Old Fashioned

by Rene Gutteridge

  “Make up your mind.”

  “I quit.”

  “You can give up on love. That’s fine. You just can’t quit this job. I need you.”

  Amber looked at Carol through streaming tears. “I move on. That’s what I do. That’s what I’m good at.”

  Carol put another piece of chocolate in her hand. “What happens, sweetie, when you run out of places to move on to?”

  “The world is pretty big.”

  Carol took Amber’s hands into hers. “The world is pretty messy too. Everywhere.” She sighed, pulling her lighter from the pocket of her pants. “Get some roots, baby girl. Then when those big windbags huff and puff and try to blow your house down, you stand your ground and you don’t even sway.” She looked to the door. “Speaking of puff, I need to step outside for a moment. You okay?”

  Amber stretched out the smile she knew Carol needed to see. “I’m fine. I promise. He wasn’t the first man and he won’t be the last.”

  “Thata girl.”

  Carol went outside. Amber could see her through the window, lighting her cigarette, facing the wind so her hair would blow out of her face. Maybe Carol needed her as much as she needed Carol right now.

  She handed Trish her sweater back. “Thanks for sacrificing this.”

  “Anytime.” Trish rubbed her shoulder. “Listen, I know a thousand guys. Literally a thousand guys. I mean, with the university, they outnumber the ants. You’re such a sweet, attractive girl. I could get you a date by tomorrow night. I promise. You just say the word and I’ll hook you up with a twenty-year-old.”

  “Thanks. But I think I better put the brakes on for a bit.”

  Trish shrugged. “Your choice. You okay to hold down the fort? I gotta go get more chocolate from Walgreens.”

  “Yeah, I’m fine.” Though her eyes felt kind of swollen.

  Trish grabbed her purse and was gone, leaving Amber alone with the fragrance of all the roses around her. Right now, it kind of smelled toxic.

  Yeah, the world was one big messy place. But maybe she was the messiest of all.

  Right in the middle of the shop, where he had more room, Clay started tearing off the upholstery. There was no use saving it. It was disgusting. Beyond repair. Maybe on the surface it looked okay, but underneath it was soiled. In fact, it was soiled so badly that it reached the wood, where it had begun to mold.

  What was the use of a love seat, anyway? It wasn’t even long enough to sprawl out for a good nap. He kept ripping at the upholstery. The problem was, it was stapled to the wood so securely and randomly that he was having to use a lot of muscle to get it off. He stood, catching his breath, wondering why anybody would staple the fabric like this. It was as if they thought it might stand up and walk away. He squatted, looked at the wood. It was cracking anyway. Split right down the middle at the back.

  This was going to require an ax.

  Just as he raised it, the door swung open and George walked in, humming and grinning. “Olly olly oxen free!” He stopped at the sight of Clay. “You look terrible.” George didn’t expand on what he thought looked terrible—Clay in general or the fact that he had an ax frozen over his head. George’s gaze slowly moved from the immediate scene to the love seat, now more appropriately called the hate seat. “What are you doing to that poor piece of furniture?”

  “I’m fixing it.”

  “Obviously. Love your work.” George opened the front door with a gentlemanly flair and grinned widely. “Why don’t you step away from murdering innocent love seats and come look at some other priceless antiquities you could fix? Got a two-for-one special on nightstands. I’d throw in the sledgehammer for free, but I see you have a mighty fine ax already.”

  Clay just stared at the love seat. It looked filleted.

  “Come on, I got some good stuff out here. Let’s go.”

  He followed George outside, where the sunlight felt blinding. He shaded his eyes as they walked to the back of the truck. George was whistling and his steps were bouncy.

  “What are you so happy about?” Clay asked.

  “Almost done with the Rolls-Royce,” George said. “She’s a beaut! Just needs a bit more engine work.”

  “Good for you.” Clay patted him on the shoulder.

  “Also, my wife had a heart attack a couple of days ago.”

  “What?”

  “She’s dead. Found her facedown in her breakfast.” Sadness washed over George’s expression but left as soon as he gestured toward the truck. “Now get on with it. Look at those nightstands! As long as you keep the ax out of the picture, I think you could do something nice with them.”

  “George, I’m so—”

  “Come on now, hurry it up. Got things to do. I’m picking up a bumper for the Rolls-Royce in an hour.”

  Clay stared vacantly into the truck, regarding all the used and damaged goods that were piled and squeezed together, one on top of the other as high as the truck would hold them. He wanted to believe that anything could be fixed with enough elbow grease and a vision for what it had once been and could be again.

  He stepped back. “Not today, George.”

  “Clay! You’re breaking my heart! Not even that bookcase with the little hearts carved into it? You’re such a sucker for that kind of thing.”

  Clay looked at George, his aging eyes desperately waiting for a reply. Fifteen minutes later, ten pieces of furniture and antiques sat next to the truck. George was beyond delighted, which on any other day might be normal. But what was there to delight in when his wife had just died? Clay kept his baffled thoughts to himself. Plus, he figured with how things were going with Amber, he was going to have a lot of time on his hands.

  “Well, I gotta get going.” George hopped into his truck, hung his elbow out the window.

  Clay stepped up next to him. “You won’t miss her?”

  George diverted his eyes and pitched a thumb toward Amber’s apartment. “Hey, what about you? Huh? Do you love this girl? If you do, life’s too short. That’s all I got for you. But . . .”

  “What?”

  “If it doesn’t work out, can you give me her number?”

  “Hilarious.”

  George started the truck with a roar; then it settled into a low, sputtering rumble. “Mind stopping by the funeral this afternoon? Helen always liked a crowd.”

  “Sure, George. Of course.”

  George started to say thanks, but his bottom lip quivered and he just nodded his reply.

  The truck pulled away, a cloud of dust in its wake.

  Amber peeked out the window. All was quiet. Walking over to her new Bible, she reached under it and slid the DVD out. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t imagine it. It seemed even on Clay Walsh’s worst day, he was still some kind of saint.

  She needed to accept that behind all of this . . . What term could she even use? What would she call it? Relational austerity? Yeah, behind the relational austerity, he was probably just being polite. Probably trying to find some way to break it off because he didn’t find her . . . whatever. Attractive, interesting, fun. Maybe she didn’t follow the rules right. The truth was, she didn’t know all the rules. She’d never cracked open a Bible to find out. Above all else, she knew she was just a complication to what he’d been working so hard to achieve. He’d set out his theories and here she came, like a whirlwind, blowing everything to bits.

  The DVD glided into the player like it was on air. Amber knelt in front of the TV, blinking slowly as the images and sounds began to stream from the box. Her hand slipped over her mouth. She wanted to close her eyes, but she couldn’t look away.

  In a cemetery high on Park Hill, with a breathtaking view of the town below, Clay stood next to George, the only two people there besides the pastor. George, in his ill-fitting suit, stood with his hands clasped, looking at the wooden box of a coffin, all that he could afford. Some purple wildflowers, the only ones Clay knew of that grew in the fall around here, lay clustered on top.

  The pastor a
nd his black book stood near the head of the coffin. He quoted all the usuals: “dust to dust,” “love is patient and kind,” etc. After five minutes, he was done. “Is there anything you would like to say about your wife, Helen, Mr. Franks?”

  “Yes, sir.” George stepped forward, eyes on the coffin. “She made the best fried chicken I have ever tasted, and that included when I had to work for three months down in the South. It had this crunch to it that I can’t hardly describe. And she’d fry up the whole chicken, too, just for the two of us.” He respectfully stepped back in line with Clay.

  “All right,” the pastor said. He led them in a prayer, then walked to George and held out his hand to shake. “Good meeting you, George.”

  “Thank you, Pastor. Thank you for coming on the short notice.” George fumbled in his reach for the pastor’s handshake—his hands trembled, so he used both of them to cup the other man’s.

  The pastor walked down the hill. Clay and George stayed for a long time, George just blinking slowly at the coffin, like there was so much to take in, more than one person could possibly take in.

  Clay didn’t know what to do. Maybe George needed some time alone. “Well, I should probably—”

  And then George dropped to his knees, covered his face. His wail was picked up and carried into the wind, dispersing the sound into a soft cry.

  Clay knelt beside him, putting a hand on his shoulder. Below them, the faint sounds of traffic came and went.

  “She’s all I got,” George cried. “She’s all I got.” Tears gushed down his face as he looked at the coffin. “We ain’t had it perfect, that’s the truth. Most of the time it didn’t even feel like love. But I always been difficult and she never left me. Never even threatened to. She threatened to hit me with a frying pan, but I probably deserved it.”

  Clay watched a lifetime of memories flood George’s face as he kept trying to stop tears that wouldn’t.

  “I called her Hel a lot—always got under her skin, but sometimes made her laugh. She kept tellin’ me to get her a different nickname and I said I would as soon as I found one that fit her better.” He chuckled, but his chin trembled.

  Clay didn’t leave George’s side. The sun had nearly set when the gravedigger approached, said they were going to have to put her in the ground now. George stood and draped himself over the coffin, giving it one long kiss and a hug, his arms barely reaching halfway around the box. He stepped back and they watched the man crank the coffin slowly into the ground, four inches at a time.

  George turned to Clay. “You get on now. You got more important things to do.”

  “George, I—”

  “I nothin’. Get on now. I’m fine. You go. Don’t you have a love seat to repair? All that damage you caused?” Through misty eyes, George gave Clay a knowing look.

  “Okay.” Clay shook his hand, squeezed his shoulder, then moved down the hill, wrapping himself with his arms, chilled by wind that was no longer warmed by the sun and by the lonely man on the top of the hill, saying his long good-bye. As he walked, he noticed the sky was dim and purple. It was the first time he’d noticed such a thing apart from when he was with Amber. He looked back once.

  George held the shovel and was lifting the dirt, dumping it little by little into Helen’s grave, all by himself.

  He’d tried to call, but no answer. Now he stood on the stoop, where she used to keep the shoe box for him, where he’d made her stand in the rain under an umbrella. He knocked. All the lights were off. The curtains were drawn, but not all the way, and when he peeked in the windows, he could see a little bit, mostly just the kitchen counter.

  The money jar she always kept there was gone.

  Mr. Joe stared at him from the floor, his ears flat, his eyes narrow.

  Hurrying, Clay jumped into his truck and drove to the floral shop. Things were locked up, but a single light glowed from what looked to be a back room. The sign clearly said Closed, but he pounded on the door anyway. Again. And again.

  Then the woman who owned the shop, the one he’d met the other night, came out. She opened the door.

  Carol—that was her name. Less memorable than the glare she’d fixed on him all night.

  “We’re closed. And at this point, I’m not sure flowers are going to do you any good.”

  “I’m not here to buy—”

  Carol shot him a look like maybe he should reconsider that option.

  “Do you know where she is?”

  Carol stepped outside, closed the door, drew a cigarette out of her pocket and then a lighter. It was dark enough that when she lit up, the end of the cigarette glowed bright orange like a mini sun. She puffed on it for a second, indifferent to the cold. “I gave her one of your old DVDs.”

  Clay searched her eyes, her expression, her words. What was she saying? The DVD?

  “You know the one.”

  Clay put his hand over his mouth, but it didn’t matter—he was speechless. He turned away, trying not to imagine what Amber might think or feel when she saw it. What she would see. He wanted to yell at Carol. Why would she do such a thing?

  He leaned against the shop wall, staring into the empty street, smoke drifting by him, but that wasn’t what was suffocating him. He knew the answer to his question—Amber had to see him, fully.

  The cigarette dangled between Carol’s fingers. Ash floated to the ground. “And you know what? She didn’t even flinch. I told her to look at the name on it. And she didn’t care. She believes you’re a good man.”

  Clay looked at her.

  “Are you a good man?” She puffed the cigarette again. It choked out the cool air, hanging like a veil between them.

  He didn’t know how to answer that question.

  “Because she’s good. Yeah, maybe she’s impulsive and a wild horse and has a past like all the rest of us. But in her heart, she believes in love. And for the life of me, I don’t know why, but she believes in you.”

  “Where is she? Just tell me where she is.”

  Carol threw her cigarette to the ground and stomped on it. “You’re going to have to work harder than that.”

  She’d intended to stop at three. She was on five.

  Amber slammed the shot glass down on the table. Her head swirled.

  Trish was giggling. “Now we can do this every night!” She tilted her head at Amber like she needed to be thoroughly examined. “Okay, I can tell this is going to take extreme measures. Wait here. Don’t leave. I’m going to get something to cheer you up.”

  Trish disappeared but Amber hardly noticed. All she could see were those images. The girls. The words. The way Clay egged it all on, not a care in the world about who those girls were or what they needed. Of course, they didn’t seem to care either. They seemed to relish the attention.

  Was she so different from them? She’d relished attention too in her life, but never like she did from her husband. They’d been married six weeks when she’d decided she needed to be more seductive. Sexy. Sensual. More like the girls on the magazines in the supermarket. Maybe that was the problem. Maybe he wanted more of that.

  She bought new clothes. Thought about plastic surgery. Wore more makeup. Had her hair highlighted. She wore her skirts shorter. Did crunches and leg lifts and tried to wear the kind of shoes that accentuated her calves. She plucked her eyebrows and tried false eyelashes. They couldn’t afford it, but she snuck the credit card and bought the expensive kind of skin cream, the one that claimed to be miraculous. She switched perfumes. She tried to giggle more. Let her shirt hang off her shoulder. Stopped wearing ponytails.

  She left him little cards. Bought him tickets to the game. Started drinking his favorite kind of beer.

  But he grew more and more distant until one day he stopped touching her at all.

  It had been a Tuesday, February 14, when she sprinkled a trail of rose petals leading to the bed and lit candles all over the house. She cooked his favorite meal and bought some beautiful lingerie. He was late coming home from work, but she waited a
nd waited anyway, trying to keep the dinner hot and the candles from dying in their own wax.

  Two hours later, he came in. She opened the door for him, gestured to the table, set with good dishes she’d borrowed from a neighbor. She’d put a tablecloth down and made a beautiful bouquet of flowers from some she’d picked up at Walmart.

  When he looked at her, she posed playfully, like a model. He looked at the dinner.

  “Your mom’s meat loaf recipe,” she said.

  His gaze roamed the room. He noticed the candles, then the rose petals leading into the bedroom.

  And then he looked back at her. “The thing is, I’m really tired. It’s been a long day, and I was hoping to just take a shower and go to bed. Wrap that all up,” he said, nodding to the kitchen, “and I’ll nuke it tomorrow, I promise.”

  He disappeared into the bedroom. She heard the shower turn on and the door to the bathroom lock.

  “Look who I found playing darts!” Trish’s excited squeal popped Amber back into reality. Hanging from Trish’s arm was the guy from the other day, who had come into the shop for the white roses.

  Trish took both his shoulders and pushed him toward the table. He slid into the seat next to Amber, looking crazy handsome under the darkness of the underlit bar. His hair was more spiked this time, less slick. He looked more genuine, but maybe that was the alcohol talking.

  “Hi,” he said.

  “Did your friend like the roses?” She hoped the words came out right. She was starting to feel like they were sliding back and forth inside her mouth, tumbling out in the wrong order, if they came out at all.

  “Loved them.”

  The guy grinned at her and Amber ran her fingers through her hair. “You want me?”

  He blinked like he wasn’t sure he’d heard her correctly.

  “Am I the most attractive woman you’ve ever seen?” Well, the words were coming out just fine now. And fast, too.

  “Sure.”

  “Are you allergic to cats?”

  “Never.”

  He took her hand, helped her out of her seat, guided her by the small of her back through the crowd to the dance floor. A slow song played. She didn’t recognize it, which was unusual. But she wasn’t focused on the music.