Follow You Down (Farfalla Book 1) Read online

  I also learned to hold tight to my relationships, which wasn’t always the best thing I could do.

  Everything good in my life had flowed through my family, so I didn’t dare let my father down. At Columbia, I worked harder than I ever thought I could. I read everything. I joined clubs and helped out with research. I edited and published the annual poetry magazine for the school. I was recognized by several professors, earned honors in all my work, and graduated magna cum laude from Columbia. Mine was one of just a few non-white faces on the platform that day. When I stood on that stage, I could see my father weeping and clapping and shouting for me. I would only see my father cry one more time in my life.

  What would the butterfly tell caterpillars, if it could? Would it say, “Change is good, but there’ll be some pain involved in it.” Or would it simply flit away, and let each learn the hard lessons individually?

  Whenever I heard my father speak of me, the first thing he told anybody who would listen was, “My baby girl is a magna cum laude graduate of Columbia.” He would never mention that it was just English, or that it had only resulted in my being a teacher, as if I had graduated from a SUNY school. To him, I think, I was the embodiment of all he had worked and struggled for. He continued to believe in America because he could see his mixed-race daughter go to the same school as rich white people…and achieve there.

  But I was frustrated.

  I felt like I was meant to do something in life, but I didn’t know what. I didn’t have blonde hair and blue eyes, so I wouldn’t get many chances in the bustling entertainment industry in the Big Apple. My lack of a business major kept me from much of the industry on the Eastern Seaboard. I didn’t understand politics, and couldn’t tell a senator from a councilman, so government was out. In fact, I had succeeded in garnering the least profitable degree at Columbia—English for God’s sake! What was there to do with that degree? Teach and write, that’s it.

  And aren’t all English teachers merely frustrated and unpublished writers? I know I was.

  My true passion and love was poetry, though I also wrote short stories. I had written poems since middle school, and poetry was my voice. It allowed me to put my feelings into art. I could shout at the injustices of the world. I could scream at the ignorance and hate I saw. I could imagine a better world, and let my poetry show the path I felt we needed to follow. To a powerless girl, poetry was like a gleaming sword.

  I had written enough to gain notice for my writing in Columbia’s rigorous English program. Though I collected poems from the entire campus, nearly a third of the poems in our annual poetry collection were from me. I often used pseudonyms to disguise my work, so that others wouldn’t think I edited and published this collection to lionize myself.

  Do caterpillars look at butterflies with green-eyed envy? Do they shout out, “Someday I’m going to be one of you!”? Or are they oblivious to the change within them?

  But by the time I had graduated, none of my work had made it off campus. I had received wonderful rejections from publishers and agents around New York, and even as far away as LA. They were kind and complimentary: “You have a strong, passionate voice…” or “You have the makings of a great poet…” or “Your work is so compelling!” but those compliments were always followed by, “Your work isn’t what we’re looking for right now.”

  I guess I took teaching as a temporary job, hoping I’d be published within the first year or so. Surely, I thought, I’d get noticed right away, sign a multi-book deal, and then I’d live in a balcony apartment in the San Remo and listen to the whisperings of my muse. With all the time off teachers get, I’d have lots of time to write. Teachers only work eight months out of the year, right? That would leave me four months to create. To battle with my heart and mind. To wrestle my spirit, and extract from her every word the gods would share.

  Little did I know how exhausting teaching is.

  Chasing around ten-year-olds takes everything you have. I would come home exhausted, barely able to reach my bed before collapsing. I’d spend my weekends lesson-planning and grading. Breaks were spent catching up gradebooks. Summer vacations were punctuated with faculty meetings, curriculum changes, pamphlets and information to parents, and perhaps a couple of weeks of downtime to recharge on the Jersey Shore. I felt I was lost for the first time in my life. Probably most twenty-four-year-olds feel that way to some degree. After having a clear path from birth through college graduation, I now found myself wondering who I was and what I would do. How would I write a great novel or poetry collection when I spent weekends grading the work of under-performing ten-year-olds? Is this all there was to life?

  I was about to emerge a new woman. A butterfly? Well, compared to the caterpillar I had been I’d say yes. You be the judge. I’m not everybody’s favorite butterfly, I imagine.

  2

  I was very happy when I received a party invitation from my favorite professor from Columbia. Dr. Frank taught Shakespeare and British literature. I took every class he offered. He was a beautiful man in every sense of that word. I had felt an oddity, and I knew he understood me. Very few men were openly gay in those days, even at Columbia. Most professors felt stiff and distant, formal like a tuxedo. Dr. Frank, though, was open and warm. He was a kindred spirit…he loved words, and his passion for them shone through his teaching. He was gentle and kind, and helped me take emotional chances in my writing and analysis. I loved him instantly, and we stayed close through the years. He was one of only a few people I trusted and loved.

  Dr. Frank and his partner, Dr. Bill, also a professor at Columbia, held wonderful parties at their Upper West Side home. Though their apartment was small, stuffy, and had too many cats, they were always sure to invite the most interesting people to their soirees. Their network of friends included writers, photographers, musicians, and intellectuals. This was my third one, and I was so excited. Now that I was an alum, I had become even closer to Dr. Frank, and he was always quick with supportive words and praise for my work. He encouraged me to create, and scolded me when I wasn’t writing, which was often these days.

  At this party, I wished I had a novel or fresh poetry collection I could pitch, as there was always at least one literary agent at these events. Frank and Bill knew everybody in the big city. Alas, I hadn’t written more than a few lines of verse since graduation. Plus, I was uncomfortably shy in social circles, and could rarely talk about my work. Instead, I usually clung to my gentle hosts, and when the evening was over I would feel more depressed than ever. How would I ever get a break if I couldn’t earn that break when the opportunities presented themselves?

  I was standing right next to Dr. Bill when he approached.

  He was just a little taller than everybody else around. Shoulders a bit broader. While other men were dressed in sport coats and slacks, he was wearing a black turtleneck and jeans. A beatnik without the horrible goatee. Tanned. Gleaming smile. His movements were sleek…he had the gait of a cat…confident, balanced, cool. When I saw him, my eyes blocked out the rest of the world.

  I’m sure every woman has been there. At some point in her life, every woman has seen a man that made others seem small and insignificant. I was dating someone off and on, but when I saw David, Darnell was the furthest thing from my mind. David had what I can only describe as a presence. He was like a sun among the planets…he burned brightly and beautifully, but staring at him too long could hurt. Others were drawn to his gravity, especially me. I was about to find that out right away, as he was moving toward me.

  “Rachel Walker, I’d like you to meet David Wright. David is a travel writer, freelancing some, though I think you’re under contract with National Geographic, right, David?” Dr. Bill was so relaxed, but I was clenched tight, looking up like a frightened rabbit. It felt like my tongue was glued to the top of my mouth.

  “Yes. Hi, Rachel. Nice to meet you.” Time slowed. His rough, warm hand took mine. His voice was deep and earthy. His eyes were dark…deeply dark and deeply set, like chips of
coal set into a craggy mountain. He smelled of outdoors, like wind in a valley. His smile was like a flash of lightning across a desert sky. I had never seen a man so beautiful in my life.

  “Hi…yes…nice to meet you.” My cool veneer was shattered. I had practiced so hard to greet people, look them in the eye, smile confidently, and say my shtick. That was gone, and my eyes were looking away from his. I knew those eyes would see right through me. No façade would blind those eyes. I couldn’t meet them with my own. All my pretense, obliterated.

  “Frank tells me you’ve written some great short pieces and poems, and that your style is crisp.”

  “Thanks.” He heard about my writing? Dr. Frank told him? I wanted to run…he knew about me, but I knew nothing about him. He was still holding my hand, and I could feel my palms getting sweaty. God, his hand was so warm…and rugged…gentle but strong. I finally pulled it away. I still could only peek up at him, and then look away. Broad shoulders, casting a shadow over me. Tousled black hair all over the place. He had a weather-beaten look, like he had just come in from the rain. He needed a shave.

  But his eyes. They were the eyes of a hawk. Sharp. Watching. He could see everything with those eyes, including my awkwardness.

  Dr. Bill continued, “How about your own book, David?”

  He regarded me for a second longer, and then turned to Dr. Bill. “Well, if you’d like a copy, I’ll gladly give you one. That would double my sales for the month.” He let out a coarse laugh, and then turned his eyes back to me. I had been watching him from the corner of my eyes, but then stared at the carpet again when he looked back. “How about you, Rachel? Are you writing anything?”

  “No, not right now.” Oh God, I wanted to tell him more. I wanted to sound bright and engaged! No, I haven’t yet gotten published, though I have a lot of work I’ve collected through the years. Would you like to take a look? Instead, I just stared at the carpet.

  “Well, nice to meet you,” he said to me, and then to Bill, “talk to you guys in a bit.” And then he turned and was introduced to someone else. I exhaled the breath I had been holding since he had taken my hand.

  I have to admit, I was actually glad when he turned. I had lost the ability to form words, and I was just feeling stupid standing there. When he left, I could breathe freely again. But his forceful presence left a void, a black hole where he had just been. I had never met a man like him. While I met many cultured intellectuals in New York, especially at these parties, I hadn’t met someone of his type. I’d met writers, publicists, artists, and even television news anchors. I had met some gorgeous men, whose drive for art and literature inspired me. They were beautiful in a “city” way. Up on politics. Well-spoken. Knew everybody. Connected. Lean in an artistic way. Scruffy beards. Uneven, grown-out hairstyles. Most of the men I found really attractive were gay. Like Dr. Frank. I had fallen in love with him during his first lecture on As You Like It. His smile was bright, and his eyes were open. He was slim and handsome and nice.

  Though I had only shaken hands with him, I knew David was different. I knew he was not going to be a thoughtful, head-in-the-sky intellectual. His leanness was from being outside, from fighting nature. His hand was warm and rough, as if he had just been chopping wood, and his grip was firm but gentle. He leaned forward toward me, displaying none of the subterfuge or affectations of a city man. His skin was burned from the sun and chafed by the elements. There was something primal about his energy—a wolf among golden retrievers, a lion that escaped from its handlers. He had a natural force that only he himself could contain.

  But I was just teaching fifth graders. Sweet as they were, I rarely found myself intellectually stimulated. I worked hard, but my job wasn’t pushing my mind or my art. I wasn’t fully engaged as I had been in college. All around me that night were people who were at least using their full faculties, and I suddenly felt so small in that room. Perhaps I should have circulated…used the mind I knew I had and engaged people with my insights into literature and politics. Baldwin. Chaucer. Faulkner. I was well-read and sharp…I could’ve held my own with any of these people.

  And yet in that small, busy apartment I found my eyes wandering over to David. As I met other people and shook other hands, my eyes searched for him. My gaze found his shoulders over the shoulders of others. I saw his mop of unkempt hair through the other heads. I heard his deep voice above the din of others. And every time I saw him I felt my stomach jump. I felt a tingle down my spine. Oh, I had it bad, I knew. And, worse, my concentration was shot. Instead of meeting professional people and working the room, I was trying to stand where I could see him, or finding myself distracted by his proximity. The cool veneer I had cultivated so well was gone. I was an insecure little girl fumbling every meeting.

  Disaster. I gave up.

  I poured myself a double screwdriver in the kitchen and walked out to the narrow balcony. It was a cool spring evening in the city. From their balcony I could just see the edge of Central Park. I stood there, cussing at myself, drinking my too-strong drink. Wasted evening. Wasted opportunity. I didn’t have fun and I didn’t make any connections. Instead, I was a giggly schoolgirl checking out a guy I shook hands with. It was his fault.

  Maybe I was just going to be a teacher forever.

  “Mind if I join you out here?” I knew it was him before I looked over my shoulder. Now my heart was in full flight. I could hear my heartbeat in my ears, and it was galloping!

  “Sure, no problem.” I tried to play it cool, but was sure he saw that I wasn’t.

  “Tired of the party?” He had moved next to me, and was looking out over the same cityscape. The balcony was small enough that we were assured nearness. I didn’t look at him, and continued to stare out to Central Park.

  “Just wanted some fresh air.”

  “You can just see the park from here.” He was looking out.

  “Yes, I love their view. Such a great city.”

  “Yeah.” His answer sounded unconvincing.

  “You don’t like the city?”

  “In measured doses. It’s great to spend time here…New York has it all, and then some. But I’m tired of it after a couple of weeks and need to travel.”

  “Where are you from, David?” I was trying to fill the quiet with chatter.

  “New York.” He gave a light chuckle. “The Village, originally. Now just across the park.”

  “Oh? But you don’t like it?”

  “It’s great to be home. Great to see family. Great to visit with friends. But I want to be back out, exploring. Taking pictures. Writing. I’m already getting the itch.”

  “Where’s your next adventure?”

  “Tanzania. Soon.”

  Damn! He’s already leaving. “Tanzania? Wow. What will you be doing there?”

  “A piece for Nat Geo. Gonna spend a week on safari. Lions. Zebras. That kinda stuff. Also going to see if I can meet with some of the local tribes around Mount Kilimanjaro. Get some campfire dance shots. It’s part of a larger piece. A few of us are working on it. We’re including maps, herd migrations…gonna be big. I leave in a week.”

  A week. “That sounds so exciting.” It truly did. Mt Kilimanjaro. The Snows of Kilimanjaro was one of Hemingway’s best. Of course, I thought a walk through Central Park was pretty exotic. It thrilled me to think of him out among the lions…a predator among predators.

  “So what about you? Frank mentioned you’re not writing much right now.”

  “I’m teaching. I just graduated a couple of years ago, and I took teaching as something to do while I sort out what I want to write.” I knew I was lying, and I hate to admit I was embarrassed about having not written. Yeah, I’m a failure…all my promise and potential is spent teaching kids to craft a paragraph.

  “Is there a specific genre of writing you’re most interested in?”

  “Well, I’ve always enjoyed poetry the most of all, but poets usually starve, especially in this town. I’ve written lots of short stories as well, but nothing ha
s been published yet.” Do you need to be so honest, Rachel?

  “The most important lesson I’ve learned over the last couple of years is that money isn’t as important as doing what you want. I’d rather be hungry and doing what I love than unhappy and successful.”

  “Yeah, you’re right…I should…I need to get back to writing, that’s for sure.”

  “So why don’t you?”

  “Write?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, I gotta pay the bills. Trying to save for a mortgage. I have written a bit, but just can’t devote as much time as I should.” It was weird that I was telling a stranger so much. I was not the type of person to open up to people I didn’t know.

  “Why not?”

  “Well…teaching takes more out of me than I thought.”

  “Energy, you mean?”

  “Yeah. Those kids run me ragged sometimes. I think I’ll need to find different work if I want to write more, you know?”

  “I do. Sometimes you have to take a leap, and just assume you can succeed. There’s no shame in trying and failing. You could always go back to teaching later. A blind leap isn’t always a bad thing.” He smiled…perfect white teeth.

  I remember being amazed at this moment. Inside I was trembling…nerve endings on overdrive. Yet his natural calmness and confidence had me talking with him. My heart was moving fast, but I felt a certain stillness at the same time. It’s hard to explain, I think, unless you’ve been there. I was purposely avoiding eye contact, though, and looking out to the city. And sipping my drink. Maybe the drink made the difference.