The Garden of Happy Endings

by Barbara O'Neal

  It was tempting to be exasperated with such fainting despair. The adult who had weathered so much of life wanted to say, Come on, pull up your bootstraps, kiddo, and get on with it. You have your health, your brain, your life. I know a girl who was tortured to death. She’d love to be in your shoes right now.

  But once, Elsa had been twenty-two and shattered by a broken heart. That girl lived within her, too. She remembered the needles of sorrow sticking out all over her as if she’d fallen in a patch of prickly pear cactus, the hair-fine needles excruciating whenever anything brushed them, and everything did. Clothing, sights, sounds, songs, food, and drink. Anything that reminded her of her lost love.

  Alexa had not said much about what had happened, except that she couldn’t be with Carlos anymore because of her father’s criminal behavior. They had broken up.

  The girl came out with flip-flops on her feet, and her hair tied back in a ponytail. “Ready.”

  “Good.”

  It was the kind of day that made the hot Pueblo Augusts worthwhile. The lilacs were blooming in full force, their scent filling the air, and the flower beds around the neighborhood bloomed with tulips and budding poppies. Not even a breath of wind disturbed the air. The day was quiet, with children still at school, adults at work, and they walked along the old sidewalks at an easy pace. For a long time, neither of them spoke.

  From her pocket, Elsa took the rosary beads she’d found in the garden and slid them around her wrist, cool and solid. She’d been carrying them in her pocket every day. She had also been wearing the medal Joaquin had given her.

  “I went to England,” Elsa said. “When my heart was broken like yours is.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know, honestly. I just couldn’t bear to come home and go back to everything being the same as it was before we left.”

  “Well, at least I don’t have that problem.”

  “You’ve lost a lot, Alexa. Don’t make light of that. Your home, your father, your boyfriend.”

  “My life,” she said, and there was such exhaustion in the word that Elsa wanted to stop and hug her on the street. Instead, she kept walking.

  “What do you mean by that? Carlos?”

  Alexa’s mouth worked. “I don’t want to talk about all this. Okay? Please?”

  To each her own. Elsa would take it as a victory that Alexa walked with her. Breathed the fresh air. “Okay.”

  “How far do we have to walk?”

  “Just around the next block and back home, okay?”

  When they got back to the house, Elsa wouldn’t let Alexa turn the television on, so she went into the long bedroom they’d created, drew all the curtains, and crawled into bed with her MP3 player.

  Elsa, too, found her player and stuck the buds in her ears, sliding through playlists until she found one that was a good mix of indie rock and blues and her favorite female vocalists of the moment, Pink and Sheryl Crow.

  Long rays of deep gold light slanted through the kitchen window as she unwrapped the chicken, sturdy and fat, with clean pink-white skin. She washed it under cold water, and then cut it into pieces, legs and thighs first, then wings and back, which she set to one side. The breast she cut carefully in two plump pieces.

  It was for Deacon. An offering. She had not stopped thinking of him since Saturday night, and although she had seen him a couple of times since, in the morning or evening at the gardens, he seemed to hold himself a little apart from her. Maybe, she thought, she had been mistaken about the attraction she sensed from him.

  And yet, that kiss under the tree. The way he held her hand. Since Saturday night, she remembered over and over the way he had held her gaze and pulled her hand over his mouth. Over and over she remembered the movement of his lips against the heart of her palm. Over and over it replayed in her imagination.

  In her ears, Sheryl Crow sang an entreaty. Are you strong enough?

  As she patted the chicken dry, Alexa’s sorrow floated through her. The emotion was dark purple, as thick as smoke, obscuring all that was real and true about life. Elsa let it move in her own chest, accepting it, as she measured Crisco into a heavy cast-iron skillet. She paused for a moment, closing her eyes, imagining the smoke dispersing, thinning down until her niece was bathed in a warm golden light that spilled over her in her bed, soaking into her body, all the way into her bones.

  A face came into Elsa’s meditation, a man bent over, weeping desperately. It startled her with its clarity. He wore a white shirt and his shoulders were broad and straight in the way of young men, and his hair was thick and curly. Alexa!

  Elsa did not move, waiting for more. But that was all there was, Alexa in her bed, soaking in sorrow and light in equal measures, the picture of the young man weeping.

  She opened her eyes and went to the door of the bedroom. Alexa lay in a pile of skinny limbs. She was fast asleep, a real sleep, a healing sleep, and Elsa let it be. Later, she’d find out more.

  In the meantime, Pink’s husky voice spilled out of the earphones, singing about a man in a garden, a man who called her Sugar, and in response, Elsa’s skin rippled all the way up her arms and back, into her hair. She thought of Deacon’s big hands and of her own hand on his face the other night.

  A fever flushed her as she mixed flour and salt into a bowl, then added pepper, then a little more, until it speckled the flour. The last ingredient was nutmeg, a solid pinch. The flame beneath the skillet began to melt the fat. She imagined Deacon’s mouth on her own, imagined the slow heat of his tongue, and thought of his hands moving over her skin. She dredged chicken pieces in the flour mixture, coating them thoroughly, and putting each piece on a clean plate to set, thinking of her and Deacon’s limbs tangled, his raspy voice in her ear.

  When the fat was hot, she lowered the chicken into it carefully, letting it swell up in bubbles over the edges. The breasts went in last, flesh down. Elsa covered the pan and set the timer. The smell filled the kitchen, heat and seasoning and simmering skin.

  She wiped her brow and her neck and sat down to wait.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Elsa couldn’t sleep. She awakened every half hour or so, thinking of Alexa and the weeping man, or Deacon holding her hand against his face, or for some bizarre reason, Joaquin running along the levee. She half thought, half dreamed of her congregation back in Seattle wandering like loose sheep in a meadow, and she saw Kiki there among them, eating a taco. Elsa hugged her. “I thought you were dead,” she said, in relief. Kiki said, “You know better than that.”

  The words lingered as she awakened, looking up into the darkness. You know better than that.

  Finally, just after four, she got up and took a shower, washing away all of the half thoughts and hungers and losses as well as she could. Her neck was tired and it would be a long day at the soup kitchen, but a good walk in the cool morning would be a tonic to her soul.

  Before she left, however, she pulled out the tortilla España she had made for her niece last night, eggs and fried potatoes cooked together with onions and salt. Ordinary. Comforting. She wrote a note that said,

  Microwave on medium for 1:30. EAT! Love, E

  And propped it against the dish.

  Tucking the wrapped fried chicken into a backpack, she headed out with Charlie just as the sun began to brighten the eastern horizon. They made their way to the levee, and met the sun just beginning to rise, as if emerging from the Arkansas River. On her right, the water turned topaz and opal, shimmering against the sand and the industrial clutter of the landscape. Birds twittered in the trees to her left, and she was nearly on a level with their nests. A pair of muscular Rottweilers barked warnings from someone’s backyard.

  Coming toward her was a runner, backlit so that his features were obscured. It was only as he nearly overtook them that she realized it was Joaquin, looking not at all like a priest in his bike shorts and a zippered performance top that left his throat exposed. She rarely saw it. The shorts showed off his beautifully muscled thighs and ca
lves, and she wolf-whistled playfully. “Looking good, Father Jack.”

  He grinned, and stopped. “Yeah?” He touched his lean middle. “Not too skinny?”

  “No, Father. I think you’ve been putting a little weight on, haven’t you?”

  “It’s not hard with this parish, let me tell you.” He blew out hard, put his hands on his hips. Sunlight burnished his black hair with a copper gloss. A part of her, the part that was grieving along with Alexa, remembered how much she had loved touching that hair. It was a wistful emotion, a husk of longing.

  “I can imagine.” She shook off her thoughts and looked at him, her oldest friend, her brother. “Hey, we might need your help with Alexa. She’s not really eating. She has a terrible broken heart. She’s pining … for Spain, for her lover, for everything she lost.”

  He closed his eyes, hands still on his hips, and took a breath. His tongue touched his lower lip and then he looked at her, cheeks burning. “The circle turns, doesn’t it?”

  “I didn’t mean it like that.”

  “I know.” He swallowed. “It’s me. It’s all the things I’ve been thinking about since you’ve been back.”

  She waited, feeling the roles between them shift, as they often did—one the mentor, one the mentee, and then the other way around. He needed Reverend Elsa right now. “My being here is bringing things up, isn’t it?”

  His nostrils flared. “I’ve questioned everything.”

  “We never have dealt with it, really. It was over so fast. One day we were engaged and in love and the next we were finished.” She took a breath, letting it cool the heat in her throat. “We were together for a long time. We should have taken some time to bury the old relationship.”

  He said, “I still love you, you know.”

  “Of course.”

  “No,” he said, stepping forward, that dark intensity in his eyes. “I mean, love you. Those feelings didn’t change at all.”

  “I knew what you meant, Joaquin.” That sorrow that had been swirling around Alexa now engulfed them, obscuring the bright shining sun, the sound of the birds.

  And then the church bell began to ring, signaling six a.m. Joaquin raised his head and smiled ruefully. “I’ve always loved how the sound of bells carries the power of exorcism. We can all use that once or twice a day.”

  Relieved, she laughed. “Let’s get to work, Walking. I’ve got bellies to fill and you’ve got souls to minister.” They took the path down the hill off the levee. “I dreamed about my congregation last night,” she said. “They were wandering around a pasture.”

  “A flock without a shepherd?”

  “Maybe.” She reached level ground. “Maybe it’s starting to feel like I might go back.”

  “You know I’ll miss you, but I hope you will.”

  As they neared the church, she turned off toward the kitchen, Joaquin toward a shower. “It’s all going to work out the way it should,” she said.

  He smiled, both sadly and wisely. “Yes.”

  When he was out of sight, Elsa ducked around the back of the church to see if she could spy Deacon’s truck. It wasn’t there, and she went inside, putting the chicken away in the fridge before she got to work on the soup.

  Having started so early, she was alone for quite some time, thinking about the people who would come to eat the soup today. It was the end of the month again, so there would be more children and mothers, along with the usual suspects. She cut the bacon ends into pieces and browned them in a heavy pot, rendering the fat she then used to soften chopped onions, diced carrots, garlic, and celery over low heat. The fragrance began to fill the kitchen, easing the tension she’d been feeling. The ham hocks and beans went into the pot, and she brought it all to a full rolling boil, then covered it and turned it down to a simmer.

  As she cooked, she thought of Joseph, and Deacon’s comment that he sometimes fell off the wagon. What would help strengthen an old man? There was an old, old herbal in the basement, an encyclopedia of ways to use herbs in healing and in cooking. She dashed downstairs to get it. When she came back up, Deacon was pulling the big coffeemaker out of the pantry.

  Her moist thoughts of his body rushed through her and it suddenly seemed as if the chicken was a fool’s offering, silly and girlish.

  “Hey, Deacon,” she said. Even in her own ears, she sounded false.

  “Hey, Elsa. How’s it going?”

  She nodded, not looking at him, wondering if her neck was as red as it was hot. She gave the soup a good stir, then leaned against the counter, flipping the book open. He carried the coffeepot over to the sink and started filling it.

  “How’s your niece?” he asked.

  “Wrecked. Her entire life was just turned completely upside down.”

  “Poor kid.”

  She flipped through the herbal, reading lists and recipes here and there. Tea for high blood pressure. Tea for weight loss. Ah, alcoholics.

  “Is everything all right, Elsa?” Deacon asked.

  She met his eyes. “Yes. Just a minute.” She went to the fridge and pulled out the package of foil-wrapped chicken. “I made you something.”

  His eyes crinkled. “Well, well, well. For me? What is it?”

  “Fried chicken. You can take it home with you.”

  He slipped open one end and stuck his nose inside to smell. “Have mercy,” he murmured, closing his eyes. An absurd sense of pleasure moved through her.

  He straightened. “You cooked for me.”

  She nodded. In the distance, she heard two women’s voices approaching. Her volunteers.

  “Does this mean you like me?”

  She smiled. “Yes.”

  He pushed the chicken into her hands and turned toward the coffeemaker. “You want to help me carry this all downstairs?” he said as the two women came around the corner.

  “Sure. Viola, will you check the bread dough? I’ll be right back.”

  “No problem.”

  Deacon led the way. Elsa fixed her gaze on his blue shirt, tucked in at his belt, feeling a honeyed charge in her limbs. When they reached the basement, he put the coffeemaker on its table and took the chicken out of her hands. She stepped back, but he caught her hand. “I’m too old for you.”

  “Yes, you are,” she agreed. “You must be at least seventy, right?”

  “May as well be,” he rasped, and put his hand around her neck, beneath her hair, and pulled her close.

  And kissed her. Elsa leaned into him, tilted her head, opened her mouth to let him in. He tasted clean, and smelled of shaving cream and a spicy deodorant, and Elsa let herself fly into the moment, really tasting him, touching him, her hands on his arms, his chest, his waist, every inch of him lean and muscled from the work he did.

  After a moment, he hauled her closer, one hand on her face, the other roaming over her back. She arched upward, luxuriously, imagining how it would feel to be bare chest to bare chest. A hungry little sigh rose in her throat.

  “Sweet Jesus,” he whispered, raising his head for a moment. Their eyes met, and Elsa fell into that, too, dizzy with the intimacy of looking so closely at him, seeing the flecks of green and gold in his irises, the strong arch of his brows. Holding her gaze, he bent to kiss her again, and she was the first to lower her lids, afraid of what might be written in her expression. His hands, those big hands, hauled her bottom closer to him. She pulled his shirt out in the back so she could put her hands on his skin, feeling as if there was a sizzle when flesh met flesh.

  Naked.

  The thought, so vivid, sent a bolt of such lusty heat through her that she wanted to have sex right there, right then, on the floor if necessary. It burned from groin to belly to breasts and made her want to bite him, growl. He sucked sharply at her lower lip, his hands tightening hard on her bottom. It was all she could do not to rub against his thigh, put her hand on him, too.

  Abruptly, she pulled back. “We—I—um—” She clapped her hands to her overheated cheeks. “Someone is going to be down here any se
cond. We have to stop.”

  He nodded, his eyes sober as he reached for a lock of hair that stuck to her face. His pupils were dilated, his face as flushed as her own must be. He took a step back. “Here’s the thing, Elsa. He’s my friend.”

  “Who?”

  “Father Jack.”

  She scowled, stepping away from him. “You’re misunderstanding our friendship. That’s all it is.”

  “I’m not misunderstanding, Elsa. It’s pure, and platonic, I believe that, but that doesn’t change some realities.” He ran a finger down her arm. “You move like a married couple. Right in sync.”

  She yanked her arm away from his touch. “He married the church instead of me,” she said, and had to lift her chin hard to avoid showing too much sorrow. “He was the love of my life, I won’t lie. It just about killed me when he”—she held up her hands and flung them to the heavens—“answered the call from his own very special angel. He left me, and frankly I don’t give a damn what he thinks of my love life. He’s my friend, and that’s it.”

  “Elsa—”

  She sidestepped his reach, backing away. “No. I don’t really want to talk to you right now.” She whirled and went upstairs to finish the soup.

  Most evenings, Joaquin had parish duties. He visited the sick at home and in hospitals; he had dinner with families who invited him over; he visited the elderly. His was a full life, and so he treasured his solitary moments. He liked his Mondays off, and used the time to read, to drive to the mountains to hike, to have dinner with friends and relatives. His was a large clan, and he was glad to live in his hometown again. His older relatives, especially, were delighted that there was a priest in the family. He knew they sometimes speculated over his career possibilities. Maybe he’d be a bishop someday! Even … who knows, he’s smart and devoted … a cardinal!

  A rich life, even without adding his devotion to God, which was true and deep and kept him company throughout all his other duties. It gave him joy to be the face of God for those who needed him—an old man who could not speak for the tubes in his throat, a grieving widow who couldn’t accept her husband’s death, the lonely and old and poor and forgotten.