Bunny Finds a Friend

by Hazel Yeats

  Inge shoved an obviously startled Myra. “To bond,” she said. “To reconnect.”

  “Again,” Alice said, “can we walk to the damned bar or not?”

  Inge shook her head. “No,” she said, her voice unsteady. “It’s too far.”

  Alice called a cab. It picked them up outside the restaurant in less than ten minutes. The driver was the chatty kind—a proud native, who liked to talk about the region and the town and how all his ancestors had worked themselves to death in the coal mines.

  “There go ten minutes of my life I’ll never get back,” Alice said after they got out of the cab. “I thought he’d never shut up. How much does anybody want to know about how his father, and his father before him, came home looking like they’d fallen asleep in a tar pit? And what’s with the accent? I almost had to put my ear to his mouth to understand what he was saying.”

  “You’re not much of a people person, are you?” Cara nudged Alice. “I’m not sure I want to bunk with you when you’re this cranky.”

  “Maybe I’ll camp out in the lobby then.” She eyed Cara. “Or maybe you should camp out in the lobby. Next to your receptionist girlfriend with the smoldering eyes.”

  “Stop trying to fix up Cara, okay?” said Myra.

  “Sorry,” Alice said. “I forgot.”

  They stood on the curb, staring up at the banner that was hung over the entrance of the bar, announcing the live performance—tonight only—of Maxine After Dark.

  “Forgot what?” Cara said.

  “Nothing,” said Alice, shaking her head. “Never mind. Can we please go inside now, before I freeze my ass off?”

  The bar was crowded. The sticky heat after the cold from the street, the smell of liquor and cologne mixed with a tinge of sweat, nearly took Cara’s breath away. Myra began to gag before she was even inside. Inge put a possessive hand on her sister’s shoulder and another on her stomach. Myra wrestled herself free of Inge’s grasp, waving her arms around.

  Cara realized how old they had become. And how…weird. How caught up in their lives they were. They would never again walk into a place like this with their minds solely on the evening to come; on getting drunk, on hooking up, on looking smashing. They were women now. She smiled as she realized that this amused her more than it disturbed her. There were plenty of things going on in her life for her to feel good about right now. She had responsibilities and prospects. She had a secure job, where students depended on her. She was supporting her sisters in their joined baby adventure, every step of the way. What it all came down to was that she was a positive factor in the lives of other people, and there was nothing more rewarding than that. She felt as if she finally was up to par.

  But she also knew what was missing from the list. Though she struggled to push away any memories of Jude, she couldn’t help but realize how ironic it was that Jude was gone from her life now that she finally did have something to offer.

  The band was playing. It wasn’t the promised hot, smoky jazz, but something louder and more upbeat. Cara had no idea what it was—Dixieland? She knew very little about jazz.

  They found what was probably the last remaining free table at the far corner of the bar, where they couldn’t actually see the band. Not that it mattered. The rousing music was loud enough as it was, and sitting closer to the stage wouldn’t exactly be a treat. Cara had been a little worried about her tendency to get sentimental on nights like these. It was a perfect night for great emotions—emotions she knew it would be far better to control.

  “Margarita’s all around,” Alice yelled as soon as they sat down.

  “Are you crazy?” Inge said. “We can’t drink! We’re pregnant!” She put her hand on Myra’s stomach. Myra pushed it away.

  “There’s absolutely no reason why you shouldn’t have a drink,” Myra said.

  Inge shook her head. “Anything you can’t do, I won’t do.”

  Alice sighed. “Two hot cocoas it is.”

  Myra shook her head. “Hot cocoa, ugh, no. Iced tea please.”

  “So who’s with me? Cara, you seem to be the only person here who’s not a hundred-year-old or knocked up. Care to join me?” Alice got up and eyed the giant liquor cabinet behind the bar. “They seem to be pretty well stocked here.” She turned to Cara. It was obvious that the sight of all those bottles lifted her spirits. “Order anything you like.”

  “A margarita will be fine,” Cara said. “It’ll be just like old times.”

  Alice clutched her tiny handbag firmly in her hand and started pushing through the crowd to get to the bar.

  “I’m not sure I’ll be able to keep anything down,” said Myra. “But I’ll give the iced tea a try.” She looked pensive. “I never felt like this when I was pregnant with any of my other kids.” She smiled at Inge. “Then again, this is not my kid.” She half got up from her chair and craned her neck to see the band. “I wasn’t exactly expecting this kind of music,” she said. “I thought it would be more like a mellow kind of jazz. You know, sex jazz.”

  “Not sure what sex jazz is,” said Inge, “but there will be late night jazz later, with Maxine After Dark. These guys are just the warm up act.” She bounced up and down in her chair. “I like it. It’s so upbeat.”

  “You’d find a funeral upbeat right now.” Cara looked at her sister’s face, and she had a hard time not tearing up when she saw the look of complete bliss.

  “I guess I would,” Inge said, beaming.

  “So what about the alleged gay friendliness of this place?” Cara thought it would be wise to change the subject before they all burst into tears.

  “Well…” Inge said. Cara followed her gaze, but the only thing she saw that was even remotely gay were two women who were more or less dancing together—admittedly, dancing like friends, without touching each other. Inge nudged her head in their direction.

  “They don’t count,” Cara said. “Those are two very straight girls hoping to catch the attention of two very straight guys.”

  “The main thing is that we’re all having fun,” Myra said. “No matter what our…persuasion.”

  “Hm,” said Cara.

  Alice came back with the drinks, frowning. “I wish people would bother using some deodorant before they shoved their smelly armpits in my face, you know?” She put the glasses on the table. “Honestly, is that too much to ask?” She placed the tray on the floor under her chair and sat down. “Anyway, a toast.”

  “Let’s just drink, okay?” said Cara. “We’re all getting way too emotional here.”

  “To life,” Myra said. She raised her glass, the others followed.

  “Life,” they said.

  It was one of those moments, Cara mused, when you imagine destiny taking a picture. A snapshot of that very last moment before everything changes.

  The Dixieland band played for an hour before the stage was cleared. Cara got up and wandered over there to see what was happening. A new band replaced the old one, bringing with them a whole array of instruments: saxophones, guitars, a trumpet, a clarinet. The piano stayed.

  The lights were dimmed. A large woman in a dark-green, glitter dress walked onto the stage. She grabbed the microphone and said a few words that Cara couldn’t understand.

  It was as if the whole atmosphere changed as soon as she began to sing. All those happily yapping people were quiet the second her slow voice began to waft over the audience. The seductive sound of the saxophone filled the air, and it was as if the night itself was changing clothes—replacing its brightly colored daytime attire with a long, dark, velvet gown. Cara stood staring at the stage, swaying slightly to the rhythm of the deep, lazy voice, and realized that this was exactly what she’d been afraid of. She was too emotional and too lonely to be unaffected by it. She thought it might be a good idea to head back to her table and to suggest leaving for the hotel.

  She made a half turn and sto
od there, her back to the stage, wondering how she would find her way out. She looked to her left, where it seemed she’d have a slightly better chance of escaping. She scanned the faces in the crowd, and as her eyes latched onto something familiar, her heart seemed to stop.

  The second Cara saw her, she told herself that she didn’t really, couldn’t possibly, see her. She knew that the woman she was staring at was a mirage, a figment of her imagination, brought on by her emotional state, by the alcohol, and by the deep desire she was feeling, tonight more than ever, to be with Jude—to talk to her, to touch her, to fall at her feet. Her mind was playing tricks on her—it had to be. The woman in the black dress and the denim vest, who stood in front of the stage no more than ten feet away, was not Jude Donovan. But it was. It was her, down to the last detail. Even the scar on her temple was visible. She was more familiar to Cara than any sight in the world could have been. The image of her was permanently etched on Cara’s brain to the last detail. At the same time, she was a stranger, oddly distant. Cara found it almost impossible to imagine, staring at the swaying figure with the straight, black hair and the piercing, hazel eyes, that they had ever so much as exchanged a word. Let alone shared everything two people can possibly share. She was real. But she was also an apparition.

  Cara struggled to keep her breathing under control, as she tried to tear her eyes away from the woman that was Jude, but couldn’t be.

  “Hey!” A tall man with a glass of beer in his hand eyed her angrily. “You’re stomping on my foot.”

  Cara landed back on earth slowly. She stared at the man’s face, finally registering that he was angry, and why, and stepped aside. “Sorry,” she said.

  She was panicking now. She was choking here, in this heat, with all these people towering over her, infusing her with their sickening smells and sounds. She knew, that if she didn’t get some air soon, she was going to faint. She used her elbows to force the crowd apart, pushing people away, pissing them off, receiving a blow to the head with an elbow, and feeling countless shoes stomping on her feet. All the while, the singer’s sweetly honeyed voice ridiculed her.

  After what seemed like hours, she finally managed to free herself from the crowd that had formed an almost impenetrable half circle in front of the stage. She took a few deep breaths, forcing herself to calm down. When the nausea and the dizziness began to subside, she made her way back to her table, where she practically fell down on her chair. Once seated, she started to panic again. If this was what happened to her when she thought she saw Jude in a crowd, than how the hell would she ever get over her?

  “What the hell happened to you?” Inge brought her face closer. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  “I have,” Cara said. All the color had drained from her face.

  “What do you mean, you have?”

  “It was…” Cara shook her head. “It was as if I saw Jude. I mean, there was someone in the audience. It was Jude. To me. But it really wasn’t, I do know that.” She was glad to realize that there was obviously a sliver of sanity left in her.

  “Jude?” Alice pulled a face. “Oh my God. Already?”

  This wasn’t the reaction Cara was expecting. She was expecting her friends to say that it was time she had her head examined. “What—”

  Myra put a hand on her arm. “Honey,” she said. “I’m sorry. This wasn’t supposed to happen. You weren’t supposed to see her until tomorrow.” She cast an angry look at Inge. “Why the hell did you bring us here anyway? Didn’t you know that this was bound to happen?”

  “Right!” Inge said. “Blame me! How was I supposed to know she’d be hanging out in a bar in a city she has no business being in. Her conference tomorrow is miles from here. Shouldn’t she be in her hotel room getting a good night’s sleep?”

  Cara wanted to shout at them to shut up. And to please tell her what was going on. Even if it was that her mind had finally snapped, or that they were in some bizarre twilight zone for the lovesick. But she had no voice. She opened her mouth, but nothing came out.

  “Could you two stop bickering for a sec?” Alice said. “Cara really doesn’t look all that well.”

  “Let me.” Myra snatched a tissue from her purse, dipped it into her iced tea, and started rubbing Cara’s forehead.

  Inge shook her head. “I fail to see how applying iced tea to her face is going to do her any good.”

  “It’s the closest thing to water I have,” Myra said. “And it’ll do just fine. Being a mother will teach you to be creative too, don’t you worry.”

  After she’d wet Cara’s forehead, making it all sticky, she started patting Cara on the cheek. It did the trick. Cara woke up from her reverie and found her voice. She pushed Myra’s hand away.

  “Stop hitting me!” She took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “Now will somebody please tell me what the hell is going on here?”

  “The woman you saw was probably Jude,” Inge said.

  “How? What?” Cara shook her head. “You know I believe in coincidence, but even I draw the line somewhere. Why are you guys not more surprised to find her here?”

  “Because that’s why we’re here,” Alice explained. “We’re here, because she’s here.”

  “I…I don’t get it.” Cara wiped her forehead.

  “Let me explain,” Myra said.

  “Please do,” Cara said. “And don’t leave out any of the details.”

  Myra said, “Inge, give me the brochure.” Inge handed it to her faster than a nurse hands the scalpel to a surgeon. Myra folded out the colorful leaflet. “Look.” She laid it out on the table for Cara to see.

  “Welcome,” read Cara, “to the ninth annual Dutch Literary Festival.”

  “The festival is popular and draws quite a crowd,” Alice said. “It starts tomorrow. It’s held in a different town each year and it has a different theme each year. This year’s theme—”

  “Don’t tell me,” Cara interrupted. “This year’s theme is children’s literature.”

  Myra nodded. “We read in some magazine that she’d be attending, so we thought we’d take a little trip together, have some fun, visit the festival, and hope that you and Jude would bump into each other and that…well…”

  “That nature would take its course,” Inge added.

  It was the first time in Cara’s life that she honestly didn’t know what to do to her sisters—hug them or bash their heads in.

  “I can’t do this right now.” She got up and trotted off. “Don’t!” she said, when she saw from the corner of her eye that Alice and Inge were getting up to follow her. “Don’t come after me. I’m just going out for some fresh air. I’ll be back soon.”

  Once in the street, where she could still hear flares of music coming from the bar, her nerves calmed a little. She took a deep breath, the cold air making her gasp.

  She had never smoked, but she wished she had a cigarette now. It would be fitting for this particular scene in the weird play they seemed to be acting out.

  The door behind her swung open—a gush of heat and sound oozed out, then was muffled as the door closed again. She didn’t bother looking behind her, assuming that whoever had come out would pass by her and be on their way. But nobody passed by her. Which is why she turned, expecting to see Inge there, or Alice, or both.

  But it wasn’t. It wasn’t Inge. Or Alice. And there was no mistaking the voice for a stranger’s.

  “Of all the gin joints…” Jude said softly behind her.

  There she was. Jude. She was everything—Cara saw that now. She was water and food, she was rain after a drought, she was comfort after pain—a mirage, a destiny.

  She shrugged. “I don’t believe in fate.”

  Jude’s gentle gaze found hers. “Perhaps you should.”

  Cara shook her head. “Fate is actually my loyal, but deluded sisters, orchestrating this.”

 
; Jude shivered, reminding Cara of the night they kissed on the bridge. She wished she had the power to erase everything that had happened after that moment—begging the Gods for a chance to start over and get it right this time.

  Jude kicked against a cobblestone with the tip of her boot. Her hair fell across her face—she tucked it behind her ears, and although Cara must have seen her do so hundreds of times, the simple gesture brought a rush of desire.

  “They orchestrated this?” Jude said. “Didn’t you tell them that this thing between us is over and done with?”

  This thing. Ouch. Cara cringed.

  “I did,” she said, “but they’re hardheaded. They can’t believe that even I was stupid enough to let you go.”

  “I see. So why did you?”

  Cara shrugged. “There are many answers to that question, Jude, but the one that’s closest to the truth is that I’m an idiot.”

  Jude shook her head. “You’re not an idiot.”

  “Oh, but I very much am.”

  “You freaked,” Jude said.

  Cara nodded.

  “I guess, in a way, so did I.”

  “So why didn’t we tell each other this?”

  “Maybe we’re both idiots.”

  “Maybe,” Cara said. She paused. “People tell me I’m stuck in unhealthy behavioral patterns.” She shrugged. “I don’t know, they’re probably right.”

  “Are those the same people who tell you not to shop at Ikea?”

  Cara grinned, then she remembered something. “Oh!” she said “I took your advice. I bought throw pillows. And houseplants.”

  Jude smiled. “Really? And?”

  “You were right. They’ve livened up the place beautifully.”

  “Great,” Jude said. “I would love to see it sometime.”

  Cara didn’t know if she was just being polite, nor could she make out if the conclusion that they were both idiots meant that this was goodbye to Jude. She pegged her for the kind of person who was careful not to repeat previous mistakes. Also, months had gone by. Jude had written a new book, maybe she had moved on in other ways as well. Maybe, all that remained for them to do was to wish each other well. She felt her palms getting sweaty, despite the cold.