"Honestly, I kind of do," Jack says. "Think I've rehearsed enough for the wife's ears, anyway," he says and Stephanie's affection falls flat. Without warning Jack's tummy rumbles and the room begins to sway, "Auh-urgh," he mutters putting his hand against his stomach, "Second thought, maybe I don't, feel so good - in different kind of way -"
"You have a place to stay tonight?" she asks not really listening.
"Gonna drive," he succeeds in getting out.
"No. No, you ain't," she says. "I know just the place." Stephanie dials up the motel near the Interstate; and as soon she turns to tell him, "There's a room!" he slides off the barstool, and rushes toward the men's room. The hercking sound, after the door swings shut can be heard all the way to the jukebox just as a new record drops, and 'Sixteen Candles' starts to play. Stephanie smiles at the customers that turn to look in her direction. She grabs the rope of a big, brass bell and rings it, yelling, "Last Call!"
The onslaught of 'last call' drinks to prepare keeps her busy until Jack reappears, dragging himself out of the bathroom.
"Never done that before," he says.
"It's okay, Jack," she tells him, "I gotcha a room for the night. Just up the road. Sit down and drink this." She slides a glass of water and a small, blue package to him. "I'll give ya a ride at the end of the night."
Jack doesn't have much of a choice. "This isn't my usual behavior," he says. He doesn't know what else to do; so, he sits quietly, opening the small package of two, chalky, white tablets that he drops into the water and sips down as it effervesces, making tight-lipped faces everytime he drinks.
By the time the last call tables are cleared, the last customer is out the door, and the glassware is put into the rinser, Jack is feeling quite 'sober' and says, "I can do it." Stephanie balks but remarks that he is too old to worry over like a child; so, she walks him to the door with a hug and a kiss on the cheek.
"Gosh, Jack," she tells him, "if you hadn't talked about your wife so much tonight, now that I'm single, I'd of sure fallen for 'ya; but I can tell," she says, 'that you're not that kinda man."
"You flatter me," he says. "And I'm glad you didn't say that earlier, when I was drunk," he smiles.
"Aw, okay," she tells him, "you drive carefully. And don't forget where I am, in case your wife ever, well, you know," she teases.
With his hand on the door, Jack stops for a moment and offers Stephanie some advice on a subject he has thought about, but not approached until now - now that he has a clear head, he mentions it.
"Don't be so hard on Mary Beth," he says, "You tell her I said to get herself into some kind of college program. She'll straighten up. You'll see. I just know it. She's not so bad, Stephanie. That boy'll need his mother - his real mother - someday," he says. Stephanie would normally have made a look much like she'd just sucked on a lemon at any other customer who would have said this words to her, tonight. However, since Stephanie really does hope that Jack will come back for her - although something tells her he won't - she doesn't want to appear, outwardly, as bitter as these words have made her feel on the inside; so, she smiles, looking at the floor. She sees the tip of her shoes, the shoes Mary Beth had loaned her one day, the shoes Mary Beth had forgoten to take with her when she walked out the door that night. The sight of that shoe, the sound of Jack's voice, and the softness Stephanie had felt and been reminded of at the words, 'You feel better?' earlier on in the night, changes the outlook of two lives, forever.
"I'll tell her," Stephanie decides, without a note of dishonesty in her voice. "If I ever see her again, that is."
"Good," he says. "There are lots of programs out there, now, for young girls and single moms, just like her."
"Okey-dokey," Stephanie says, "I'll tell her."
"I sure appreciate what you've done for me, here tonight, Stephanie. You surely are in your element. Helping people where help is needed, I suppose."
"Well it just comes with the job, I suppose," Stephanie says. "Sure you can drive? That place I mentioned is not too far away."
"Heck," he says, "I feel sober enough for church after that medicine you gave me. And, it's been several hours, watching you clean up. I'll be fine." He hugs her. "A guy'd be crazy to leave, you, girl," he says. "You're better off without him."
"Thanks, Jack," she says and stands holding open the heavy, wood plank door, waving her hand at him, looking after him into the darkness as he finds his way. Stephanie watches the 'spiffy' sedan pull around the corner onto Main Street, headed for the Interstate and thinks she really will tell Mary Beth just what he said.
"A new leaf," she says. "Maybe there is a place for Mary Beth in this world after all."
1960 Mustang.
After making the plan to escape the camp with Tenzing and run, together, to Darjeeling, Matseidha can hardly look the little girl in the eyes. By the time they go to bed, Matseidha has nearly run back to tell Tenzing that she cannot go, or that she must take the girl with her, at least three separate times. Once the night has finally arrived inside the tent she has shared with the little girl since the first night back from their brave start across the Himalayan pass, Matseidha finds it easy to replace her 'guilt' with excitement and her thoughts of life with Tenzing in a new home, somewhere in the world she does not yet know to think about. Often, in days past, Matseidha has thought about her letter. The letter Tenzing sent her; where she could have left it, and more importantly, its arrival. Often in the nights before this one, from this very spot, Matseidha had wondered - sometimes out loud to the little girl - if her love blessing had not been from an 'unblessed' man whether or not her love would have had a more certain outcome; a blessed ending. Tonight, Matseidha determines her theory somewhat correct. "This blessing is of goodness," she thinks, "a true love sent to me from a slightly troubled man." She elects to her mind the belief that all her and Tenzing's troubles are over with; ended, and their love ahead on as clear a path as the sky above them filled with billions of stars this very night.
Just before dawn, as Tenzing promised, he wakes Matseidha; and, quietly the two escape the camp into the darkness, ducking out behind several Resistance Fighters as they go, not bothering to tell them of their plans. This is how Matseidha had determined it to be; how she had wanted to go, without any words to Zhingtu, she thought; without any words to cause battle or feud between he and Tenzing; and without having to explain her decision to the little girl - the girl who had clinged to her like a mother, since her own mother had retreated from the trek unable to make the journey herself. Today, however, this decision makes Matseidha feel sneaky and low; her underhandedness intensified with each hushed and furtive movement. Further from the camp, about half-way to where the old woman had died in her arms, Matseidha breaks down in tears and confesses her thoughts out loud. "It's too mean," she cries. "I should have told her."
"She will understand, Matseidha," her newfound lover pleads, "She will get over it. You have a chance at true happiness, here - at true freedom. She will realize this and want that for you. We must go."
"No," Matseidha tells him. "She does not have anyone-"
"She has Zhingtu," Tenzing interrupts, "and in not too long from now," he explains, "she will be old enough to marry. Maybe she can marry Zhingtu."
"O! She will hate me!" Matseidha wails with regret. "I can't leave her. Please, Tenzing, take me back."
"Come and sit beside me," he says, "I must talk with you." They sit down, on the ground, their packs beside them. "I do think we can go back," he says, "not because of the little girl, but because I cannot see going through this pass. Too difficult. Turning back, that day - you did the right thing. There is a much easier, much shorter route. Back where I camped. I have helped to see many to safety - many to exile - through those mountains. My brother was there, but he left us. He had too. There wasn't enough to survive on. I know he was going back there, though; and he will be in that camp, if he is alive," Tenzing says his eyebrows furrowing, "I know he will be there." He
thinks.
"Because we are going back, you will be able to talk to the little girl. We can't stay long, and you can tell her that you are going; but do not, Matseidha, please do not decide to stay with her. I know you," he touches her hair. "I can see into your heart from here," he tells her, "and you will not be happy if you stay with her, for guilt, and do not leave with me, for love." Matseidha agrees to this, and he tells her, "We will go through Gangtok and stay with my brother, there."
Danthra out on his own, murades. He steals mug o' money. He is able to survive. Danthra goes back to his faction; the U.S. supplies had been dropped a day later. Tons of them. More guns than there are men. More food than they've seen in a year. Tenzing is there. Danthra tells the others to stack the guns, and now Tenzing understands what he had seen at the camp he just came from. He is with Matseidha. Danthra is amazed, he has found love, here, among such horrors. He tells his brother that he wants him to go, run.
"War is no place for lovers," Danthra says.
Jaded by his experiences of a losing battle war, Danthra tells his brother that, although he thought he'd never say such words, he wants Tenzing to flee into exile, "Make this love of yours your wife. I can pretend that the first three of my men, that I'd heard sneak off from camp into the night when supplies were too low for all of us to survive, here, were you, my brother, the woman you love, and the girl that you taken in. Only I will know they aren't. That way," he says, "you will never have left war dishonorably. You, Tenzing, helped to see the Dalai Lama through exile safely and to all who ask, you will not have left until there was not enough, here, but to perish. So, now," he says adamantly, "you must go. So that I am honest," he pats Tenzing on the back.
Danthra risks his life to go back for the little girl, having been a known murader in a camp so far away. On the trail where the brothers part, the three fleeing to Darjeeling, Danthra going back to fight; Danthra gives the little girl the mug of money.
For school," he says, "and a home suitable for a little girl of bravery," he says. Tenzing tells him it is too generous.
"I want to do this," he says, "in memory of Tiyo. Sometimes I think about it - the day in Lhasa, my living room - and I think you were right. He was too young. He would have wanted you to have this, to go to school, and to get out of war, I think," he says to Tenizia, 'war is not a place to raise a girl, and not a place for lovers. Besides," he asks Tenzing, "I won't need it, out here, will I? When we are free and I am home again, I will see you there, with me, laughing like you once did in my home. And my brother," he tells Tenzing, "You will not see me again until that day."
1960 Darjeeling.
When Tenzing and Matseidha arrive in Darjeeling, they are directed toward the center for Tibetan refugees. The little girl becomes somewhat frightened and finally, after several hours of worry, she asks them, "Are you going to leave me here?" Matseidha shakes her head, "No." She tells Tenzing she would like to adopt the little girl as their own, informally; and she tells the girl that she can call her 'Mother'. Matseidha asks Tenzing if the girl can call him 'Dad'. Tenzing laughs, "If she wants to," he says. The trio meet with Lhosta at the center. He tells them of some good news for the little girl.
"The Dalai Lama has been proactive, starting a Tibetan cultural center and a school for children of Tibetan heritage. I'm sure I can get you enrolled," he says. Tenzing tells Lhosta that he has money (remembering his brother's gift), for entering the girl into such a school. Lhosta tells him, "No. It will cost you," he says. He knows the monks will be happy to have Tenzing's daughter there.
The next day, Tenzing tells his wife that he is going to use their money to open up a dumpling stand. She is delighted with her husband's good idea.
"I will help you, every day," she says. She kisses him on the cheek. "After I first saw you, Tenzing, working in my market stall all day, I thought about you. Where you were, who you were with, would you walk by and see me that day. Working in the dumpling stand with you, is like a dream come true; and after I once thought I may never see you again..." He hugs her, for her look has gone sad, her eyes far away, worrying, he thinks, probably about her mother.
"You will never have to wonder where I am, again," he says to her, for I will be right here, with you, he thinks, doing our own little business. I am very good at making dumplings," he says. "And guthuk."
"You are?!" her face lights up, "you never told me that." "I know," he says, "that day you fed me, all those bowls, waiting for me to be full. I wanted to grab you and run away with you that very moment, but I ate, and ate, so that you would stand right by me, and never leave. Like an angel you stood there." She sighs, "I remember." And then he smiles at her. "I am better than you at making guthuk," he says.
"What?!" she hits him playfully on the side of the arm, "you are not!"
"I am," he says, "you'll see."
"Oh!" she says.
"But I don't look quite as good while making it," he says.
"Oh!" she says again. "Well, you will have to make the dinner then, today."
"I intend to," he says, and then he asks if she will accompany him to the market to buy some food and shop for things, "we will need two arms to carry,"- to carry the many things one has to have to open up a dumpling stand.
1964 Litang.
The bike messenger takes the turn through the market, avoiding a mud puddle and nearly runs right into a little dog.
"Watch it, boy!" he yells, smiling after he avoids colliding with the little pooch. Always, at this turn, the bike messenger thinks of Matseidha. He thinks of the happy day he teased her about the letter and almost wished her for his own wife. Instead, he kept his mind on his work, and did what he was told. At the end of his stops that day, he met a girl. That girl is now his wife, and this is why, he thinks, he constantly wonders over Matseidha as he rounds this very market corner, nearly every single day for five years. Five years of remembering the day he met his wife, five years of checking in on Matseidha's mother. Five years of wondering how the old woman will make it through another winter on her own. It has been a week since he looked in on her. He always chooses this corner, this moment in his route to decide if he will go and 'visit' her, again, on this day or not. He shrugs.
"What the heck." She usually tries to tell him that she does not need his visit, but as he can see each time he goes there, she opens to his smile, his conversation of his wife and him together, the story of the little dog - almost being hit today -, she will like that, he thinks, and decides to remember to tell it to her.
Everytime he visits, she offers him tea, and he usually sees that the tea's canister upon the shelf is nearly empty. If she had extra biscuits, he knows that she would offer them; and when she doesn't, he does not look down on her, he knows she must make it through the week on what she has. These moments, after his decision to 'visit' Matseidha's mother, are thought of on the lane past the market after rounding the corner where he first thinks of Matseidha and then appreciates that day he met his wife. It is along the lane where, lately, he stops at the tea merchant, whether he has a delivery or not, and 'buys a little extra' to take with him and place into the canister, after Matseidha's mother has given him tea.
"Like magic!" he likes to whisper with a smile. Rather than feeling pitied at this, a little girlish smile spills across Matseidha's mother's face, as if maybe it really is some sort of wizardry or enchantment; a reward for the sacrifice she has made by sharing the little she has left to go on through the winter. Her tea jar, thanks to the kindness of the bike messenger has become a never ending magical pot. He almost giggles at the thought of this silly game and the girlish happiness he sees it bring to the old woman's face. There are soldiers in the store. Chinese soldiers.
The bike messenger feels a bit of intrepidation, but he shirks it. He does not let the soldiers deter him from his work or what he chooses to do in his off time, neither. He will just go in and buy the tea, he tells himself. And he will not bother the soldiers. They will not bother h
im. He steps off his bike. He leans his bike against the wall of the store. Two soldiers wait, outside the door.
"You can't go in there," one of the Chinese soldiers says to him.
"I am just going to pick up some tea."
"The merchant is busy," the other soldier tells him.
"Humh," the bicycle messenger shrugs it off. He takes hold of his bike, pulls it away from the wall. He accidentally brushes against the bell of the bike, the weight of his hand presses down on the lever, chiming the bell - the happy sound of his bike. A soldier from inside the tea merchant's door pokes his head out to ask the other soldiers if they had 'signaled him' or something. One of the soldiers points to the bike messenger. The bike messenger is irritated; just the sight of these men is sometimes enough to get his goat.
"I'm not going to be intimidated because my bike bell rang, for heaven's sake," the bike messenger thinks; hearing their grumbling and assertions as though he has done something to 'signal' them out of the tea merchants store. Although, at the thought of this he nearly lets go a smile, because if he'd have known that's what they'd think, he would have done it a bit differently. He would have rang the bell furiously. Told them they have to go. Gone inside the tea house all alone and've been done with his business by now, he thinks to himself, but he didn't. And the soldiers do not seem content enough to 'let it go'.
"Put the bike down," the soldier in the merchant's doorway says.
"Since I am the only one with a bike," the messenger turns to him and says, "I suppose you mean me." There is no response to this, just a clasp of the soldiers hands behind his back and a facial expression as if he were waiting, growing impatient with every second that passes by.
Leadville: 300 Days Away Page 15
