Old Fashioned

by Rene Gutteridge

  He pulled her close without hesitation, as if he assumed that was exactly what she wanted, and he was exactly who she wanted, and this was exactly where she wanted to be. They chatted lightly, their faces close. He seemed transfixed by her, like nothing was going to get in his way. His voice was low and soothing. He complimented her. He loved her hair. Her eyes. Her smile. “You’re lovely,” he said at one point, pressing her close to him, putting his cheek next to hers. His hand caressed her shoulder. His cologne was barely there, just a hint, as if he knew how close a woman would have to be to smell it. He brushed her hair away from her face, smiled at her like she was all that mattered in the moment.

  Two or three songs later—she wasn’t counting—he asked if she wanted to go someplace more private. Amber wasn’t even sure if she said yes, but by then he’d taken her hand in his and was guiding her out the door.

  From the bar, Trish waved and grinned like Amber’s wildest dreams might be coming true.

  Outside, it was cold. The guy wrapped his arms around her, held her tight against the wind. In the parking lot, he opened the door to a red sports car—a rental, he told her—and she got in. It smelled like his cologne.

  He slid into his seat and started the engine, which roared to life and then purred. He grinned at her, touched her arm, noticed her calves as she crossed her legs. Without another word, he drove off.

  Amber stared out the window, numb, as his car raced around curves on a street she wasn’t familiar with. She didn’t know where they were going. And whatever beauty the alcohol had painted moments ago, it was leaving her system quickly. It was just a starless night, empty of moonlight.

  But she didn’t care.

  Within minutes, they’d arrived at a hotel. A valet took his keys and he helped her out, his hand at her elbow, then at her hip. They walked across the hotel together like some ordinary couple.

  “I’ve got a suite,” he said as they got into the elevator. He moved close to her, brushed her hair off her shoulder, kissed her neck. “What’s your name?” he whispered.

  “Does it matter?”

  “I’m—”

  “I don’t want to know.”

  His fingers glided down her arm, the back of his hand sliding along her hip.

  On the eighth floor, the doors opened. He wrapped an arm around her waist and led her down the hall, swiped his card to unlock a door, stepped in.

  Then he turned and noticed she hadn’t moved.

  “You coming?”

  Amber looked down at her feet, resting at the threshold.

  “I’M A DINOSAUR.” Clay ripped open the package of sugarless cinnamon gum he’d grabbed from the candy rack beneath the counter. “I mean, look at me.” He took another packet and threw it on the counter, just for good measure. “Are you even over twenty-one?” he asked the clerk.

  The kid’s eyes were wide as he watched Clay shove two more pieces in his mouth. “It’s a liquor store, so yeah.”

  “But see, you’re not even asking me my age.”

  “You said dinosaur, so I was thinking north of twenty.”

  “Can you be sure? Maybe I look old for my age.”

  “Well, you’re buying gum. You have to be at least three to purchase it, so—okay, what are you doing now?”

  Clay took the cardboard box that held all the packets of cellophane-wrapped cinnamon gum and dumped it on the counter. “What’s the point? Am I right?” He gestured at himself, at the gum, at the ceiling.

  The clerk’s eyes went even wider. “Are you going to rob me?”

  Clay pulled out his wallet, causing the clerk to flinch. He shoved the pile of gum forward. “What’s this stuff cost, anyway?”

  “A buck fifty a packet.”

  “For gum?”

  “They sell it cheaper over at the 7-Eleven. Across the street. Where most people buy their gum.”

  Clay glanced over his shoulder and out the front window, for the first time noticing a man behind him, holding whiskey, waiting patiently but swaying ever so slightly.

  The man smiled, closed his eyes like he might just doze off, then said, “Cold as Ice.”

  “I’m not cold!”

  “It’s the flavor of the—”

  “Is that what she thinks? I’m cold? Is that what everyone thinks? I’m trying to do the right thing here. I’m trying to—”

  “The mint gum. Called Cold as Ice. Hides the evidence.” The man grinned, pointing to his bottle. “Will burn the taste buds right off your tongue, though.”

  Clay turned back to the clerk, who was staring at the gum.

  “So . . . you want all these?” the clerk asked.

  Back at home, Clay sat on the living room floor, chewing four pieces of cinnamon gum at a time until the flavor wore off. She was right. Cinnamon was really good. Underneath his hand, he spun his basketball against the floor. With his other hand, he scanned stations on his old radio, but everything sounded so . . . useless. It was that far into the night, when even the radio stations went to sleep.

  He closed his eyes, wanting to pray, wanting the God of the universe to come down and tell him what to do. But even the loudest attempt at a prayer didn’t seem to leave the room. It didn’t even make it high enough to bounce off the ceiling. It just hung there like dust in the air.

  “God . . . God . . .” He squeezed his eyes shut, unable to believe his life could ever get this complicated again. Years ago, after he read the Bible for the first time, it seemed he had to wade through months of sorrow, seeing the full effect, the full horror, of his sin. But coupled with that was a settled, sturdy, strong hope like a roaring tide that washed over his iniquities, then quietly retreated, leaving the sand smooth and beautiful.

  He rose, grabbed another piece of gum, and walked to his front door, where the Ten Commandments hung on the wall. Even through the darkness he could see it clearly. It had been a gift from Aunt Zella when his life had taken such a dramatic turn. The scroll had been Uncle Lloyd’s, whom he didn’t even know that well. He had met him only a couple times over the years. Lloyd had died when Clay was a teenager but was kept alive through Aunt Zella’s vivid and sometimes-hallucinatory memories of him.

  The story went that it was Lloyd’s father, who’d been to Egypt and Israel on an archaeological expedition, who brought the scroll back for Lloyd, just a child then, as a gift. When it was passed to Clay, he framed it himself.

  The words were in Hebrew, but Clay didn’t need them in English. He knew them by heart. All of them.

  I am the Lord thy God. . . .

  Thou shalt have no other gods before me.

  Thou shalt not make unto thee any graven image. . . .

  Thou shalt not take the name of the Lord thy God in vain. . . .

  Remember the sabbath day, to keep it holy. . . .

  Honour thy father and thy mother. . . .

  Thou shalt not kill.

  Thou shalt not commit adultery.

  Thou shalt not steal.

  Thou shalt not bear false witness against thy neighbor.

  Thou shalt not covet. . . .

  It had been the last one, the one about not coveting, that brought him to his knees so many years ago, bleeding him out from each wrist. The selfish desires of his heart had created in him a monster of lust. He realized that this commandment especially revealed his heart’s innermost intentions. God made Clay understand that He saw all his secrets. He saw every night with every woman. He knew each of their names, even when Clay didn’t. There was nothing hidden from Him.

  It was the strangest feeling, to be convicted but not condemned.

  God had torn him down but then had slowly built him back up. He had crushed him and then restored him. The more honest Clay became, the more God revealed to him the condition of his heart—a heart born into darkness, a heart that had trusted in the ways of the world.

  From there, God marked out Clay’s need for deliverance from the power of sin.

  It was then that he saw the beauty of the law. Fell in love
with it. Understood why it was like honey on King David’s lips.

  But now as he stood in front of it, Clay could see his own reflection, even in the darkness. In fact, better in the darkness than when the lights were on. He stared into himself. Disgust stared back.

  No matter what he did, he had an amazing talent for hurting people.

  It was, apparently, what he did best.

  He took the frame off the wall, his gaze tracing the eloquent markings of the Hebrew language, his thumbs resting on the ornate trim.

  And then he let it go.

  It slipped from his fingers, tumbled downward in a way that made it seem weightless, then smashed into the ground as if it weighed a ton. The glass cracked with a quick snap, like a spine breaking in two.

  Then he heard a knock.

  Clay gasped, looking up at the front door right beside him. He’d not heard anyone come up the steps or seen any car lights. Amber. Thank You, God. Thank You. He stepped over the broken frame, grabbed the door handle, and yanked it open.

  She stood in the darkness, the porch light glowing over her head like a halo, her face streaked with tears. In her hand, she held a bottle of wine. In her eyes, she held a measure of desperation.

  “Kelly . . .”

  “Hi.” She shook her head like she was trying to rid herself of words and emotions and intentions. Clay couldn’t grasp the idea that she was really standing there. Right in front of him. He’d imagined it a thousand times over the years.

  “Can I come in?” She was inches from him. Clay looked down. Noticed her feet standing at the threshold. Noticed his on the other side. His heart beat frantically inside his chest.

  He thought of Amber—that sweet face of hers, so trusting and innocent. But so was Kelly, before Clay had got ahold of her. She’d had the most engaging personality and gorgeous, sparkling eyes—eyes that always reflected a sincerity Clay thought impossible for himself.

  No, he shouldn’t let her in. He wanted to make things right, but there wasn’t a way to do it. Not in the plan he had for his life.

  Sometimes plans changed, though.

  Despite himself, he stepped back, nodded, even as guilt stabbed his heart.

  Kelly walked in and smiled at him, the same smile that had caught his attention when she’d first walked up to him all those years ago, on a loud, riotous South Padre Island beach during a sweltering Bolivar spring break trip where he and Brad had picked up a last-minute gig.

  Kelly set the wine down on the coffee table and slipped off her coat, dropping it to the couch. Her clothes were simple but draped across her in the most beautiful way. Clay shut the door, paused there, his hand still on the knob. She was across the room, watching him.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, the emotions bubbling to the surface with those two simple words. It was what he’d wanted to say to her over and over through the years. He’d picked up the phone to call her but never dialed. He wrote her three separate letters but never sent them. He’d prayed for her some but at the same time didn’t want to think about her. Or maybe wanted to think about her too much. Eventually he had to forget about her. He’d dropped her out of his hands just like he’d dropped the commandments to the ground.

  “Clay, you don’t have to—”

  “I do.” He nodded, his back against the door. “I should have a long time ago, Kelly. What I did was . . .” It was unspeakable. There weren’t really words to describe it.

  “I’m not angry. I just wanted to see you again,” she said softly. She stepped around the coffee table, closer to him now but still far enough away. “It’s been so long. And I’m . . .” She choked up, shook her head. “I’ve had a rough year.”

  For a long time they both stood there, looking at each other, a familiar easiness settling between them as Clay felt himself being absorbed by everything he had always loved about her. His knuckles were bloodless now, white as cotton, as he held the doorknob.

  “Kelly, it’s just that . . .”

  “Yes? What is it?” She was genuinely asking as she always did. She was genuine in every part of her life, with every question she asked, with everything she ever sought out.

  He closed his eyes and turned, his head resting against the wood. Right here, standing in his living room, was everything he’d wanted and nothing he should have.

  What was he doing?

  And then he felt her behind him. Her hand touched his shoulder, slid underneath his arm. Her cheek rested against his back.

  He turned to her, his beautiful girl, the one he let get away. She was a decade older now, and her youthful eyes had dulled slightly with a train-wrecked life—a life he’d helped create.

  Kelly reached up and touched his face, wiping away . . . a tear? He hadn’t even realized he was crying. He trembled against her, scared and helpless, wanting to make right all that he had done wrong while fully understanding how wrong it would be to try.

  Her fingers swept through his hair, over his neck, down his back. She held on to him tightly and he moved his arms around her, protecting her from whatever had happened since . . . him.

  She looked into his eyes, tears rolling down her face. She had been the only one he’d ever really loved. But by the time he’d figured it out, she was pregnant by another man. Then married. Then gone.

  Clay squeezed his eyes shut, remembering Kelly standing next to him one cold winter night on a small wooden bridge built a century ago, staring over frozen creek waters.

  She was the one who convinced him God loved him. She was the one who told him he could be saved. He resisted it at the time. He wanted her but not all the baggage that came with what she believed. She kept telling him he could change, but he didn’t want to change. He didn’t believe he needed to.

  “Clay,” she said that cold night, entwining her fingers with his, “you can’t tell me you’re happy. That all of this makes you happy.” By then, his and Brad’s gig was growing nonstop.

  “You make me happy,” he said, grinning at her, pulling her tightly against him.

  But she wouldn’t be distracted.

  “I’m serious,” she said as they shivered together. “Clay, I see something in you. Something bigger than all this nonsense you and Brad do together. You’re intelligent. You’re funny. You’ve got this passion, this fire inside you that can make a difference in people’s lives.” God would use him, she always said. God had a plan and a purpose for his life.

  “I only want to make a difference in your life,” he told her. He’d kind of known at that moment that he was falling for her because for the most part, he hadn’t cared much whether he made a difference or not, to anybody. He cared only for himself. Maybe part of him was attracted to her because, of all the women he’d been around, she seemed to be the only one who could resist him.

  Now, inside Clay’s home, under the cover of darkness, Kelly drew closer to him, nudging her face into the hollow of his neck. He pulled her in against his chest, his lips sweeping her hair, and drew a deep breath.

  AS MUCH AS SHE COULD, Amber walked on the grass, feeling the cool, prickly blades between her toes. Clay had taught her that: the beauty of a walk. Sometimes she was so compelled to look up that she forgot about the solid, sturdy ground under her feet. Her shoes were slung over her shoulder and her coat was wrapped tightly around her waist. She loved the sound of the crunching leaves beneath her.

  The sun was lifting above the horizon now but still dimmed by the trees on the skyline. Peach-hued light sliced into the fading black sky. Even though it had not fully risen, already it was providing warmth. She smiled as she thought of Clay. She’d never met anyone like him. Not even close. To think she ran out of gas right here in this town, right at this time. It felt like more than fate. It felt like maybe divine intervention had finally come into her life.

  This man, this quirky, gentle soul, with ocean-blue eyes and moppy, boyish hair—he was the goodness she’d been looking for her whole life, all wrapped up in a hoodie and faded jeans. She’d been many places an
d met many people, some of whom she’d call friends for the rest of her life. But none like Clay Walsh. None who had convictions that wouldn’t falter, not even when she could see in his eyes that he wanted to step over the line. How could she go wrong with this guy?

  So she walked until she got to his street, then combed her hair out of her face and took a deep breath. For a very long time, she hadn’t put all her eggs in one basket. It was too risky. But she’d finally found the one on whom she could completely depend.

  Finally.

  This morning, she would make it right. She would tell him they could go at whatever pace he needed. Work through a dozen books. See counselors galore. Mark out a financial plan that would make Warren Buffett look like a slacker. Whatever. He was worth it.

  She hurried along the sidewalk, eager to get to his house. As she reached the edge of his property, just behind a hedge of bushes, she saw his front door open. A flutter of giddiness told her she was on the right track. What perfect timing.

  And then a woman came out.

  Amber stumbled backward, behind the bushes almost by accident. The leaves rattled and she held her breath, standing perfectly still but able to see through the gaps.

  The woman was tall, thin, blonde. She looked sophisticated. Everything Amber seemed not to be. She realized who it was—the girl in the photograph she’d pulled from Clay’s Bible.

  Kelly.

  Amber covered her mouth to keep from screaming or crying or cursing. She wasn’t sure what was about to fly out.

  Kelly carried a large overnight bag and wore a long, shimmery dress, like one might wear for a wedding. Not a hair was out of place. She stopped at Clay’s truck, touched the window, then walked on. What? Had it all started in the truck? Some steamy make-out session on some lonely, dark street that Clay would not have dared take Amber to?

  Dared? Or would not have desired to?

  Just like that, Kelly disappeared into her sleek sedan and left.