Heart-strong

by Bonnie McCune

  Jim’s stiffening body warned Rachel that the individual was neither a familiar figure nor one who might be of assistance. She immediately called, “No, thanks. He’s fine. We’re fine.”

  The figure bent over Scott and proffered a mittened hand. “Here ya go. Upsa-daisy.” Without waiting for Scott to respond, he grabbed Scott’s arm and hauled up. Scott popped out of his burrow and flew across the sidewalk to land in the bushes by the stoop.

  “Now just a minute!” said Rachel as she scurried down the stairs to her son’s side. “I told you he didn’t need help.”

  The figure turned toward Rachel, and she stepped back in an anxious yet protective mode. She now saw the individual topped over six feet and carried hefty poundage in proportion to his height. His layers of clothing added to his bulk, but strangely his coat was unbuttoned all the way down, exposing throat and chest to frigid air. Evidently he was impervious to the weather, protected, as it seemed, by fumes of alcohol that swirled around him.

  “Lady, I said I’d hep, hep, helllp him, and I will. Get the hell away from us.”

  Rachel screwed up her courage. “I’m his mother, and I say he doesn’t need or want your help.”

  “Ain’t this a blizzard?” the man asked, swaying back and forth, like an upside-down pendulum. “Ain’t we all neighbors?”

  “Now just a minute,” Jim called as he galumphed down the stairs, flapping scarf nearly tripping him. “The lady said she doesn’t need your help. Just be on your way.”

  “I inshist,” responded the man. “I absolute-ally inshist.”

  Jim plowed to a stop next to Rachel. “And I insist you move it. Go home or back to the bar or wherever. Just not here.” He crossed his arms over his chest, making himself look even more muscular than he really was, and assumed that expression donned by men down the centuries when they were protecting their territory, whether geographic or familial. Unfortunately the interloper mimicked the stance, albeit with a distinct tilt.

  Fearing an eruption of violence in which Jim would be the loser, for the stranger clearly would feel no pain from whacks and punches in his inebriated state, Rachel threw a look of appeal toward her sister. Sharon burst into song—a loud and off-key rendition of “Let It Snow”—as she slid down the stairs and between the stranger and Jim. Her instincts were good. The stranger joined in, slinging an arm around Sharon’s shoulder. Then Rachel merged her voice, then Scott scrambled out of the bushes to sing, and finally Jim loosened up enough to drone a phrase or two. The blizzard was losing its blast, and snowflakes few but steady glittered and swirled in the air around the impromptu choir.

  As the group repeated the chorus for the third time, Sharon removed the man’s arm from her shoulder and converted the motion to a handshake. “Thanks so much for your help,” she said. “We’re all fine, thanks to you. Now you hurry on to a warm place.” She gave his arm a pat along with a slight push to start him off. “Goodbye,” she said when he began to move.

  “Goodbye,” “So long,” “Thanks,” “Good luck,” came from the rest of the group. The man turned around to wave, the hugest smile lighting up his face, before he trudged off.

  “Whew. That was close,” said Rachel.

  “There’s a bar down the street that he must have escaped from,” Jim said. “Quick thinking on Sharon’s part to ease him away.”

  “And,” added Sharon, “thanks to Jim for being ready to protect us if need be.”

  As the four made their way back up the stairs and through the front door, Sharon whispered to Rachel, “That’s quite a guy you have there. I think he would have fought dragons for you.”

  “You forget, I don’t have him.”

  “I don’t know. He looked pretty protective to me.”

  Rachel stopped and considered. Was Jim trying to mend fences? Did he want to explore a romantic connection? He hadn’t mentioned anything like that, but he seemed to care about her. Perhaps he simply was being manly. Then she recalled Sharon’s advice after the grocery store fiasco. Maybe if you show you want Jim and need him, he’ll give himself and you a chance. An idea worth contemplating?

  In a natural disaster like the blizzard, people are shaken out of their routines. Friends or strangers, they jostle around, roll and tumble like dice against one another and their environment, become more spontaneous and natural. Relationships get pushed to their limits and are either strengthened or broken. Despite their propinquity during the blizzard, neither Rachel nor Jim gave voice to what they thought might be coming, but they certainly were off balance. By the next morning, when, by the way, the power returned to Rachel’s apartment, both had plenty to think about.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Accustomed to doing most of talking when he phoned his mother, Jim dwelled many minutes on the storm, describing the weather patterns, the heaps of snowbanks, the frigid and glittering beauty of nature, and, incidentally, the rescue of Rachel, et al.

  “And this was the disorganized messy woman, with the flyaway hair?”

  “I don’t know that I’d describe Rachel like that.”

  “Well, every time you’ve talked about her, seems like she’s having some kind of problem. She got into a tussle with the soccer coach. Blurts out anything that crosses her mind. Spills all the time.”

  “She’s also bright and funny. And very attractive in a casual sort of way. And has a great son.”

  “Really. Sounds like she’s captivating you. Careful you don’t get caught.”

  Jim protested. “Rachel is not trying to catch me. Anyway, I thought you wanted me to settle down.”

  “Yes. With someone appropriate. Like that other woman, Donna. She sounds so well groomed and together. Such a good mother. With a great job.”

  “All right. Enough.” He suddenly realized just who Donna reminded him of. His mother. Like her, Donna constantly was offering unwanted advice.

  “I just want you to think about your ideal. Which woman comes closer? Even when you were a little boy, you said you were going to marry a blonde. All your serious relationships have been with thin blondes, not plump brunettes. I just want you to give this Donna a chance.”

  “All right, Mom. I’ll do that. Now can we change the subject?” He silently gave thanks that he’d never set up the Skype connection with his mother so she couldn’t see his expression.

  * * *

  Friends. Rachel kept remembering Jim’s text message and his timely appearance during the blizzard. He not only talked the talk of friendship, he walked the walk. Maybe she’d moved too fast at Christmas, or maybe she moved too slowly, even defensively, since then. Something was off between them, but Rachel might be able to fix it. Take a chance, don’t wall yourself off, she instructed herself. What had Sharon labeled the condition? Heart-strong, not headstrong.

  On the bus rides to and from work, Rachel pondered. What should she do? Valentine’s Day was just over a week away. She could send him a light, humorous card. No, too much room for misunderstandings. She could ask him over for a candlelit dinner. No, too much pressure for romance. A phone call could be perfect. Personal contact yet adequate scope to retreat and deny if need be. Rachel bounded off the bus and tore into the apartment without removing her coat, seizing the instrument’s receiver as if it were a life preserver.

  Unfortunately, she’d forgotten that no one answers home telephone calls anymore. Voice messaging is the rule. With the first failed attempt to connect, she simply slammed the phone down.

  With the second try, she managed to croak, “Um, uh, Jim, Rachel here. Give me a call.”

  On the third and final effort later that evening, Rachel made a valiant effort to sound sociable yet undemanding. “Hi, Jim. This is Rachel. Thought we could get together for cup of coffee. Or toast Valentine’s Day. Or exchange news. Or something. Let me know. If you want to.”

  With this masterpiece of ambiguous shilly-shallying, Rachel waited in vain for Jim to connect.

  * * *

  Valentine’s Day was fast approaching, and Jim w
as constantly receiving little reminders from his mother about the date’s suitability for popping the most important question in a woman’s—or a man’s—life. Every time he went to Super Shop, he felt surrounded, drowned, with Valentine paraphernalia. Candy in red velvet boxes; cards large and small, funny or sentimental; red, white, and pink roses and carnations; even those fussy and frilly little do-dads that women seemed to favor although men usually despised them, like figurines bearing the saying “I wuv ooo.” While he wasn’t sure if he was ready to take a huge step, he decided to stop diddling around.

  Just as he did at work, Jim approached the decision rationally, logically, even scientifically. He spent some time making lists of the qualities he wanted in a wife, cross-indexed with Donna’s and Rachel’s traits. Looks, intelligence, stability, sense of humor, education, career, principles, religion, politics, volunteer activities, hobbies, skills, the inventory was extensive. The women were well-matched, each one higher in some attribute than the other. First things first. He’d promised his mother he’d consider Donna. So despite his major attraction to Rachel, he called Donna and made a date for the evening of February fourteenth.

  Donna could be his dream woman, mused Jim as he sat across from her in a little French restaurant designed for romantic trysts, licit or illicit. The waiters were so discreet, they hid their order pads from sight, and the air was heavy with scents of lavender and rose. Candles on every table and wall gleamed off silver and crystal and made Donna’s fair hair gleam. She smoothed it down. She didn’t talk a lot, thought Jim. Just as well. She wasn’t always dithering on like Rachel. Of course conversation was a little hard to make.

  “How’s your son?” Jim asked to fill the silence. He didn’t really care, hadn’t seen the boy since just after Christmas.

  “He’s fine. He was on the honor roll at school. His trumpet teacher said he’s very talented. And he’s the forward for the basketball team.”

  “That’s nice,” said Jim. The kid sounded close to perfect. He wondered if Donna’s son and Scott were on the same basketball team and if Scott were as bad at that sport as he had been at soccer. Probably didn’t know enough to stay in position on the court. The waiter brought the French onion soup. Donna spooned it away from herself, raised it to her lips. No stringy cheese clung to her silverware.

  “Good soup,” commented Jim, wiping the cheese dripping from his mouth on his napkin.

  “Yes,” Donna agreed. “A touch too much garlic, however.”

  Not like Rachel at all. Rachel would have adored the soup or hated it. No middle ground for her.

  “How’s work?” asked Jim as he pushed the soup away in favor of a roll.

  “It’s fine. My supervisor said a managerial position is opening up. He’s recommending me for it.”

  “Think you’ll get it?”

  Donna opened her eyes wide. They were green, carefully made up with green shadow to match. “Of course. I can hardly wait. I’m sure I can improve the departmental efficiency one hundred percent.”

  “I’m sure you can,” agreed Jim, thinking about his own work style where he sometimes accomplished better results by sacrificing efficiency for human connections.

  Rachel was notoriously disorganized. Oh, she got things done, and done well, but she was always misplacing papers, spilling cups of coffee, losing her keys. He could almost visualize her sitting across from him. She would be laughing at some silliness in life—the price of apples, say—or complaining about politics. Her hair would be in her eyes, she would be gesturing with her fork.

  Jim was surprised when the waiter brought dessert, tiny cakes iced with chocolate frosting. He couldn’t remember eating the meal. Donna took a small bite and laid her fork aside.

  “Not hungry?” asked Jim.

  “No. I try to avoid sugar and chocolate, too.”

  “Must be how you stay so slim,” he said. Rachel would have eaten the entire dessert, then tried to steal his. He couldn’t deny that Rachel was just plain chubby. When he hugged her, he felt like he was holding a pillow, all soft and squishy.

  “So what about the housing shortage?” Jim asked. Now why on earth had he brought that up? He must have been thinking about Rachel’s complaints that she couldn’t find an affordable place to live.

  “It’s been blown out of proportion,” said Donna. As a concerned, responsible and informed citizen who voted in each election and carefully considered political issues, she was quite willing to expound on her opinions. “Admittedly, we lack residential units downtown right now. But at least 10,000 should be completed in two years. Some areas in the suburbs have a great many vacant units, you know, up to twenty-five percent.”

  “No, I didn’t know,” Jim said. “That’s interesting. But aren’t the new downtown apartments designed mostly for high-middle to high incomes?”

  “Yes. The cost effectiveness of lower income housing is not feasible during these economic times. I’m considering investing in a conglomerate which...”

  As Donna continued her lecture on financial returns, Jim nodded from time to time, but his eyes glazed, empty as a stuffed animal’s. Exhaustion built in him. He speculated if there was any area in which the woman was not an expert, and he wondered even more why her knowledge made his mind twitch and his hands clench. He certainly could learn a lot from her. She was almost perfect in every area—her manners, her clothing style, face and figure, intelligence, parenting. But what did she need from him?

  Donna finally paused for breath.

  Jim looked at his watch and feigned a gasp. “Ten-thirty! I didn’t realize it was so late. I’ve got a meeting early in the morning. We should leave.”

  Jim pulled up in front of Donna’s tiny, well-kept house. He hopped out to open her car door, and they walked to the front entry. Jim noticed that the wood was painted white and had no fingerprints or smears to mar its surface, unlike Rachel’s door that bore plentiful scratches, dings and smudges from the hectic lifestyles of its inhabitants. Donna leaned forward, lips pursed, for a good night kiss. Jim reached for her, put one hand behind her head. Donna pulled away.

  “Please, Jim, my hair.”

  Jim lowered his hand to her shoulder and gave her a brief, almost chaste, kiss. “Good night.”

  “Why don’t you come in for a cup of coffee?” Donna suggested.

  “No, I need to cut the evening short. I’ll see you later,” he said and bounded down the porch steps.

  He sat in the car for a few minutes after Donna went in. What was wrong? Donna was a beautiful, intelligent woman. What was missing? He closed his eyes. Rachel’s face appeared before him. Rachel wouldn’t have been content with that kiss. Rachel would have put her arms around him, nuzzled his neck, been sorry the evening was over. She needed him. Jim’s eyes flew open. That wasn’t totally true. He needed her, too. Rachel was warm, human. She cared if he was happy or sad. She cared about Scott, about the people she knew, even about the people she didn’t know. Separately, he and Rachel were just two individuals with very ordinary human strengths and weaknesses. Together they completed each other.

  Jim started the car and headed toward Super Shop. There still were some sentimental, if tacky, valentine items on sale, he saw, and grabbed white teddy bear and a huge valentine. The female sales clerk beamed at him as he made his purchases, then wished him a happy evening. Off in the direction of Rachel’s. In a few minutes, he rode the elevator up to her apartment. Rather late to be calling, but she would understand. He pressed the buzzer by her door. He heard footsteps, felt someone looking through the peephole.

  Sharon flung the door wide. “It’s about time,” she said. “Rachel, the door’s for you,” she called.

  Rachel scuffled down the hall in slippers that looked like fuzzy yellow ducks. She was dressed in an oversized t -shirt that said “UCLA Athletic Department” and thermal underwear. She wore no makeup and her hair curled wildly around her face.

  “I got homesick,” said Jim. “Happy Valentine’s Day.”

 
; Rachel opened her arms without hesitation, and Jim walked into them.

  * * *

  Three months and one wedding ceremony later, Rachel sat by Jim’s oak table in exactly the position he’d envisioned her when he’d first seen her. The setting sun matched the warmth of her face and lit up the sketch she’d uncovered in a stack papers she was tidying. A strange expression passed over her face.

  “Who’s this? A former girl friend? Do I have a reason to be jealous?” She held up the sketch for Jim to see as he bent over the stove, tomato paste can in hand. Now that he had a family, he was willing to make spaghetti sauce from scratch. Jim looked up.

  “That? That’s just a woman I saw once. I couldn’t get her out of my mind.”

  “You only saw her once? She’s very good looking.”

  Jim walked over to stand beside Rachel. “Actually, it’s you. The first time I saw you outside Super Shop.”

  “Me? It doesn’t look like me at all—”

  “No, it doesn’t,” answered Jim. He considered his work and thought to himself: the nose is too classic, the cheekbones too high, the hair too light. Worst of all, the sketch had none of the original subject’s liveliness and charm. Jim added, “I’ll tell you something.” He put his arm around her and turned her towards him. “I prefer the reality to the fantasy.”

  Please read on to learn more about the author, Bonnie McCune, and to read a sample from her novel, A Saint Comes Stumbling In.

  Please enjoy this sample from A SAINT COMES STUMBLING IN by Bonnie McCune.

  On Saturday, the doorbell chimes and for the first time in several months, I open the door with neither hope nor fear. For a heartbeat, I fail to recognize the man’s back as he surveys the street instead of me. It should be as familiar to me as the lumpy overstuffed chair in the living room or the collection of family photos in the hall—its breadth, the slope of the shoulders, the ragged neck of the faded red t-shirt covering it.

  When I realize the visitor is my husband James, the shock paralyzes my vocal chords. Why is he here? He removed all his portable belongings long before and the terms and division of property were hammered out several weeks ago. A thin tendril of hope struggles to force a way through the arid wasteland of my self-esteem, decimated after his desertion. Perhaps the twelve years of our marriage hadn’t been ecstatic, but at least I’d found our marital bliss comfortable.