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"If you're going to do anything significant in the arts, you should be in New York City," Mr. Wengrow said.
I shook my head.
"I don't think my parents would like that. Mr. Wenuow."
"I'll have a word with them," he said. "Don't worry. I'll get them to understand."
Chandler was going to the Boston University School of Arts. His father was an alumnus of BU and a heavy contributor, not that Chandler couldn't get in on his own ability.
"Mr. Wengrow's right," he told me afterward. "You'll smother to death here. You've got to get out and into the big wide world."
It made me very nervous to think about it, so I didn't, and up until the following weekend. Mr. Wengrow had not spoken about it with my parents. If he had, he might have been very discouraged and not mentioned the discussion to me at all. I thought.
On Friday. Chandler drove up to take me to the movies. I had put on a mustard-colored light sweater and a pair of jeans with a pair of high-heel sneakers I had managed to get Mommy to buy me, despite how silly she thought they looked. She couldn't understand why they were the rage. I had my hair tied in a ponytail.
"You look like Debbie Reynolds in one of those old movies." Chandler declared as soon as he saw me come bounding down the front steps. "I love it."
"Thank you."
He was wearing a black mock turtleneck shirt, which brought out the dark color in his eyes. I thought he looked very sexy, and practically leaped into the car to sit beside him. I couldn't remember when I had been happier.
As we started away. Grandad came out of nowhere onto the driveway and stood in the wash of Chandler's car headlights. His gay hair looked like it was on fire, his eyes blazing at us. Chandler hit the brake pedal and I gasped.
"Who's that?" he cried.
"My grandad," I said.
"Well, what's he doing?"
Grandad simply stood there in our way, staring at us. Suddenly he raised his right hand. and I saw he was holding his sacred old Bible. He held it up like some potential victim of a vampire would hold up a cross in a horror movie, and then he stepped to the side and disappeared into the shadows.
Chandler turned to me. amazed. "What was that all about?"
"Just drive," I said, choking back my tears. Chandler stared at me. "Drive, Chandler. please."
"Sure," he said and accelerated, taking the bump too hard.
I curled up into a ball. I was filled with a mixture of anger and fear. No matter how Mommy stood up to him, I couldn't help but be intimidated by his accusing eves. Memories of him coming into my room when I was a little girl abounded. I saw him standing over my bed, chanting his prayers, reciting his biblical quotes, giving me warnings about hell, sin, and damnation that I was still too young to understand. What I did understand was there was some sort of danger awaiting me should I do anything defiant.
"What was that in his hand?" Chandler finally asked. "Honey?"
I took a deep breath and emerged slowly, like a clam opening its shell.
"His Bible," I said.
"Bible? Why was he holding it up?"
"To remind me that the wages of sin is death." I said in a tired, defeated voice.
"Sin? What sin?"
"The sin he thinks I'm about to commit." I said.
Chandler was very quiet. Then he looked at me, shook his head and smiled.
"The movie is only rated PG-I3."
I looked at him, and then we both laughed. It felt like balm on a wound. He reached out to touch my hand. and I slid closer to him.
