Best Man

by Briggs, Laura

  “Silly face,” she commanded. He hesitated, feeling a sense of embarrassment that his own sense of humor froze at these moments. By his standards, it was wrong that someone as outwardly refined as Kate could mold her features so swiftly into playfulness while his own managed only an awkward smile.

  “No, Michael,” she scolded him. “Relax.” Something in her voice–a warmth, a depth of feeling–compelled him to obey. He folded his hands in an exaggerated prayer, eyes crossed as he struck up a pose beside the statue. The figure of Kate was blurred in his vision, although he heard a laugh from the twin images before him.

  They took more photos, of Chinese characters on windows, of carved jade dragons on display, of eels in a water tank in the marketplace that startled Kate with a shriek when one was hauled forth from a water tank.

  “Easy,” said Michael, with a laugh, touching her shoulders as she leaped back. A shock traveled through his fingers like electricity as they brushed her white wool coat; but when the image of the kiss entered his mind, he drew back.

  “I’m sorry,” said Kate. She tucked a strand of her hair aside, glancing at him with a look of apology. “I’m afraid the ethnic marketplace may be too exotic for me at this moment.”

  “No, it’s all right,” he said. “I would scream if I were mere inches from an eel, too.” Something in his voice gave him away, a slight note of sarcasm that made her swat his arm.

  “I can take care of myself, thank you,” she said. “After all, I could hardly call upon you for help– you, without a last name. Mr. Whoever-you-are.”

  “Use my first,” he answered, with a playful smile. It was the moment at which he intended to relinquish his hold upon her arm, but didn’t. Instead, he was guiding her forward, through the moving bodies around them as if the two of them were joined naturally together.

  She told him she loved poetry and studied it at university–perhaps a hint for him to reveal his published name. It had become the inside joke of their afternoon, his steadfast refusal a pat reply.

  Instead, he told her that he had never visited England.

  “I’ve come close,” he said, “I stood on the dock of an Irish port once, waiting for a boat to take me around the coast, and saw the outline of its shores. Hazy in the traditional fog, I’m afraid,” he joked.

  “I love the fog,” she said. “It seemed sometimes I could lose myself in it. When you’re a child, these things are always much more real to you. As if when you’re all grown up, everything around you is a picture in your mind, your imagination. Not quite real, somehow.”

  Not quite real. Her phraseology, the light carelessness of her accent seemed tangible to him, physical properties he could reach out and touch. He imagined her voice as frail as glass, words that would shiver apart if handled too harshly. Delicate, graceful, a calm surface of perfect manners–rather like the outward shell of Kate’s presence.

  “Were you sorry to leave it?” he asked. “England, I mean. I assume you live in America now–”

  “I do,” she answered, abruptly. With a soft laugh, she added, “To both, I mean. There are things I miss about it–some can’t be put into words, I suppose. But doesn‘t everyone miss something about what they leave behind?” Her eyes wandered in his direction. “You must miss something about the places you left in your past.”

  He sighed. “The only place I ever missed was the beach,” he said.

  Her laugh made his own lips curve upwards in a smile. “Not in the flippant sense,” he explained. “I mean–when I was a boy, I visited this beach one year, a point somewhere on the West Coast. We were driving up the coast to Washington state and we stopped at this place for lunch. I spent a whole afternoon throwing rocks into the ocean before they made me climb in the car again. I dreamed about that place for years afterwards.”

  He felt her steps slow as she glanced quizzically at him. “And you’ve missed no other place in your life?” she said.

  With a shrug, Michael grinned. “I’ve never left anywhere else,” he said. “Same city all my life–just not the same apartment.” He wondered if he even missed the apartment in which he lived now, the silent rooms where he typed amidst bookshelves and house plants.

  She volunteered no other information about England or her own home, shifting the subject as they wandered onto a street Michael recognized from earlier, although the faces populating it were different from the early afternoon shoppers. He jostled amongst two women arguing in excited tones and a man carrying a stack of newspapers as he made his way into what appeared to be a Chinese version of a cafe. Outside, Kate watched a group of children playing a game with chalk and colored pennies as she waited for him. He found it comforting that she remained in the same spot until he returned, perfectly visible through the windows as he made the purchase.

  The cup of herbal tea was the only treat Kate accepted in repayment for the bowl of noodles–she had staunchly resisted all other offers until he persuaded her with the one thing he assumed might be her weakness. Now half-empty, it was growing cold in his hand as he rested with her on the steps. Before him were the pictures they were both admiring; in his mind, the moment with the kiss replayed itself as it appeared on the screen.

  For some reason, he could not find the courage to comment on that moment, even casually; an unspoken connection between them which remained just beyond words.

  Instead, he said, “The one of you and the dragon–that’s what I expect to see on your Christmas card next year.” In return, he received a demure smile before she scrolled to the next image.

  His shoulder ached from the burden of his luggage, giving him an excuse to lower it onto the steps. He crouched beside her, his shoulder almost touching hers.

  “I suppose yours will be the one outside the bakery,” she said. “The look of surprise captures the spirit of the season, don’t you agree?”

  “That’s the look on my face every Christmas morning,” he said, “as I open the customary gift basket from my publisher.”

  “Ah, your mysterious publisher,” she said, pretending to be impressed. “Does it have an identity, or does it prefer to remain anonymous as well?”

  He was tempted to give in and tell her his name; to offer her his phone number or email, for instance, so she could send him copies of the photos. There was still something between them that seemed too much like strangers for him to break the barrier of politeness and small talk with something more concrete than previous remarks.

  Michael carefully placed the cup of tea behind them as he drew closer. The pink light was growing brighter, like a sunset over the ocean. There was a noisy crowd somewhere in the street behind them, the sound of a celebration in progress.

  “Do you wish you had spent the day in the airport?” Kate asked, looking up from the image of a silk kite display frozen on the screen. Her glance at him was sideways, a spark of mischief in her eyes. “Spending the day with a stranger–I think it isn’t how either of us would have planned to waste our time.”

  As she spoke, her body shifted in his direction as she settled more comfortably on the steps. The cell phone lid closed gently, her fingers folded over the screen that held an image of them moments before. The gesture was protective, almost like a caress.

  “No,” he answered, softly. “I think I was growing tired of terminal waiting rooms. The speaking engagement at each stop...” He trailed off at the mention of the podium and platform awaiting him in Belfast. “None of the others days I have spent away have seemed quite so... real as today. If you understand.” He glanced at her with these words, as if anticipating a glance of sympathy from Kate.

  “I feel a little like a child who ran away from school,” she said. “Rather as if I escaped something by taking your suggestion. I suppose we ran away together, in some respects.”

  He laughed. “From boredom?” he asked.

  “From indecision on my part,” she answered. She was silent for a moment, pocketing her cell phone as she gazed at the street scene before she looked at him
again. Her blue eyes darkened as something in their depths stirred to the surface. His body had drifted closer to hers, so only a breath of space remained between her shoulder and his own, a touch apart. From around the street corner, a noisy procession appeared, youthful faces and the sound of drums. A parade, a festival, perhaps an announcement of some kind that involved the whole neighborhood.

  “What time is your flight?” Kate’s voice was quiet, her gaze still focused on him. The question seemed bold to him, as if there was a hidden meaning in the innocuous words. In his mind, a series of images flashed: himself with Kate in a bar, a series of drinks, the sheen of her hair beneath the low lights of a corner booth. His heart leaped forward to events following it that were impossible, presumptuous, prompting him to longing and fear in the same moment.

  “Six,” he said. “Six-thirty.” It was the note of apology in his voice, not the words, that broke the fantasies in his mind apart. The scene before him was an ordinary street corner, an ordinary stranger beside him with a polite expression on her face. A loud bang in the street from a firecracker someone in the throng of passersby lit and tossed ahead of them.

  “It’s well past five,” she said. “I suppose you must be going.” She rose, collecting the almost-empty cup of tea from the steps.

  “Let me walk you somewhere,” he said. “I’ll hail a cab–we’ll go to the airport or the driver will find a restaurant for you–”

  “I’m quite good,” she said. “I still have more than enough time to kill, as the expression goes. I think I shall find another place with a cup of tea before I go back.”

  “Please, I should,” he began, feeling a sense of urgency and guilt which was inexplicable given their circumstances. She touched his arm, offering him a brief smile.

  “Thank you,” she said. Her voice was gentle, the kind smile lingering for a moment before vanishing as if sinking beneath a pond’s surface. With the same grace, the same expression of calm thoughtfulness as in the airport, she made her way down the steps, her knapsack swinging from one shoulder.

  Michael loped in the same direction, hoping that he would catch up with her without trying. He glimpsed a cab trolling the street, a reminder of the distance to the airport and the boarding pass in his pocket. The powder blue hat had vanished behind a man carrying a child on his shoulders in the crowd; a series of children raced past with sparklers blazing like wands in their fingers as Michael waved his hand at the cab.

  *****

  There was no view from the dark window of Michael’s plane as it crossed the ocean towards Ireland from Boston’s airport. Miles below him was a sea of blackness, a crushing current with sprays of salt water, but his mind was on the girl in the powder blue hat who was all but nameless with the limitations of “Kate” for search material.

  He tapped his fingers against the beverage in his hand as he contemplated why he didn’t ask her last name at any point. It seemed childish now, not to have given her some basic contact information or exchanged numbers.

  Then again, perhaps she hadn’t wanted to see him again, thinking of him as nothing more than a friendly stranger, a pseudo-celebrity who would become a story she shared with friends over drinks. She was a little younger, far more attractive than him. The question about his flight time–who was to say that wasn’t a friendly inquiry? At best, a spontaneous invitation for a brief romantic encounter, but nothing that warranted future flowers or tenderness.

  Had they landed in Chicago as originally planned, he could have offered to show her the sights–but then, they would never have met under those circumstances. He would have caught his flight to Ireland, she would have disappeared in a crowd of brief visitors to the city. It occurred to him that he had never thought to ask her why she was visiting Chicago, nor where she was visiting from. She might have been impressed to know that he was from there, although he was hardly capable of recommending restaurants or pointing out a good place for a cup of tea. Even in the most carefully constructed fantasy, he couldn’t create an outcome in which the two of them crossed paths as more than brief fellow passengers.

  He took a sip from the chilled drink, then let his gaze fall towards into the blackness outside the plane. For once, he was thinking neither of the hotel menu, nor of the dilemma of his hero stranded in battle in the fields of Scotland.

  Chapter Three

  Michael experienced an epiphany at the Belfast conference as he sat in his folding chair onstage after the address and listened to another member of the panel, an Irish poet expounding on Celtic literature. The lulling tones of the man’s soft accent seemed to draw him into a sleepy trance, in which ideas drifted like paper boats on a river. A vision of a flag aflame in a burning house struck him particularly when in conjured it in response to the poet’s patriotic rhetoric. His ankle crossed on the opposite knee, an expression of serious, studious attention on his face, he shifted his position as he imagined the possibilities behind the image.

  A series based in the American Revolution or the conflict of 1812–he scribbled this in his notes on the flight home, in the margin of a sheaf of papers jammed in his laptop case’s pocket. Eighteen-twelve appealed to him because of the burning of the White House, something which would make for graphic imagery even on paper. The question of whose perspective the story emerged from was not yet concrete, nor were any of the other details slowly forming in his mind, jostling for attention amidst the usual historical subjects of Ireland’s independence and Scotland’s stormy history versus the crown.

  It would be a break from Michael’s usual subject, the Celtic history behind the novels lined on his shelves at home. A first edition of each copy, a first edition in each language in which the volumes were published–six, to date. His readers expected history from him, but he entertained the possibility they did not expect it necessarily to be European. Perhaps they, too, would embrace a change from the Highland scenes of turmoil.

  There was no rain outside the airport in Chicago as forecast on the weather site he visited. Michael shifted the compact travel umbrella into his pocket as he strolled towards the cab zone. He smelled the smells of home–smog and cool wind, a hint of moisture in the breeze that ruffled his open coat–somehow subtly different in scent from those in other cities.

  Of course, he would have passed through here three days ago if his flight hadn’t been cancelled, a brief glimpse of a semi-familiar world through the airport’s glass panes before his transportation to Belfast. It felt as if more time had passed to Michael, as if he had been away from home for ages instead of one and a half weeks.

  Turning the key in his apartment door, he pushed it open and lugged his bags towards a leather armchair in the corner. His neighbor, a pilot currently on strike, had agreed to collect his mail and leave it in the apartment. It was in a pile on Michael’s desk, alongside a slightly brown ivy plant which showed signs of being watered recently, a dried water ring on the publisher’s letter beneath the pot. Michael moved it aside as he flipped past a postcard from a traveling acquaintance, a reminder that his subscription to National Geographic was in danger of expiring.

  He pressed the button on the cordless phone’s message recorder, expecting the sound of his editor’s voice to follow. Instead, he recognized Sean’s voice.

  “Hey, Mick, I’m back early ... well, make that earlier than originally planned. Catch you at Draeger’s at eight if you’re flight makes it on time.” There was a beep following this message.

  Sean. Even on the machine, his voice seemed like a teenager’s, pitched high beneath faint cracks of testosterone, overly cheerful and overly loud in a manner that smacked of late-night parties and beer, conjured images of an oversized frat boy. At least it did for Michael, who knew all of it was accurate.

  He reached up and loosened his tie before sliding the laptop out of its case and popping open the lid. It roared to life as he pushed the power button, the manuscript for his novel opening with a few short strokes of the mouse pad.

  *****

  Dra
eger’s was crowded at eight o’ clock with the usual patrons and tourists who believed they were sampling an authentic Irish pint. There was barely space for him to squeeze in at the dimly-lit bar, where the heavy walnut atmosphere cast shadows over the patrons.

  He spotted Sean near the end, focused on his cell phone screen as his fingers flew over the keypad. A head of close blond curls, the faint signs of stubble over his padded cheeks.

  When he glanced up and noticed Michael, his face beamed with a genial smile of greeting. Despite thirty years of life, Sean seemed perpetually trapped in youth, his spare time devoted to pursuing anything in a skirt.

  “Buy you a drink,” said Sean, his words taking the form a genial statement, not a request, as he motioned for the bartender. In person, his voice was not quite as youthful, a thicker note of maturity present.

  “Thanks,” said Michael, squeezing in beside a college student chatting up a series of friends as their lit cigarettes formed a cloud. “I’m a little surprised you’re here so early on a Friday–”

  “Got a date,” Sean answered, his reply reduced to a mumble as his lips balanced a cigarette between them, the lighter’s wheel striking beneath his thumb. “But you just got back, so I wanted to see you...” His words trailed off in a feigned nonchalance that Michael recognized as a ruse.

  “What’s her name?” Michael asked. His voice was flat with an element of disinterest; although Sean seldom discussed his conquests in detail, mention surfaced in more than one conversation if the girl was particularly sexy or seductive. From silk stockings to Asian massage oils, the stories were wild and colorful in Sean’s repertoire.

  “She worked on my movie,” Sean answered. He was an independent filmmaker, whose small-budget artisan pieces tended towards the foreign film edge, with complicated plots and convoluted character dilemmas.