Just One Thing

by Holly Jacobs

  “Thanksgiving?”

  Jerry chuckled. “I think the boy is inviting you to Thanksgiving, too. He just neglected to include that part.”

  Sam rolled his eyes at Jerry. “Of course, you’re invited, too. Since Mom and Richard are coming, I thought I’d put together a traditional Thanksgiving dinner here at the bar for anyone who doesn’t have somewhere else to go. I could use a hand. That was a hint,” he added in case I missed it.

  “Lucky for you, I have two hands that don’t need much of a hint.”

  I walked home that night and it felt like it could snow at any moment. There’s a certain crispness that hits right before the snow. The ground felt crunchier under my feet and there wasn’t a cloud overhead, just a black, black night sky filled with stars and a half-moon.

  I could see my breath in the moonlight and I was thankful I’d worn my heavy wool socks. I’d have to pull out my boots soon, not just because of the potential snow, but simply for the warmth.

  I watched my breath come out in vivid puffs and felt a sense of anticipation. I’d call Mom and the kids tomorrow. It wouldn’t be a traditional Thanksgiving, but somehow I didn’t think they’d mind. I knew I didn’t.

  That week, I was happy. I added a picture of The Corner Bar to the tapestry. I wasn’t sure why I hadn’t added it before. It had become a very important part of my life.

  No, it was more than the bar. It was the people. Sam. Jerry. Joanie, the waitress and occasional cook. She never really waited on me. To be honest, I’d hardly noticed her until recently. She’d flitted at the edges of the bar, steering clear of Sam and me on Mondays.

  I realized that everyone gave us a wide berth and I knew it wasn’t because they wanted a barrier between us, but rather it was because they were being considerate of Sam and me.

  I hadn’t noticed the others until lately. It was as if I was so focused on Sam and our one-things that I hadn’t taken in the rest of the bar. But now, working on the picture of its exterior, I was very much aware that there were more people inside than just Sam and me.

  That awareness stuck with me on Monday. I waved at Joanie, who was serving a table at the back of the bar, and I gave Jerry a friendly chuck on the shoulder as I walked by. “Mom said she’d come to Thanksgiving. The kids, too.”

  His eyes lit up. “I’m glad.”

  I was, too. I was glad that I was here, in this bar, surrounded by friends. I was glad it was Monday. I know most people groan on Mondays because their weekend is over and they have to get back to whatever their work is. When I was teaching, I’d occasionally contract a case of Monday-morning-itis. But when I’d moved to the cottage, there’d been nothing to separate the days. No school days and weekends. No church on Sundays. One day had simply bled into another.

  Until I started coming to The Corner Bar.

  I’d been in limbo and now . . .

  Sam slid a Guinness my way as I took my stool.

  “Look, you put a little shamrock in the foam.”

  “I worked on it all week.”

  “You’ve got mad Guinness skills, Sam.”

  “One thing?” he asked amicably.

  I hadn’t come with a topic in mind, but looking at the Guinness, I knew what I wanted to say. “Lee and I gave our marriage another chance. We dated and then one day, he said, ‘Let’s make it official,’ and we went down to the courthouse and were married again. Just the two of us, a judge, and some staff who served as witnesses.”

  “Not the kids?”

  I shook my head. “Lee said that our marriage before had been about the kids; now it was time to be selfish, to make it about us. He asked where I’d like to go on a second honeymoon and I answered without hesitation—Ireland. We planned on spending two weeks there.

  “It was summer vacation for me, so I could do it, but I worried about Bernie. I wanted to see if Connie or Conner would come home and stay with him, but my mother offered to take the dog. She wasn’t happy to see me back with Lee, but she said she wanted to show her support.”

  “She loves you,” Sam said.

  I nodded. “So we got married at the courthouse; then we went to Ireland.”

  The small white cottage stood nestled on Glenariff Glen. Lexie could see the sea from the house. Lee said things smelled fishy, but Lexie thought the entire area smelled of the sea and of magic—of new beginnings and hope. She reveled in it.

  They planned to use the cottage as a home base and branch out from there to explore the Irish countryside. Her family was from the area. A grandfather, five generations removed, had come from here.

  They walked through Glenariff Forest Park every day. There was a long trail, with a wooden bridge walkway. Lexie felt almost content as they stood, looking at the small waterfall.

  Only almost content because there was some niggling little worry at the back of her mind. It didn’t matter what they were doing; it was there. She couldn’t pinpoint exactly what it was. On the surface things were good. But she found herself watching Lee for signs of that changing.

  Lexie pushed away her worry and concentrated on the waterfall. It was spectacular. She’d been to Niagara Falls any number of times in her life, since Buffalo was only a few hours away. This was not that kind of waterfall. It was small and surrounded by rocks and foliage.

  “It’s so green.” The words were just a whisper on an exhale.

  “Do you want to go somewhere today?” Lee asked. “Giant’s Causeway? The cemetery? You know there are Morrows there. You always said you wanted to look for your past here.”

  She took his hand and realized why she hadn’t started looking, hadn’t started doing any of the things she’d planned on doing. “I don’t want to look at the past today. Not mine. Not ours. Not even distant family members. I want to look to the future, Lee.”

  “I want . . .” He let the sentence fade away.

  “You want?”

  “You. I want you.”

  He took her hand and led her back into the cottage, and for the first time in a long time, they made love. Oh, they’d had sex, but not like this. Not . . .

  I let the sentence trail off. “I’m sorry.”

  I was embarrassed. I treated my Mondays as if they were private. Just talks between me and Sam. But there was Jerry at the end of the bar and off-and-on others within earshot.

  Plus, I was pretty sure that it was bad form to talk to someone you were dating about making love to someone from your past.

  “Lexie, we all know you and Lee probably made love.”

  “You had three kids, after all,” Jerry yelled helpfully from the end of the bar.

  “You’re not helping,” Sam barked at Jerry, then smiled at me. “Go on.”

  “Things were better. Two days later . . .”

  “Come on, lazy bones.” Lee smacked her backside for emphasis. “We can’t stay in this bed for the entire trip.”

  “Why not?” Lexie asked.

  “We’re in Ireland,” was his response, as if that, in and of itself, answered her question.

  “We’re newlyweds,” she protested. “People expect us to spend all our time in bed.”

  Lee laughed and she thought maybe she was imagining that something was off. Those little niggles of nervousness about Lee were nothing. Everything was all right.

  “We’re the longest-married newlyweds in history. Come on.”

  They bummed around town, taking in the sights, then ended up at a small cemetery next to the church. They walked, hand in hand, up and down the rows of headstones looking for Morrows. They walked together as if they weren’t a couple who’d been married for most of their adult lives. They walked through the past—through rows of old headstones and newer ones. They walked among some headstones that were so old she couldn’t make out the names.

  There was some commotion at the end of the cemetery, a couple of guys wheeling some machine just beyond the cemetery fence.

  “Morning,” Lee called. “What’s going on?”

  “We’re looking for the
babies,” the man nearest to them said.

  Lexie must have looked as confused as she felt, because the man clarified. “Unbaptized babies. Years ago, they didn’t want them buried in consecrated ground because their souls weren’t destined for heaven. There are mass graves out here and the mums are up in arms, so we’re extending the boundary of the cemetery to include the wee ones.”

  “The wee ones,” she murmured as she thought about Gracie, about holding her throughout her illness. Gracie had been buried in the cemetery next to Lexie’s father, in her mother’s very practical extra plot. But she didn’t think of Gracie and that small stone that marked her resting place.

  No, when she thought of Gracie, she thought about her alive and laughing. Reading books together. Like snapshots in an album, Lexie saw her. On the garage roof with her siblings. Sneaking halfway down the stairs after bedtime and stealing a few extra minutes of television.

  She saw snapshots of Gracie with ease in her mind. She’d had that time with her daughter.

  “I got to hold Grace,” she said. “I got to hold her, and I have memories. I know where she’s buried and can visit. But these moms . . .” Lexie started to cry for the babies whose souls weren’t destined for heaven. For the babies who hadn’t been allowed to rest in consecrated ground. “These moms don’t even have a headstone to visit. Nothing. No memories. No burial site. Nothing but a hole in their heart that never truly heals.”

  “I’m not sure why it bothered me so much, but it did. We finally got up and walked back into town. We stopped at the pub and I had a Guinness. We talked about Gracie as we drank. Listening to the men talk about babies being buried in unconsecrated soil seemed horrible to me. But there, in the pub afterward, we talked about our past, about what we hoped to find in our future.

  “Lee and I talked as I drank Guinness. For the first time, we talked with ease about the daughter we lost. We talked about our life together, even our divorce. We cleared the air and said so many things that needed to be said out loud. When I first came here and asked for it, it was because Guinness reminds me of comfort.”

  “Then I’m doubly glad I ordered it in. If I’d known, I’d have ordered it sooner.”

  “Now, when I drink it, it’s not just comfort; it’s a gift. Every time you bring me a pint of Guinness, that feeling of comfort is augmented by a feeling of . . .” I shrugged. I didn’t know how to put it into words. But it was there. Every time Sam brought me a pint, I felt a warmth. His gift of Guinness reminded me that despite the dark days, I’d found Sam. A friend. A place to belong.

  “I don’t know how to explain,” I finally said. “But you’re there, too. Mixed into that feeling. Thank you for that.”

  “I do know what you mean about a certain thing having a feeling associated with it. For me it’s birdseed.”

  “Birdseed?” I wanted to laugh and one look at Sam’s grin, I knew it was okay. “All right, I think we’re all waiting to see what sort of feeling birdseed evokes for you.”

  “When Mom and Richard got married, I was the . . .”

  Sam walked his mother to the front of the church. She was wearing an ivory skirt and jacket. He’d have said white, but his mother had assured him it was ivory. Since her son was going to be there, everyone would know she shouldn’t be wearing white.

  Sam had pointed out she should wear whatever she wanted, and she’d assured him she was. She was wearing ivory.

  They reached the front of the church and Richard was there waiting for his mom. Sam put his mother’s hand in Richard’s, then, rather than sitting down, he’d simply moved to one side.

  He’d tried to talk his mother out of making him her maid of honor, but she wouldn’t hear of anyone else doing it. He’d begged her to call him her man of honor and she’d obliged, but every time she’d said the words, he’d known she was thinking maid of honor.

  “Wait, wait,” Jerry called from the end of the bar, pulling Sam from his one-thing. “You mean, you were your mother’s maid of honor?”

  “Man of honor,” Sam repeated.

  “Oh, Romeo,” Jerry teased.

  It wasn’t only Jerry and me laughing. A number of the patrons were obviously listening because there was a distinct laughter coming from the nearby tables. And Joanie, the waitress and sometimes cook, didn’t even attempt to disguise the fact she was listening. She sat down on the stool next to me.

  Sam gave her a significant look, one I might have used on the kids when they were young, but Joanie just grinned and stayed put.

  “Don’t listen to them, Sam,” I said. “I think it’s lovely your mom asked you to be her ma—” That A had started out with a long sound, but I quickly changed it to a short A and finished, “man of honor. Tell me about the birdseed.”

  “The ceremony was short and to the point; then my mom and Richard walked down the aisle and I followed with his brother, who was his best man . . .”

  Sam walked through the receiving line and hugged his mother. “Just be happy, Mom,” he whispered in her ear.

  “How could I not be happy? I’m married to Richard and you’re home, safe and healthy. Now, if we could just work on the happy for you.”

  “Well, I have enough happiness today to share some with you, Sam,” Richard said, taking his hand and shaking it, then pulling him into a hug. “I thought I’d grow old a well-established bachelor, but now, I’m not only married, but I’ve gained a son—that is if you don’t mind?”

  Sam didn’t remember his father, but he remembered dreaming of one when he was young. Someone who cared about him, who’d show up at his games and graduations. Someone who’d maybe teach him to fish, or drive. Just a regular dad, like so many of his friends had.

  Richard definitely wasn’t the fishing sort, and Sam had long since learned to drive, but he had a feeling he’d be the kind of man to show up at events, or to show up just because Sam asked him to. “I’d be honored, sir . . . Dad.”

  The rest of the small assembly of friends and family filed through the line and shook hands with the happy couple and with Sam and Richard’s brother.

  Then his mom and Richard ran out the door of the chapel into a barrage of birdseed that flew from the guests’ hands. His mom’s ivory suit was covered. Bits of it clung to her hair. But his normally impeccable mother didn’t mind at all. She took Richard’s hand and got in the limo. Before it pulled away, she looked at Sam and mouthed the words, I love you.

  “My mom gained a husband that day, the kind of husband she’d always deserved, and I got a father. Wait until you meet him. I think you’ll agree that Richard was worth the wait.”

  “Did he ever take you fishing?”

  Sam laughed. “He’s not the fishing kind of guy. Richard’s about six inches shorter than my mom and . . . I guess I’d describe him as tweedy. When you read a book and there’s a character who’s an English professor, Richard is the guy you picture.”

  “Is he an English professor?”

  “History, actually.”

  “I’d better check my tables.” Joanie got up from her stool and started the rounds in the quiet tables.

  “He sounds wonderful, Sam.”

  “You’ll see for yourself on Thanksgiving.”

  I thought about tonight’s one-things as I walked home in the cold. For me, Guinness meant a quiet comfort after an upset. It meant companionship. Birdseed meant love to Sam. Maybe family. Oh, he hadn’t said either thing, but he didn’t need to.

  I realized that each picture on my tapestry was like tonight’s one-things. Symbols that carried some memory or feeling. A doe and three fawns. A graduation cap. A woman being licked by a giant dog. The Corner Bar. Each was just a symbol. Each represented something in my life.

  The tapestry as a whole represented my healing.

  After my time alone in the cottage, I was ready to start living life again.

  There were a few more things to share and then maybe I’d be ready to move on. No, not ready. I knew I was ready. Able. I needed to tell the last p
ieces of the story, in order to be able to truly move forward.

  If you’d asked me even a few months ago, I’d have said no . . . I couldn’t recover this time. I’d found a way beyond my father’s death and Gracie’s, but this time I hadn’t been sure I had it in me.

  I still wasn’t sure, but I felt hopeful.

  It had been a long time since I’d felt hope.

  It was like an old friend whom I’d missed.

  And that was something.

  I’d spent Tuesday and Wednesday working on a new tapestry block. A glass of Guinness surrounded by birdseed.

  I wasn’t exactly sure anyone else would know it was birdseed. I’ll confess, it looked more like polka dots on a tablecloth under the beer. But I knew. And since this piece was all about me and for me, that’s what mattered.

  For years, I’d worked to perfect my crafts. I could weave a basket. I could crochet an afghan. I could make a quilt. I could paint a decent picture. I could teach any and all, though none were my medium of choice. Pottery was. I hadn’t made anything in a very long time. After losing Gracie, I’d lost the urge to create.

  When I was in the classroom I’d graded more about the passion a student had for a project than for his or her execution. The passion was the most important part of creating for me. I thought my passion for my craft was gone forever, but I felt that old familiar drive about my tapestry. When it was done, I thought I might rediscover my drive for my pottery.

  Connie came in Wednesday night for Thanksgiving and slept at the cottage. I’d asked, so she brought the Grace Book with her. I thumbed through the pages, reliving the memories with Connie. We laughed at a few and cried at others.

  Conner and Mom drove in together from Erie on Thursday and we all met at Sam’s.

  The bar was bustling with people, many of whom I recognized. Joanie and Jerry, of course, but also the couple who frequently came in on Mondays and sat at one of the back tables. A few other guys who met at the bar before bowling.