

  “Wonderful,” she says. “You’ll let me know where?”

  “I have your address,” I say. “We’ll even send you a copy.”

  “Thank you, thank you,” she says. “Just think. If they had filled in that pothole, I wouldn’t have ridden a bicycle today.”

  We leave her beaming, just beaming.

  Tom and I practically skip away. “We need to get to a park,” he says, “and we need to get more people riding this thing, the older the better, every possible ethnicity.”

  Now there’s a plan! “It’s like I’m riding my first bike all over again. Why didn’t we think of that?”

  Tom shrugs. “Maybe we’re too young.”

  Chapter 27

  Our first few attempts at coaxing people to ride the bicycle are unsuccessful.

  “You must be joking!”

  “Are you crazy? You want I should break my other hip?”

  “Is this some TV show where you pull a prank on someone? Where are the hidden cameras? Is that one over there up in that tree?”

  “I never learned to ride.”

  “Is it safe? Anything you have to wear a helmet to ride cannot be safe.”

  But then we meet Arnie, a bowlegged black man who has to be at least eighty, in Cadman Plaza Park. He jumps right onto the bike and takes it for a five-minute spin. He circles Tom several times, and Tom keeps on snapping away. After Arnie, we have a line of people waiting to try. Some even ride with no hands! Their faces shine. They literally glow with joy. No model could re-create that joy, even if they were paid to do so. I keep track of names and addresses, promise to send all of them copies, even if we didn’t use them, and three even ask where they could buy the bike!

  “It’s better built than my car. Of course, just about everything is built better than my car these days.”

  “Just look at that craftsmanship. Handmade, you say? I believe it.”

  “So smooth I thought I was riding on air.”

  “I didn’t know they made bikes like these anymore.”

  Fifteen elderly people ride the bike. Seven men, eight women, none under fifty-five. Hispanic, black, Asian, white, Jewish, Italian, even the cutest Russian woman who didn’t want to give the bike back!

  “We have to use the word home somehow, too,” I say as we rest under a tree, my back against his chest, my legs splayed out in the leaves. “I feel it.”

  “You sure?”

  I’m sure. “That word ties everything else together.”

  Tom throws some leaves into the air. “Home of the brave?”
r />   I bite my lower lip. “How about ...‘A memory of home—it’s like I’m riding my first bike all over again.’ What do you think?”

  He sniffs a little sigh and shakes his head. “You don’t need me at all, Shari. That’s brilliant. I’ll just take the pictures from now on. You do all the thinking, okay? I’ll just nod my head.”

  That’s one of the best compliments I’ve ever gotten. “Keep thinking, Tom. Brilliance is not always perfection.”

  He tickles me. “Stop quoting Cringe.”

  “I’m her, remember?”

  He turns me to him. “Never.” He kisses me softly. “We can’t stay here all day doing this.”

  “Why not?”

  He looks up. “Beautiful day for taking pictures. Didn’t Mr. Dunn want a New York landmark spread, too?”

  I nod. “Do we still need to do it?”

  “It’s up to you.”

  I like that phrase very much. It’s up to me. I can’t remember the last time I heard anyone say that to me. I don’t think anyone has actually said that to me my entire life. “I think we should still do it. The light is so magical today.”

  He takes my picture. “The light, um, was especially magical just then.”

  I blush. “We have to get down to Coney Island, then back to the Brooklyn Bridge, over to Times Square. Tom, we need to get a move on.” And now I’m sounding like him! This man has already rubbed off on me.

  “I wish we had a car so we could go take pictures of this bike,” he says.

  I roll my eyes at the irony. “Ha-ha.”

  “No, I wish we had my car. It’s in Great Neck crying out to me. Can’t you hear it crying, Shari?” He pulls out his cell phone, hits a few buttons, scrolls down ...

  “What are you doing?” I ask. “Calling your car?” Maybe he’s Batman.

  “I’m getting us a taxi,” he says.

  “Right,” I say. “We’re going to have a taxi driver take us to all these places so we can take pictures of a bicycle.”

  “As long as he gets paid, why should he care?” He punches in a number. “Yes. I need a taxi for the rest of the day ... Don’t worry about the expense, I’ll pay it. And if you can, send your oldest, most experienced driver, the one who knows the city best.... I’m at Cadman Plaza Park with my girlfriend and a red and black bicycle. You can’t miss us.” He closes his phone.