What a Kiss Can Do

by Kathy Johncox

  I tapped my pencil on the desk with a slow, thoughtful rhythm. Yeah, connecting. What goes along with that? Not judging people? Being more spontaneous? Knowing what I fear? Knowing what I want?

  Where did those last two come from? Knowing what I fear. The words “a bad marriage” popped into my head. I know where that came from. Mom’s story plus Fergie’s story equaled reason to dread that road. Knowing what I want. Fergie’s fault. I’m probably subconsciously wondering if I want him. Right now I do. But that’s been the case before. How is he different, I asked myself out loud. He’s comfortable. With himself and his life and other people. He connects. And now, he’s a challenge. A cuddling and a marrying challenge.

  Hmmm. Okay, I decided to go with being more open to new experiences and connecting. At least they have measurable results. Derek’s card had made its way from my jacket pocket to my desk at work. Might be a connecting opportunity.

  Later that evening, in the black dress that I had worn to Caroline’s, I set out with the man who had kissed me at Caroline’s to toast the new year at Boss’s condo. Fergie wore charcoal gray slacks, and a tweed jacket with a black silk shirt underneath. I was surprised. I hadn’t expected a tie, but I also hadn’t expected he’d have such style in his wardrobe. This was based on seeing him every day in his photographer work outfit. I’d added a glittering short jacket to my ensemble. I’d ordered it online since I still really couldn’t shop the way I wanted to, walking around and all, and gold bangle bracelets, Christmas gifts from Jody and Billy—and my sister, of course. I’d chosen to try using my new hand-carved cane courtesy of the Goodwill store, and my new found ease of mobility was energizing.

  Boss had invited the cream of the suburban crop: our newsmakers, town supervisor, credit union presidents, and just plain rich and influential residents. And Derek.

  Fergie and I were ensconced in the condo’s loft overlooking the vast entryway below where people were congregating. Getting up there with the cane was harder than I had thought and I wasn’t in a hurry to make my way down. We were sitting in a small loveseat drinking our second, maybe third glass of champagne, when Fergie nudged me and pointed to Derek coming in the front door.

  “Look who’s here,” Fergie said.

  I know I blanched because he asked me what was wrong.

  “Too much of this.” I held up my champagne flute.

  “Already?” he said. “I’m not sure if it’s the bubbly or Derek that affects you more. Every time his name comes up, you get a little nuts. Do I need to be jealous?” He said this facetiously, I thought, because he was grinning.

  “I’ll be okay if I just get some air,” I said.

  “We can leave if you want,” he said. “Your ankle hurt?”

  I shook my head and he helped me up. At that moment he saw Celeste and excused himself to go talk to her. Behind me, the sliding glass doors to the balcony were calling my name and I walked toward them alone.

  It was only a second-floor balcony and not much to see, but there was air. I took some deep breaths as I had seen the pitchers in last fall’s World Series do before a particularly tough batter, and my head began to clear. Maybe it was the champagne. I leaned for a moment on the wrought iron railing and looked out over a little league field now covered with snow. It was cold and I turned to go inside.

  “You’re even prettier tonight than the last time I saw you,” Derek said, stepping outside and sliding the balcony door closed.

  “I had on the same dress.”

  “No, I mean in the emergency room with your ankle the size of, well at least the size of a melon.”

  “Oh, right. Fergie told me you were there.” I feigned disinterest and I think he knew it. I wanted to ask why he had been there, why he wanted to know why I was there, and why he cared that I was there. Whether it was the fog of the half of a pain pill I had taken prophylactically or the effects of champagne, in a way I could not get my head around, it mattered to me if he cared about my ankle—and me.

  “Boss said Felicia did the interview with you. Guess it couldn’t wait for me to be lucid again.”

  “I was quite disappointed. Felicia’s a nice young woman and did a pretty standard interview. But it would have been intriguing to see what you would have asked me. Ah well. I’m sure we’ll have a chance to talk.” He looked up at the stars for a moment, then said, “How’s your ankle? You’re not using equipment anymore, are you? Oh, just the cane.”

  The hand that was holding it was shaking from the cold.

  “You’re freezing. Seems I always have to give you my jacket.” He took his jacket off and handed it to me. I slipped it over my shoulders. It was warm and smelled of lemon cologne.

  “Thanks,” I said. “I’ll have to start being prepared with a wrap at all times. I thought this jacket was enough. You just never know when you’ll be on a balcony on a winter’s night, I guess.”

  His white French-cuffed shirt fit perfectly and the cufflinks with small diamonds glittered in the moonlight. His black silk tie was a nice choice for the evening of celebration. He was looking at me expectantly. Oh yes, his first question.

  “My ankle? Better, but slowly. I’ll keep it wrapped in an ace bandage now for another three weeks or so, then it’s on its own.”

  “How’d you do it?

  “Just something stupid.”

  “What particularly? This should be interesting, a confident woman like you doing something stupid.”

  “I fell off a stool.”

  “Well done. And you were on the stool because….”

  “Look, I’m just out here for some peace and quiet.”

  “No, you’re not. I think you’re out here to avoid me and I’m making that not possible, so now you’re getting miffed. And I already know about the mistletoe involvement in your fall. Your boyfriend. At the hospital,” he added when I looked at him in surprise. “You still actually were clutching a piece of mistletoe in your drug-induced euphoria. Any good interrogator would want to know why.”

  “So, counselor, when are you going to rest your case?”

  “When the defendant consents to have dinner with me.”

  “Are you normally the prosecutor or the counsel for the defense?”

  “Actually, I’ll do either. Whichever is more lucrative,” he said.

  “That sounds like an unscrupulous view of the law.”

  “It’s the pragmatic view of the law. Every lawyer for himself, or herself. Do you never write something that is not exactly good for the paper? Do you have scruples about that?”

  My head throbbed and it wasn’t from the alcohol. And my ankle was throbbing, too.

  “Dinner,” I said, “is impossible.”

  “Failure,” he said, “is impossible. Your Susan B. Anthony said that, I believe.”

  “I knew that. But she must have been wrong.”

  “Not about dinner. I’ll pick you up Thursday at 7:30 p.m. I prefer Friday night but your boyfriend might not be able to live a Friday night without you.”

  “How’d you know I was up here anyhow?”

  “Interrogation. You’ll learn I am a master. And changing the subject seldom works. A week from Thursday at 7:30. We’ll have a good dinner and a nice chat.”

  “Why me?” I asked, as I hobbled toward the door. Derek held my arm and helped me up the step into the family room, then reached up to ease his jacket off my shoulders.

  “Why not?” he said. And gave me a charming smile.

  For a moment, I wondered if jumping off the second floor balcony would end it all. No. I’d probably just break my other ankle.

  Fergie found me in the kitchen where I was devouring the last of a chocolate raspberry cheesecake.

  “Celeste and I saw you with Derek, outside again, in the freezing cold. Why do you always end up outside when he’s around? Something about that guy gets to you, doesn’t it?” he said.

  “What makes you think that?”

  “This aggressive dessert eating. It just isn’t you.”
<
br />   “He’s irritating. All ingratiating, then charming, then insulting, then charming.”

  “You need someone more even keel,” Fergie said smiling broadly. “And taller.”

  “Know where I can find someone?”

  The clock struck the first gong of midnight and all hell broke loose in the living room. Noisemakers, yelling, glasses clinking.

  “Right here,” he said and I kissed him and he kissed me back. I took it as a kiss of promise, like there were more of those to come, now and in the future. Little did I know.

  Chapter Five

  Resolutions Continued

  The month of January starts with a party and goes downhill. The upstate New York winter weather is capricious—temperatures range between zero and 40 degrees, and your weather challenges are snow flurries, big snow, then possibly sleet, then sun, then lots more big snow. It’s harder to get everywhere, and takes longer with your ankle wrapped in stretchy flesh-colored elastic reminding you to be careful with every step. In my third year of employment at the paper, I still resent the fact that I don’t get a company sport utility vehicle. My Toyota, a sensible car, runs well and is okay in the snow, but I feel inadequate when I cruise up to the Yukons and the Denalis and I am looking at their running boards.

  It was Tuesday and the fifth day I’d had to scrape freezing, icy snow out of my boot and my bandage because of the New Year’s Day deluge of flakes that had had me and lots of other people holed up at home. Fergie and his Jeep had to fight through snow drifts even in the streets to join me for New Year’s Day brunch. Needless to say, I was sick of hobbling and it made me tired and irritable.

  I sat at my desk drying my feet by the radiator under the window and thinking about my dinner date with Derek this coming Thursday. If I had to choose between being intrigued and disinterested, I would lean toward intrigued. Yet, I am one who pretends to disdain the status quo but secretly likes its comfort.

  And, I had questions. My height makes me formidable to a lot of men, why not Derek? Instead he is, if not actually pursuing me, at least, interested. No, it’s more like pursuing. By rights, he should either be intimidated by me, or disinterested. He gave me his card and I could’ve called, but didn’t. So he’s taken the initiative. We’ve had two conversations, both argumentative so far, and that’s been really pleasant. I couldn’t wait for Thursday just to see what else we could argue about.

  I began tapping my pencil, something I did that helped me think clearly. I’d had a little more than a week to fret about this, but only in my free time, which thankfully there hadn’t been too much of. How could I go from no dates and swearing off love and lust, to two interested men in a period of a little more than a month?

  Men like women to think they are not very complex, with all that silence and simplistic language in which they wrap themselves, and the yes-no answers they offer for everything with no elaboration. Fergie was like that, only not really in a bad way. His silence was fairly companionable most of the time. He actually knew when to speak and when not to, for the most part. Derek on the other hand, seemed a natural born talker, bent on finding the thing that would most irritate me, and then elaborating on that.

  Fergie and I were good together, but even though he had the enthusiastic approval of my mother and sister, both of whom had called me three times since Christmas warning me he was a keeper, I was holding back. I knew he had pretty much said he was not good at marriage, and marriage was essential in any keeper I would choose. From the first kiss under the mistletoe to the New Year’s Eve promise kiss, Fergie was impressive. We shared interests, liked to tease, enjoyed being together. Sex was really good. No, it was great. Let me stop at saying we did things that make the other happy, but no leather and no ropes. Things were smooth. And here I was, tempted to indulge in a compare and contrast although I knew it was definitely apples to oranges. I had not even been with Derek alone. I couldn’t compare. Why was I comparing anyway? It’s not like they were jousting for my hand. Enough.

  My feet and boots were just about dry when Boss arrived. The cold wind seemed to push her in the front door and she slipped on the wet floor. She grabbed the back of my chair for support and slammed her laptop on the corner of my desk.

  “Can’t anyone keep the floor dry around here? We need an indoor/outdoor floor mat. I can’t believe we live here in the tundra and don’t have one. When Felicia comes in, tell her to get one. Take the charge card.”

  Boss said this to the room in general as she unwrapped an inordinately long scarf from around her head and neck and threw it across the room.

  “Those Worker’s Comp people think they know everything. Your ankle is causing me more aggravation than it did you. I’m going to end up on some kind of stomach medication before this is through.”

  I didn’t say anything, but I stopped tapping my pencil.

  “Damn lawyers. I filed everything to get compensation payments for you while you were out. But because you didn’t stay out for a specified period of time, that I didn’t know existed, I might add, they may not reimburse the paper. And Bill …Mr. Weninger, is not going to like that.”

  Bill Weninger is her boss and ultimately mine as well, publisher of this suburban chain of rags, and pretty by-the-book, which can be both good and bad. He’s about Boss’s age, divorced and spends a lot of time hitting on her, which she sometimes welcomes, sometimes doesn’t, depending on her mood. Poor guy.

  I figured it would be better if I didn’t hop into this rant right now.

  “I know you had a lot of work to do,” Boss said. “I know that. I know there’s really no back up for you. I know I would have had to take on some of your beats. I know all that,” she said. “What I don’t know is what’s up with this Derek guy.”

  “Derek?” I asked. I felt a premonition of something, if not evil, then at least trouble.

  “Yeah, Derek. He probably had something to do with it. He works for Bullock and Bullock, the premier comp firm in town. I actually invited him to the New Year’s party to ingratiate myself with him. That’s how pathetic I am, in case you didn’t know.”

  I chose to leave that remark alone as well.

  “Right charming bugger, as he might say with that fakey British accent, chatting with me about Victorian art and literature, eating my shrimp, drinking my imported French champagne. Got the stinking report this morning.”

  Now I wondered if Derek was on the case—if that was why he was at the hospital, why he asked me out. I thought he’d asked me out before I hurt my ankle, but now I wasn’t sure.

  She stopped talking, but I said nothing. I’d have to think about this. I was surprising myself a lot lately and was feeling uncomfortable about this new me. I’ve even been considering lying to Fergie about where I will be Thursday night, and I’m not even going to tell Boss, especially if I find out that dinner is more related to a legal issue than to my animal magnetism.

  The phone rang. I picked up and a day care director was calling to report a wolf sighted behind the School Days Day Care Center. She wanted to give an interview about what the day care was doing to protect the children. I suspected she wanted to be proactive since her center would probably at least be on cable news that evening, if not other stations.

  I said I’d be right out, hung up and told Boss about the call. If she weren’t so preoccupied, she would’ve said no, since the January bridal luncheon was going on in an hour or so, and the society page always carried that. The society page had lots of brides and grooms on it every two weeks, women in frilly white and men in tuxes, saying “Cheese” and hanging onto each other for dear life, as though they knew they were starting on a rocky road to an unknown destination. The mistletoe flashed through my mind, along with the ghostly man and woman. How many of these smiling people had been trapped under the mistletoe for their first kiss? For how many had that kiss been the beginning and for how many the end? Bridal luncheon? Felicia could cover it.

  A call to Fergie had him waiting for me at the day care and
we talked with Marci, the director. It was clear she was shaken by having seen a wild animal near the center. She talked a blue streak and I just listened for the nugget. For the uninitiated, that’s the thing a writer can build his or her story around.

  “And, oh my God, the ‘what-ifs’ are horrifying. Did you see that movie with Meryl Streep, I think, about the dingo that ate her baby and she was tried for murder because no one believed her? Wow.” Marci stopped for breath.

  I guess Meryl was as good a lead as any but I didn’t know if Boss would let me lead with anything as lurid as the death of a child, even a movie child. I kept listening and decided the wildlife angle was best. Something like the forever wild at the edge of the suburbs starting to take on a malevolent character and threatening mankind. Add a little urban sprawl and a paragraph or two about the day care center and the story almost writes itself.

  Fergie wanted to go out back and take a few pictures. He did that and when he came in, he pulled me aside from the crayon table where I was coloring with 3-year-old Abby.

  “I saw tracks pretty close,” he said. His eyes were worried, I think. I had never seen that before. “In the mud. In the cornfield. We should tell her.”

  “She’ll freak.”

  “Better that than the dingo story revisited.”

  “Yeah.”

  We called Marci aside and she got even more pale. Fergie took some photos of Abby and me and some of the other kids at play, and by the time we were ready to go, Marci had been camped on hold with the animal control line for about 10 minutes.

  “If I knew a hunter...” she said.