by Rick R. Reed
Wrong.
His e-mail box popped up. Jack groaned. There were probably thousands of unopened messages, most of them now simply the most horrible spam, revolving around women who wanted to meet him and the Viagra that could keep them satisfied.
Jack couldn’t help but smile.
His gaze drifted over to the files he’d set up on the left.
He closed his eyes for a moment. He debated whether he should close the laptop and put it back, simply bury it beneath a pile of sweaters. It was tempting to contemplate remaining in this cocoon of his own making. Inside, the world was colorless, dull, toneless.
But it had one thing going for it—it was safe.
And yet he’d come too far.
There was a file set up labeled simply “Beau.” His finger hovered over the mouse. Do I really want to click on this? Do I want to open the door?
Oh for God’s sakes, just do it!
He clicked on the icon for the folder and it opened. He immediately saw there was only one conversation labeled “Personal Ad Response,” but it held about a dozen different messages. Jack opened them, remembering to click on the icon that would expand all the e-mail messages. The first one had come in November of 2008, and it was from someone named Beau St. Clair. Jack smiled as he read, smiled wider as he continued.
Hi.
I’m writing because I liked what I saw in your ad. I know most guys would now say something about hooking up or ask for a picture of your dick or ass, if one or two hadn’t been supplied already. But not me. I like that you included your face, and only your face, in your ad. It’s what drew me.
Now before you go getting all flattered by that, it wasn’t just that you’re gorgeous (yes, you are, and you get that confirmed every time you look in a mirror, I’m sure), but it was more what I saw in your expression, in your eyes. I admit, I stared at your face for a long time, thinking maybe I was imagining things. But no. They were real. And what I saw was kindness, a man with a big heart. And just for the record, a man with a big heart is about the sexiest thing I can imagine, even more than a big—well, never mind
I like what you said about yourself—how you like old horror movies, trashy novels, and sometimes, bad reality TV. I love that you like hiking and the outdoors. Aren’t we lucky to be in Seattle? I like that you’re just starting out in a career you’re passionate about. Me too. I just finished culinary school a while back and am working downtown as a line cook—for right now. One day I hope to have my own business—catering, maybe.
Anyway, I’ve probably rambled on for far too long and should let you go. I hope you won’t go too far and will drop me a line back. I’d love to get to know you
Beau
Jack almost closed the laptop then. It was all coming back now, and it hurt his heart. No, really, it physically hurt his heart. He laid his hand over his chest and pressed against where he thought it beat beneath the skin.
Such loss! He knew he’d lost a lot in that night he was attacked, taken, whatever the hell had happened to him. But he’d managed to block out that he’d lost Beau. Beau! He remembered their date at Soldano’s.
Oh my God! It slammed into Jack’s consciousness with the force of a freight train. Last night, he recreated the dinner I had on our date! Tears sprang to Jack’s eyes.
He glanced across his bedroom and looked at himself in the mirror hung above his dresser. Did Beau remember him? Looking at himself, Jack found it hard to believe he could. He looked nothing like he used to. He was once that handsome man Beau described in his initial e-mail. But now he was—well, he wasn’t that. He stared at his pasty skin, stringy hair, the unkempt beard he hid behind. How did that old saying go? A shadow of his former self? Jack nodded at his reflection. Yeah, that’s it. Bingo.
Maybe it was by the grace of God that Beau didn’t recognize or remember him. What could Jack possibly offer him now?
He debated whether he wanted to read more of their initial correspondence. In the end, he decided he had no choice. He’d come this far, and painful as it was, he needed to see more. His own response was briefer and more to the point. He told Jack about his job and about moving to Seattle. Curiously enough, he didn’t mention from where, which was an amazing coincidence. Or was it?
Jack used to believe in things like confluence, that everything happened for a reason, at least until that night everything bad happened, when everything changed.
He read through the e-mails, which got shorter and shorter, winnowing down to plans for their first date, which Jack already knew would be at Soldano’s, just before Christmas eight years ago.
Wow. Eight years. How was it possible that all that time had marched by him as he lay here—mostly—in this miserable bedroom with only the TV and his kind, good-intentioned mother for company? How had he not lost his mind? Well, Jack knew some would say he already had.
He closed the laptop and yanked the power cord from the wall. He got up and put the laptop back where he’d found it. Going online or sending any e-mails in the near future wasn’t a good idea now, if ever. He pulled a pile of his old sweaters on top of the computer and shut the door to the closet.
He crawled back into bed, feeling a mixture of conflicting emotions that, by turns, elated and sickened him. Should he tell Beau what he now knew? His first inclination was a resounding no, screamed from the depths of his soul. He was not the man he used to be. He was ashamed of who he was now, and if Beau hadn’t guessed at their prior association, that was all to the good.
But what if he had? What if, for whatever reason, he wasn’t mentioning it? Jack knew he gave the poor guy little opportunity for conversation, being the irascible rascal he was these days. He lay down in bed, turning on his side, and pulled the covers up to his ears.
It’s safe here. He closed his eyes and tried to sleep. And he almost succeeded. He’d just begun to drift off and was in that netherworld between sleep and wakefulness when an image, unbidden, popped into his mind.
A head, emerging slowly out of a car window. A smiling young face…little older than a boy, really. Cherubic. With blond curls and rosy cheeks, asking him if he had a cigarette.
Something about that image was so nightmarish that Jack was awake until dawn crept in through the slats in his miniblinds, slowly transforming the hulks in his bedroom into furniture.
Chapter 19: The Not-So-Strong Silent Type
Fiesta Pot Roast
3 T olive oil, divided
3 lb. chuck roast
1 medium onion, diced
3 garlic cloves, minced
1 T thyme
1 T onion powder
1 T garlic powder
1 T chili powder
A splash of red wine or red wine vinegar
1 8-oz. jar good-quality salsa (whatever’s your favorite)
2 4-oz. cans mild green chiles
1 can beef consommé
Salt and pepper to taste
Get out your slow cooker. Get out a big skillet, pour in 2 T olive oil, heat until shimmering over medium-high heat. Rub roast all over with seasonings. Place into hot pan and sear each side, about 30 seconds to a minute per side. Remove and set aside. In the same pan, add remaining tablespoon of oil, throw in onions and, after a minute or so, garlic. Salt, stir, and wait until garlic and onion are softened and fragrant but not brown. Remove onions and garlic and set aside. Deglaze pan with wine or vinegar, scraping up browned bits of meat from the bottom.
While this is cooking, reduce one can beef consommé down to about half in a small pan.
Put roast into slow cooker. Pour ¾ of the salsa over the roast. Pour in consommé, onions, garlic, and scrapings and liquid from bottom of pan you browned the roast in. Add in chiles.
Cover and cook on low for eight hours. When done, add salt and pepper to taste. Remove meat, set aside. Pour liquid (removing fat if you want) into a p
an and add in remaining salsa, stir and cook down over high heat, until reduced by half.
Serve hot with sauce. Serves 4-6.
* * * *
I realized last week when I delivered my next meal to Jack that something had changed about him, something deep and profound.
And it made me sad.
I mean, Jack had always been grouchy, a demon, really, to be around. Unfriendly. Sour. Mean. These were just a few of the terms that sprang to mind—and those were the kindest.
The next time I turned up, after my winning meal of White Trash Mac & Cheese, Jack was a different person. Maisie had already left for work by the time I got there, so I couldn’t ask her if something had happened to explain the shift in Jack’s mood. I suppose I could have called her later, but I hated to add to her burden, especially when I didn’t know if the change was just a fleeting thing. Maybe it was something that simply came and went, and I had yet to witness it.
He had every reason, I thought, to be depressed.
And that’s what he was—depressed, sad, quiet. The next time I saw him, I made him a hearty meal I’d prepared in my slow cooker back at my place—a southwestern pot roast. It was a simple recipe, just a chuck roast, a can of beef consommé reduced down by half in a sauté pan on the stove, diced green chiles, and a jar of good prepared salsa. I blended these all together and let them cook all day, and the result was wonderful—tender, melt-in-your mouth beef with the kick the salsa gave it. I brought along a stack of flour tortillas and a quick slaw I’d made—cabbage, bacon, and bleu cheese.
I thought I owed Jack something a little more complex than the mac and cheese I’d served him the night before. Although, truth be told, the roast wasn’t much more difficult. It only appeared to be—and I wasn’t about to let on.
But when I showed up with the meal, I was surprised that Jack answered the door, fully dressed in jeans and a flannel shirt. I was surprised and pleased, thinking maybe it was a step further out of his shell.
But I knew right away something was different. Normally, if you’d told me I would be encountering a kinder, gentler Jack, I would have been happy. But would it surprise you to learn that I yearned for the old, mean Jack back?
This Jack was—well, I’m not sure how I can describe it. The best way I can get at what he was like is to share with you the first thing I wondered—if he was medicated or, worse, overmedicated. He had that aspect about him. He moved slower. His eyes were downcast most of the time. There was something withdrawn and apathetic about him. Even his steps were kind of shuffling.
Deflated.
That’s the right word.
And he wouldn’t talk. I wanted the smartass back. But Jack would only say what was necessary. If I asked him anything, he answered in the briefest way possible.
“Do you like the roast?”
“Yes.”
“Do you want some more slaw?”
“No.”
Wonder of wonders, and this should have been a cause for celebration and a sign of progress, except it was neither, Jack didn’t expect to be served in his room. No, when I arrived, he’d led me into the kitchen, where the table had already been set, presumably by him.
For two.
Again, cause for celebration, right?
Not so much. We did eat together that night, but almost silently. I tried to make conversation, but Jack would only speak if it was absolutely necessary. And when we were finished, he looked up at me and said simply, “You can go. I’ll clean up.”
I was so taken aback, by not only this out-of-the-blue offer of help, but by the entire change in him, that I did what he asked. I left, feeling hurt and worried.
* * * *
Now it was the following week, and today I was determined to arrive early enough to catch Maisie before she left for work. I hoped she could shed some light on the odd shift in Jack’s behavior.
I also wanted to talk to her about her and my father. Apparently their date last week had been a success. Dad had seen her on both Saturday and Sunday.
As I approached the house, I was glad to feel the arrival of spring in the air. Although its official due date was still some weeks hence, the breeze had that damp, balmy quality to it one associates with spring. There was this warm undercurrent. If I looked closely, I could see the trees were beginning to have tiny buds at the tips of their branches.
Maisie opened the door and, as usual, was smiling. But there was something different, something joyous about her. She looked better, younger somehow, than the first time I’d met her. She’d had her hair cut and colored. The gray streaks were gone, and the cut framed her face in a way that caused me to smile. She looked friendly and approachable. She looked really beautiful. Once again, she made me think of my mother, and a breath caught in my throat.
“You look amazing,” I said as I struggled by her with my grocery bags into the house.
“Thank you!” she cooed. “I just got these at Walmart. You like?” For the first time, I noticed her new clothes—a floral print top with dark leggings, a pair of pumps. I also noticed she had on more jewelry, a chunky gold bracelet and a small cameo around her neck.
“I wasn’t talking about your clothes. You have a glow about you, Maisie.”
She giggled. And instead of sounding high pitched and silly, it made her seem more like a young girl. I was charmed. “You’re a sweet talker, Beau St. Clair. Just like your father.” Her gaze went far away for a moment.
“Oh my God,” I whispered, stunned. “It’s true, then? You two have hit it off?”
I wasn’t surprised that Dad liked Maisie. After all, he was helpless alone, and as I’d thought all along, Maisie was very much like my late mother—in every good way. I was sure Dad could see the same when he looked at her, even if it only came to him subconsciously. When I thought that, though—in my conscious mind—I chided myself. Give Maisie some credit. She’s more than just a carbon copy of Mom. She’s a sweet, warm woman in her own right. Right?
But I did have to wonder—what on earth would Maisie see in an old coot like my father? There was no accounting…
“Oh, we’ve more than hit it off.”
She winked at me, and I could feel heat rise to my cheeks. The catchphrase TMI sprang to mind.
“Get your mind out of the gutter, Beau!” she cried. “I just meant that I like him. We have a lot in common, and we’ve been having a ball.”
I smiled. “That’s really nice to hear.” I took the bags into the kitchen and began unloading the stuff I’d brought onto the counter—a couple of tilapia filets, some quinoa, a package of baby kale, a red onion, and a couple of Honeycrisp apples. “You do have apple cider vinegar, right?”
Maisie nodded. She went back to our original topic of conversation. “I wouldn’t have met him if it hadn’t been for you, Beau. Thank you.”
“I didn’t do anything.” I grinned. “You guys made the sparks.”
Now it was Maisie’s turn to blush.
We both felt more than saw a third presence enter the kitchen.
Jack stood near the archway with his hands clenched behind his back. His face betrayed no emotion, but like the last time I’d seen him, he was more put together. Tonight he had on the ubiquitous jeans, worn and torn, but I was stunned to see them topped with a navy blue and lime green Seattle Seahawks sweatshirt.
“What are you making tonight?”
“Just a little breaded fish, some quinoa, and salad. Healthy, pretty much. Sound okay?”
He nodded, and just as abruptly as he’d come, he turned and left the room. Maisie and I were both silent until we heard his bedroom door close.
I eyed her. “What’s going on with him?”
She sat down at the kitchen table, and I joined her. “He’s different, isn’t he?”
I nodded. She told me he’d been staying out of his room more lately. He still watched TV almost around the clock and had yet to venture outside again, but at least now he got dressed most nights and parked himself on the living ro
om couch. She’d find him there when she came home from work. “He even made himself popcorn one night.”
Not much of an accomplishment for most, but for Jack, it was something special.
“Why do you think he’s changed? What’s going on?”
“I don’t know. But ever since that day he left the house, he’s been different. I won’t say improved because there’s something off about him, you know?”
“I’m glad you said it. Is he on some kind of medication?”
“No. Long ago, I looked into antianxiety meds, stuff for depression, you know, and told him my health insurance would cover it if he wanted to try something. All he would have to do is see a doctor. He refused. So if he’s taking any drugs, it’s news to me.” She patted my hand. “He’s not taking drugs.”
“What is it, then?”
“I honestly have no idea. I wonder sometimes if he’s begun to remember. Or if maybe he’s just getting fed up with being stuck at home with me. He’s still a young guy. Physically, there’s nothing wrong with him.” She stood up quickly. “I need to get on my way or I’m going to be late!”
“When are you seeing Dad again?”
She lit up. “Tonight. He’s coming over to the track. We’ll have a drink in the bar after I get off.”
“That’s nice. Tell him I said hello.”
“Tell him yourself, when you make dinner for us on Sunday.”
“What?”
“He said you were gonna make us dinner at your place on Sunday.”
“Oh he did, did he?”
“Didn’t you know?” She put a hand to her forehead. “Jeez, me and my big mouth. I didn’t mean to make trouble. I’ll talk to him tonight about it. I’m sure he was going to tell you.”
“Don’t worry. It’ll be nice. You can bring Jack.”
She didn’t say anything, just moved to the kitchen window and looked outside for a long time. And then she left the room.
I felt confused and inexplicably sad as I began getting the stuff out I’d need to make dinner, like a mixing bowl, cutting board, and so on. To cheer myself up, I pulled my phone out of my pocket, brought up Pandora, and put it on the Oscar Peterson station. That man and his jazz piano always made me smile.
