by Holly Jacobs
“Go to hell,” he said, without much heat.
“Buddy, we were already there and, through no fault of our own, we made it back. It’s time we both find whatever measure of happiness we can.”
“Thanks to Grid, I healed. I worked in the bar. I made friends. I rebuilt my life. Later, I bought this place and met you.” He took my hand.
“I’m glad,” was all I said in response. Just two small words, but they conveyed so much.
And that was that. We both had ended the night’s one-things on a happy note.
They weren’t winning-the-lottery, giant sort of notes, but rather quiet, gleeful, leaving a very dark place and finding out there was a life waiting for you. It might not be the life you thought you were going to have, but it could be good . . .
In my book, that made a very good Monday.
I was in the workshop on Wednesday, staring at the loom and my project. I was sure a seasoned weaver would find a hundred flaws in the project.
I got up and walked to a picture on the barn wall. It was of an Amish quilt. I’d found it at a craft show and loved it. There was a quote in calligraphy on the matting. “Every quilt has an intentional flaw because the only thing that’s perfect is God.”
I loved that sentiment.
The picture had hung in my classroom, back when I was teaching.
I’d found my worst students were those in the honors program. They were accustomed to studying and working their way to As. They thought success in a class meant perfection. With my students’ art projects, I didn’t grade so much on the perfection or success of a project, but rather on the passion in the attempt.
I walked back to the tapestry and ran my fingers over the pictures. No, it wasn’t perfect, but I’d poured my heart into the attempt.
I sat back on the stool and waited for inspiration to strike, to tell me what to work on next. Angus leapt from the couch and ran to the door, barking manically.
As he paused for a breath, I heard it, too—a car.
It was rare that anyone visited me at the cottage. Rarer still that someone visited uninvited and unannounced.
I opened the door and a cold wind bit into me. My workshop was cool so I was dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt, but they did nothing to stop the wind from blowing right through me.
A beat-up gold truck was sitting in front of the house. Angus was barking at the driver’s side door. His size intimidated most people, but obviously not this driver, because the door opened and Sam Corner got out.
“Sam?” I called as I hurried over. “Is something wrong?”
He patted Angus’s head and before my eyes, Angus turned into a pussycat. He rubbed his giant head against Sam’s thigh, indicating more head rubbing was required.
Sam smiled up at me as he obliged Angus and continued petting him. “No. Nothing’s wrong. I just thought . . .”
“Yes?”
“I love our Mondays. They’re helping me, and I think they’re helping you. But I wanted to see you somewhere that wasn’t a Monday and wasn’t at the bar. Don’t get me wrong, I want to hear the rest of your story and tell you the rest of mine, but that’s our pasts. I wanted a chance to do something in the here and now. Something that wasn’t about what happened before to you or me. So I thought maybe I could convince you to have a picnic with me.”
He reached in the bed of the truck and pulled out a basket. An actual picnic basket.
“It’s nothing special, just some sandwiches I threw together, but if you can take a break . . .” He let the sentence hang there, not quite a question.
“Sure.” I wasn’t sure that sounded enthusiastic enough. “I mean, yes. I’d like that. I’d like that a lot.”
“Great.”
A huge gust of wind roared through the hollow where the cottage sat.
“Maybe today’s not the best day for a picnic. I mean, it’s Halloween next week. It’s way too late in the season for a picnic,” Sam said.
“We could picnic in the cottage,” I offered. I could have suggested the workshop, but I hadn’t covered the tapestry and I wasn’t ready to share that yet. Not even with Sam.
“You’re sure you don’t mind?”
“Of course not. It would be great.”
I led him into the small cottage. When Lee and I had built it, we’d planned on it being mainly a summer retreat. There was this one great-room, with the kitchen/dining area at one end and the living area at the other. There was no television. We were out far enough that there was no cable, and reception for satellite was horrible because of all the trees. But even if it had been readily available, we wouldn’t have put a television in. We wanted our time out here to be about each other, to be about the kids and the family.
And even now that I’d admitted I lived here, that it wasn’t simply a summer cottage, I hadn’t had a television installed because I hadn’t felt the lack. I liked the quiet. When I wanted some noise, I had an iPod. That was enough.
I wondered what Sam thought as he looked around my home.
There were plates with the kids’ handprints on the far wall. A Dale Gallon print of Strong Vincent that I’d bought for Lee, who was a huge Civil War buff.
“Come on in and make yourself at home,” I offered, thankful that I’d already laid out a fire. It only took a quick kiss of a match to start it.
“Let me clear off the coffee table. I mean, I could put a blanket on the floor, but odds are Angus would consider food set out on the floor an invitation and—”
“The coffee table’s fine, Lexie.”
I picked up the bowl filled with pinecones that I used as a centerpiece.
“That’s beautiful,” Sam said.
I felt my cheeks warm. “I made it.”
“I still have the jar you made me. I keep it on my counter for change.” He took the bowl from me and examined it. “You have a gift. It must be amazing to make something tangible on a daily basis. Something solid. Something that will last. I’ve always thought art was a sort of immortality.”
I felt obliged to explain, or maybe apologize for my lack of work. “I don’t do much pottery anymore. I mean, I have a wheel and kiln, but I’ve been working on a non-pottery project.”
“Oh, what?”
The tapestry felt like a Monday thing. Like a one-thing. And today wasn’t about that, so I said, “I’ll tell you about it sometime.”
Sam must have understood, because he didn’t press. “So, let’s talk about something easy. Something people on first dates talk about.”
I thought a moment, then threw out a conversational starter. “Movies? Books?”
“Movies,” he said. “Your all-time favorite?”
“Star Trek.”
He started laughing. “I figured you’d say something all weepy and girly. Titanic, maybe?”
“I am so not a chick-flick sort of girl. Personally, I liked Cameron’s Avatar a lot more than Titanic. I’m all about action. Sci-fi. I’ve been a Star Trek fan for years and love the way J. J. Abrams has reimagined the series. And let’s not even start on my major crush on Joss Whedon and his shows. Dr. Horrible was . . .”
We talked about movies and books. We talked about the weather and local politics. We talked. We ate. We laughed.
There were no painful revelations. It was a Wednesday, not a Monday. And it turns out that Wednesdays were a day for the here and now. We were just two people enjoying each other’s company.
Two hours later, Sam finally rose. “I really need to get going.”
I stood as well and started packing things in his picnic basket.
“Lex?” he asked softly.
I looked up. “Yes?”
“Could we do this again? Maybe next time we could go out to a movie, or something like a real date.”
I nodded. “I’d like that. I’d like that a lot.”
He took the basket in one hand and my hand in his other one as I walked him out to his truck. Angus danced around us, having decided that Sam was his new best friend.
When we reached the truck, he put the basket in the back, then turned to me. “I had a very nice time. Thanks.”
“Me too. And thank you.”
We stood for a moment. I knew what Sam was going to do before he did it, and I welcomed it.
He leaned down and gently kissed me.
His lips planted against mine for just a breath’s length. My lips accepted the touch. I didn’t deepen the kiss, nor did I pull away. It was an introductory kiss, and I simply accepted it as the gift it was.
Wednesdays were for the here and now, and here and now, this kiss was perfect.
Sam pulled back. “I’ll see you Monday, and then maybe we can make plans for another day next week? Weekends will always be out for me—at least until I hire another bartender—but I can make other days work.”
“Weekdays are fine with me. We’ll make plans on Monday,” I agreed.
“We’re having a Halloween party at the bar on Saturday. Maybe you’d come?”
If I hadn’t gone to the bar on a non-Monday with my mother, I might have said no. But I had, and it hadn’t changed the magic of Mondays, so I didn’t feel any trepidation as I nodded. “I’d like that.”
“Costumes are mandatory,” he said. He hesitated for a moment, and I thought he might kiss me again, but instead, he got in the truck.
I held on to Angus as Sam backed up to the turnaround, then drove up the hill toward the road.
Angus licked my hand, as if to let me know it was okay to let go.
I did.
I let go of Angus, and not for the first time, I felt as if I might be ready to let go of the past and find a future.
Thanks to Sam.
I agonized over a costume for Saturday night’s Halloween party.
My first inclination was to go as a ghost. It was a simple, straightforward, traditional costume. But as I fingered an old sheet, I decided against it. A ghost was something that lurked in the shadows. I felt as if that’s where I’d been living the last year—in the shadows—and I was done with that.
Maybe I’d go as an artist. But it had to be someone everyone would recognize. There were no world-renowned potters that had that kind of instant recognition. So, any artist.
Van Gogh? I could wrap a towel around my ear and . . .
No, I decided quickly. He’d killed himself.
I wanted to go as something happy. Upbeat. That’s how I was feeling. My picnic with Sam was a lot of the reason why. But it was more than that. Our one-things were helping. I felt closer to the kids. And I felt I was connecting with my mother for the first time in a long time. Maybe the first time, period. We’d built a new relationship after my father’s passing and we’d been closer, but we’d never really connected until recently.
So no depressed, suicidal artists for me.
And suddenly I knew what I wanted to be.
It required a trip to Erie to pick up an important part of the costume, but as I surveyed my image in the car mirror before I went into Sam’s party, I felt like I’d made the right choice.
I hurried into the bar and spotted Sam immediately. He was dressed in a tweed jacket, with a pair of wire-rimmed glasses and an unlit pipe in his mouth. “Psychiatrist?” I asked. He nodded and I laughed. “I get it. Bartenders and psychiatrists are just different sides of the same coin.”
“Well, you’re the only who’s got it. Jerry wanted to know if I was Sherlock Holmes.” He sounded disgruntled.
“Jerry,” I scolded. “He couldn’t be Sherlock . . . no deerstalker hat.” I studied our end-of-the-bar friend and laughed. He was wearing a postal worker outfit. “Cheers?” I asked.
“Cliff Clavin at your service, ma’am.”
I laughed. “Perfect, Jerry.”
“So, what are you?” Sam asked.
I took off my jacket, untied my striped scarf, and let my wild, teased hair loose. Then I carefully put my glasses on and took the unglazed clay pot out of my bag.
“Harry Potter?” Jerry asked.
“No, she’s a Hairy Potter. H-A-I-R-Y.” Jerry looked confused so Sam explained. “She does pottery. She’s a potter.”
“But there are no universal potters I could think of, so I went for—”
“A hairy potter,” Jerry finished. “That’s a good one.”
“Well, it’s only good if people know I made pottery. Otherwise, it requires an explanation.”
“Still, it’s creative,” Jerry said.
Sam handed me a Guinness and said, “Go mingle. It’s a party.”
I did mingle. I explained my costume and I met people. Some I recognized, some who must have frequented the bar on other nights I didn’t.
I spent almost an hour talking to Mike and Emma. They had a small farm out my way. They raised llamas and kids. “Saturday nights are our night out,” Emma said. “We have a neighbor girl who comes to stay with the kids.”
“How many?”
“Four,” she said. “We thought we were done after our third, but seems God had other ideas.”
Lee and I had thought we were done after the twins. Gracie was a surprise baby.
I remembered right after she was born, the nurse handed her to me, and Lee kissed my forehead and whispered, “Surprise.”
I smiled at the memory and realized that I could remember without the gut-wrenching pain.
That was progress.
Sam had hooked an iPod up to speakers and started a Halloween playlist. The Ghostbusters theme. Time Warp. Thriller. When Monster Mash started to play, he came up behind me. “May I have this dance?”
He took me in his arms and started to slow dance. It wasn’t really a dance, more a hold-me-close-and-turn-in-a-circle sort of thing. “I couldn’t dance before I messed up my leg,” he whispered in my ear.
Then he laughed. And I laughed too as we turned awkward circles together in the center of the bar. “This is tonight’s one-thing,” I told him. “And it’s a very good thing.”
“It is,” he agreed.
I nodded. I knew that I’d pull this particular memory out in the future, and it would always make me smile.
The next morning, I took Angus for a long walk up the road.
There was a small church about a half mile up the road at the corner. When the kids were younger, we attended services there when we spent time at camp in the summer.
It was a very small congregation, but they’d been nice people. The minister had been ancient. Gracie always said he looked like Santa and the twins would torment her about still believing in Santa.
Today, as Angus and I walked by, they were singing at the Sunday morning service.
I stood a moment and listened. I recognized the song. I Love to Tell the Story.
I remembered going to church when I was nine or ten and singing that song. It was my grandmother’s small church in Wesleyville. I spent a lot of weekends with her and we’d go together. She’d hold my hand and sing with gusto, not caring that her voice was off-key. And it was definitely off-key. My father used to joke that she couldn’t hit a tune if it were the broadside of a barn.
I hadn’t thought of my grandmother in years. I’d called her Nana and she used to make me tea in a battered yellow teapot and tell me stories.
Part of me wanted to leave Angus tied to a tree and sneak inside and sing along.
I missed church, I realized.
I hadn’t known that before, but now, I did. I missed it.
After my grandmother passed away, I didn’t go to church regularly. Neither of my parents was active in their church and never pushed the issue. But when I’d had kids, I’d decided to make church a part of our lives. When they were small, we’d all go together. Lee and I would split the kids. One twin, Lee, Gracie, me, the other twin. It saved a lot of fighting.
When the kids got older, I’d leave for church twenty minutes or so before the rest of the family. I’d sit in our pew and just be. I didn’t verbalize a prayer, or make requests. I just sat with God. I’d think of everything I was thankful fo
r. I’d count my blessings. And I’d just enjoy those few moments of quiet communion.
Then Lee and the kids would arrive and slide into the pew. We sat between kids. Our strategy didn’t always work. Still, I didn’t mind. I had those quiet moments before they arrived to sustain me.
And I missed them.
Then I remembered one terrible time as I sat by myself in a pew, not communing, but commanding. Begging. Bartering.
God had ignored me and I hadn’t talked to him since.
But maybe it was time to start.
The words of that song played over and over again as I walked Angus back home. “It satisfies my longing, as nothing else can do.”
The next day, I knew my one-thing before I left for the bar. I was a bit nervous, wondering if seeing Sam outside the bar, outside of Monday—first on our picnic, then at the party—would change anything, though at this point I was pretty sure it wouldn’t. Mondays were magic.
Sam smiled as I walked in and he started drawing my Guinness.
I sat on my barstool and simply enjoyed the moment of quiet.
Drawing a Guinness isn’t quite the same as pouring any other brew. It’s an art form, and it takes a few minutes.
But I used that time to simply enjoy the quiet murmurs of the bar.
The people talking.
Glasses clinking.
Joanie the waitress, bustling about, delivering food, taking orders.
Jerry at the end of the bar, sipping his Guinness.
Sam came to the end of the bar with a beautiful glass of Guinness and said the words, “One thing.”
Picnics and parties hadn’t changed anything. It was Monday, this was Sam, and I knew my one-thing.
“Gracie believed in Santa Claus . . .”
“Mom, it’s so embarrassing.” Connie was not a morning person. Today, she stomped into the kitchen and sat down at her empty cereal bowl. She poured a healthy amount of cereal from the Cheerios box and smothered it in milk.
Gracie followed close on her heels and said, “Morning, Mom.”
“What’s so embarrassing?” Lexie had found that Connie managed her tribulations better if she had a chance to vent. She’d decided that her job was as Mom the venting precipitator.
