Life, Libby, and the Pursuit of Happiness

by Hope Lyda

  I laughed. “I have paper cuts on paper cuts from filing. What do you think?”

  “I hope this plan helps in some way. Actually, I really just hope it isn’t a disaster. Can I trust Cecilia?”

  I thought about this for a minute and sipped my hot Americano before saying, “I think you can. She makes life harder than it needs to be for herself and for others, but the woman knows PR, and she is better networked than Bill Gates.”

  “Well, I’ll trust the process. That’s a therapy motto, by the way.”

  “I thought it was the slogan for the Department of Motor Vehicles.”

  “Meanwhile, act like I’m not here. I’d love it if you did exactly what you do every Sunday morning. You buy coffee and pastries and then you…what?”

  “I…we will go to my favorite weekend hiding place. You’re a reader, right?”

  “Yes, but that doesn’t matter because I’m not here.”

  “Right. Well, I take the bus to a wonderful bookstore. You’ll love it. Walk this way.” I started off around the corner.

  “Isn’t this a bus stop right here?” He pointed to the obvious bus sign a few feet away.

  “You said you wanted to see what my Sunday was like. I go this way.”

  “Say no more.”

  We walked and sipped in unison around the block. I checked my watch. It was five minutes before the church service. Right on time to not go in, yet again. This time I had an excuse. I glanced past the doors propped open as we walked by. I saw a couple of young women who looked around my age. They were passing out bulletins and laughing.

  “Do you ever go there?” Hudson asked.

  “You aren’t here,” I said and kept walking.

  “So you don’t. Because you kind of looked like you were curious. And then you had that book. That gift from someone.”

  “You are the most persistent nonexistent shadow a girl could have.”

  He shrugged and sipped his coffee.

  We stopped and waited for the bus. He avoided eye contact with me, so I decided to tell him a little bit. Only enough to make amends. “I’ve considered it. I actually consider it almost every Sunday, but I never go. There, happy?”

  Hudson’s eyes returned to mine. “I hated religion. I was angry at my parents, and my parents represented everything society wanted to push at me or on me, including religion, which is stupid, really, because my folks were about as far from faith as you could get. But they owned this huge old Bible, so I figured that the authority that whipped my brother and me with a thick leather belt was the same authority in that book.”

  “Tough home life.”

  He barely nodded, and then he looked away. I caught him squinting as though shielding his eyes from the sun on this overcast day.

  “Did you figure out that your parents weren’t the same as God?”

  “I did, Libby. I’m no zealot, but I’m starting to get a more personal picture of what faith means. That’s why I’m willing to step back into life. I want things to look and feel differently than before. I’m ready for a life with meaning and a life on my own terms. I’m like you, in a way.”

  The bus pulled up.

  We boarded in silence and remained quiet until I nudged for him to get off. I was dying for the conversation to continue, and I hoped he didn’t forget what he was about to tell me. “How are we alike?” I wanted the answer desperately. Maybe it would help me solve a few of my own questions.

  He hadn’t forgotten. “I also thought that if I kept my head down and did the work, I’d eventually have the status or recognition I would need to do things my own way rather than serve someone else’s vision. But other than our first six months as an opening act for Seattle’s B-list bands, I never had freedom. We got more and more indebted to people who were telling us what music we could or couldn’t create while they took us to the cleaners, basically.”

  “That had to be heartbreaking,” I said gently.

  Hudson smiled and gave me a puzzled expression.

  “What’s that look for?”

  “You’re interesting. Most people would listen to my story and think ‘Boo-hoo, you rich, spoiled rocker. You had it all and you threw it away because it came with a price.’”

  “No, I get it. Maybe I wouldn’t have handled it the way you did…”

  “Drugs? Women? Wild antics?”

  “Right. Those ways,” I said, rolling my eyes for emphasis, “but I can understand the extreme disappointment of reaching the top and realizing you still didn’t have the dream or the freedom or the…the what? Fulfillment you had hoped for?”

  “Not just that. I probably could have found fulfillment if I had my head on straight from the beginning. But I started off as a boy who was already disappointed, hurt, and angry. I wanted one of two things from the music, and they were both impossible.”

  “This is it,” I said pointing to the familiar door of my Sunday hangout. “What were the two things?”

  “Revenge or salvation.”

  I grimaced with empathy and nodded. I couldn’t believe I was standing here having a heart-to-heart with Jude Shea and realizing I was luckier than one of the most famous guitarists of this century.

  “I promise to keep this in mind, Jude…Hudson.” I looked around and mouthed Sorry. “This isn’t just a PR strategy…it is your life.” And it is even more serious than you know. “Let’s go in. This is a great escape, I’m telling ya.”

  The tiny bell sounded as I opened the door. I whistled to alert Nomad to my arrival. I heard the click of his nails on the floor and then the sound of Mr. Diddle’s steps overhead. There was a very small attic he used for occasional inventory overflow. I also suspected that he lived in the somewhat dismal space but was too proud to admit it, so I never inquired.

  “You’re late. Did you bring an offering?” Mr. Diddle’s cheery voice rang out above our heads through a heater vent. It startled Hudson, who nearly dropped his seeded bagel.

  “I did. And I brought a new customer. This is your lucky day.”

  The footsteps quickened as they neared the hatch in the ceiling at the far end of the bookstore. I motioned for Hudson to watch. I knew he would find Mr. Diddle to be a curious, likeable man.

  Chewing on our bagels, we both kept our eyes on the hatch. Mr. Diddle was our morning matinee and he did not disappoint. He had on black galoshes that appeared to be about three sizes too big. They squished and squeaked the way rubber does as he stepped down the ladder. The gap between the galoshes and the folded up hem of his overalls revealed freckled legs. By the time we saw he was wearing an elf-green flannel shirt and matching cap, Hudson was smiling ear to ear.

  “He belongs in a fairy tale,” he whispered.

  “I love guests!” Mr. Diddle cried as he dismounted the ladder like a gymnast. He turned around and clapped his hands together while walking toward us. “Welcome. Welcome! Any friend of Libby’s is a friend of ours.”

  I handed over the Danish. Mr. Diddle opened his eyes with delight. “Ooh. This one’s a beauty…good for a free pass to browse, I’d say.”

  “Whew. Good thing I brought it. Mr. Diddle, please meet my friend Hudson.” I decided not to get into the cousin story.

  I didn’t like lying to Mr. Diddle. I was, however, pleased that the “friend” part of the statement felt true already. Hudson leaned over to shake Mr. Diddle’s hand and they looked at one another for several seconds.

  “I have good news for you, young man,” Mr. Diddle said, rising up on the pads of his feet to get closer to Hudson’s face. “I just got in a lovely volume of Bob Dylan’s lyrics.”

  I could feel the blood drain from my face. “Why do you think he’d want that?” I asked with more force than intended. Hudson looked taken aback by my response, but Mr. Diddle wasn’t fazed.

  “Am I right, Hudson?”

  “Yeah. I’d love that.”

  Mr. Diddle turned his shiny face toward me. “See, my dear. I’m not useless.”

  “I know that.” I softened m
y face and let my hunched shoulders return to a normal position. I had overreacted. I was still curious as to how Mr. Diddle pegged Hudson for a musician. It was one more piece of evidence to support my theory that he held special powers of discernment and insight. “I’ll be over in travel. Hey, how is my aunt?”

  “My good friend Maddie is charming.” He laughed. “Your throw rug is waiting for you.” Mr. Diddle seemed very pleased with Hudson’s presence. I wondered if he thought we were dating. I’d have to let him know that this wasn’t the case. “Are you from Seattle originally, Hudson?”

  I could feel my throat tighten. Unfortunately, I was in mid-swallow of coffee. I coughed and nearly choked. The two men looked at me. Hudson from above me at his 6′ 2″ height and Mr. Diddle from below at his 5′ level. I felt like part of a comedy act. “I’m fine,” I said.

  “I’m originally from this area,” Hudson answered. “I’ve been gone for too long and now hope to resettle back here. That is, if I can find a job.”

  I gave Hudson a “don’t push your luck” look.

  Mr. Diddle watched our exchange. “Hudson, you must go to the Experience Music Project. The Bob Dylan special exhibit is only in town a bit longer. It’s wonderful.”

  “Oh, we will,” I said enthusiastically. I was just glad Mr. Diddle hadn’t asked Hudson what kind of work he was looking for.

  The two men looked at me again. I was intruding on their private conversation at this point.

  “Weren’t you going to the travel section?” Hudson asked with slight amusement in his voice.

  “Yes, dear. Run along. I’ll take care of your friend,” Mr. Diddle said.

  Before Hudson followed his little book guru into the belly of the used book section he turned to me and said quietly, “You can chill out a dash, Libby.”

  “Sorry. But I swear he has a sixth sense about people. I was afraid…”

  Hudson shushed me by putting his finger to my lips. He opened up his jacket a bit wider to reveal a black concert shirt promoting the Wallflowers, the band with lead singer Jakob Dylan, Bob Dylan’s son.

  “Oh,” I said sheepishly.

  “Yeah. Now go plan a trip. I think you could use a vacation.”

  I acted insulted, but I couldn’t help grinning when I turned around.

  Twenty-Nine

  Now that I had kept a very huge secret for two days running, I was empowered. I knew I was cocky about returning to work only because I didn’t have to face Blaine yet. I wore a classic gray skirt with a black turtleneck instead of my usual Monday wool trousers, and I waxed my hair back in what Ariel and I call a Victor/Victoria slick. I walked quickly and proudly along the avenues on my way into the office. The air lately had turned crisp and cool. It made me think of pressed white shirts, plaid skirts, and Mary Janes. I never went to parochial school, but I’d always been jealous of the girls who did. It was like being jealous of the girls with braces. Both groups would deny there was anything remotely good about their circumstances, but from the very boring sidelines that represented my slightly crooked but normal teeth and my public school education, I considered their denial of happiness a certain assurance of their coolness. But Mom said my teeth and my school would give me better character in the end. Recent choices in my life would prove her wrong. That could be the up side to all this.

  My attitude outfit and hair received a few looks, double takes even. I walked taller as I went by Philip’s bar-desk. He looked at me with an extra dose of suspicion. I nonchalantly asked, “The task force has been keeping me so busy I’m behind on calls…do I have any more messages?” Implying power was as effective as having it.

  “You do have a message already. But it’s personal.”

  I placed my elbows on Philip’s work station, an act I knew that drove him crazy. “Personal? You mean from you, Philip?”

  His face grew red and so did his neck. “Not on your life. It’s from Pan.”

  “Where’s the message?” I asked, looking at his alpha-ordered pink slips.

  “I threw out the initial two written messages and then put her through to your voice mail on the third call. I told her that I reserve voice mail for work-appropriate messages, but she became rather terse with me.”

  “I’ll go give it a listen. Sorry if she was…terse, did you say?” I started toward my cubicle when a great idea struck me. I looked back at Philip, who was already using Windex to wipe my elbow prints from his glass.

  Rachel walked toward me in the hallway. “Nice look, Hawthorne. Very urban chic. Are you interviewing for the executive training program?”

  This was one of our most frequently used running jokes. We cracked up. As she passed me, she whispered, “Special meeting at 11:00. Be there?”

  I nodded and my stomach flipped. Had she found out something?

  At my desk the voice mail light blinked at me. I pressed play and heard Pan’s voice rambling. It was more like a strained version of Pan’s voice…not one I had heard before. I pressed repeat because I couldn’t understand her the first round.

  “Hey, Libby. Got the word on Max. Max…you remember my whole story at your party. I know you guys didn’t like him. Anyway, I found him and I’d love to take Hudson. Hudson…dang, Libby, I cannot stop thinking about the guy and that is so not like me. Tell me something awful about him so I can forget him and move on. No, wait. Don’t tell me anything bad before I take him to see Max. Let me hang with him before I decide whether I want to be deterred. Listen to me rambling. I’m pathetic. Call me.”

  I could only imagine the messages poor Philip had taken and then tossed. This wasn’t like Pan at all, but Hudson was unlike most guys. He’d been charming and generous and patient the entire evening at Ariel’s house. Wait until she finds out about his identity later. She’d flip. In the meantime, how could I let my friend down nicely?

  I logged on to my computer, deciding that I would talk to Pan later, once she had sifted through her hormones and came out the other side a bit more rational. Pan was the one I could always count on to be logical and on my side of the love equation…the side of skepticism.

  One new email from Cecilia appeared in my personal folder. I opened it and kept my curser on the screen reduction icon in case someone walked by.

  No more outings. This isn’t your chance to get a life; there are high stakes. Am planning a return in a week and a half. Have heard Hudson’s former pals are in the city for some event. Be careful. I need some things from apartment ASAP. Find a reason to go with Rachel…I’m having her do my cleaning. Smuggle out the following items and mail overnight tomorrow.

  Philip buzzed me and emphasized that I had a personal visitor. I quit reading the email and printed the page.

  A shiver went up and down my spine. Hudson wouldn’t show up here, would he?

  “Who is it?”

  “Someone who should not be visiting during business hours, I can guarantee it. But she does have a strong fashion sense.”

  “Didn’t you notice my outfit today? Pretty sharp. Come on, Philip, admit it.”

  “I appreciate your effort,” he said, as if the effort had been for him.

  “But?”

  “Your hair looks like the feathers of a seagull after the Exxon Valdez tanker spill. I think your slacks were nice. I’ll send her to you.”

  I stood up and watched over the cubicle wall. As I had suspected, my friend with fashion sense was Ariel. She stepped into the small lobby, looked around without a hint of concern for being out of place in her red-plaid miniskirt and black leather wrap shirt. I waved her over.

  “Hey, this is a great surprise,” I said. “Are you on your way to work?”

  “Finished. I opened.” She looked around with non-seeing eyes. “I haven’t seen your new set up. It’s nice.”

  “You didn’t come by to see my cubicle.”

  She toyed with the leather tie at her waist. “You’re right. I came to apologize for my mood at your birthday gathering. I wasn’t the best hostess…” she paused and looked
up to search my face for a reaction.

  “Don’t apologize. It was a great birthday. I had such a good time. And your place was so pretty. I appreciated every touch.”

  Ariel sat on the edge of my desk, stretching her fishnet stockings and knee-high black leather boots into the hallway. “I wasn’t in the best place mentally. But the party actually opened my eyes to what was wrong.”

  “Really? How so?”

  “Lately I’ve become so focused on myself, I lost my lifelines—you, most importantly. My self-absorption alone should have told me I’m not ready for parenthood, right…?” her voice trailed as she saw my expression of confusion. Her eyes opened to the size of silver dollars. “That slipped out. I came by to ask you to dinner so that I could discuss the p-word with you in depth. Can we try for tonight at Lacey’s Grill?” She stood up to leave.

  “Oh, no…you don’t get to leave. That word does not even belong in sentences we exchange. I’m not waiting until tonight, Ariel.” I thought of Cecilia’s email. “Besides, I have to work late. Pan sort of eluded to the p-word, but I didn’t believe it. Are you?”

  She looked around and pulled a spare roller chair from the next cubicle over so she could sit knee to knee with me. She clasped her hands together and said, “Let me ease your mind here. I’m not pregnant, but I want a baby.”

  I said nothing. My face was still frozen in the perfectly appropriate “Does not compute” expression.

  “I wanted a baby. Did want. Past tense. For about six months I’ve considered going it alone. Well, the raising a child part. After some careful consideration, I realized the only guy I could possibly ask is Ferris. He is kind, somewhat normal, mostly balanced, and responsible.”

  My mouth was still open.

  “Come on, Libby. This isn’t all a complete surprise, right? I’m sure Pan gave you an earful of her whole take on this.”

  I shook my head. “I’m trying to get my mind around this. How could you be thinking these big life thoughts and keeping them to yourself? And why’d you tell Pan and not me?”

  “Pan saw me head in to Dr. Winter’s office downtown a few times. She’s a…”