Coming Home

by David Lewis

  “My turn,” Chris asserted, tacking on another twenty pounds to each side.

  Andy completed his Saturday morning routine with leg squats and crunches. Chris curled his seventeen-inch biceps, ending with dips and presses. Afterward they cooled down with several laps around the track that circled the pool, satisfied their macho “wildat-heart” routine was complete. We’re men again, Andy thought as he smiled, exhausted. Hear us … whimper.

  He sat on the tiled edge of the pool while Chris completed several more laps. Eight o’clock. They’d been at the gym for nearly two hours.

  “Still on for breakfast?” Chris asked, towel drying his brown hair in the locker room. He was already losing his hair on the crown, an occupational hazard, it seemed, for the testosterone-saturated gym rat.

  “Starving,” Andy replied. “You pick.”

  “Debbie’s meeting us,” Chris announced, almost too casually.

  “Don’t you two want to be alone?” Andy asked, pulling on his jeans.

  Chris stood up and slipped on his white shirt. “I’ve been holding out on you, buddy.”

  “You two are secretly married?”

  Chris laughed. “No. Marilyn’s coming, too.”

  “Oh.”

  “They went to that women’s retreat together; you know, the one in Estes Park. Shared a room. Inseparable ever since.”

  “I can see it,” Andy said, wondering how awkward it would be for Marilyn. Maybe he should decline.

  Chris placed his foot on the bench and proceeded to tie his shoelaces. “It’s a setup, Andy, pure and simple.” His tone had turned apologetic.

  Andy put two and two together. The whole thing must have been Debbie’s idea. “Should I run?”

  “Backward maybe.” Chris winked. “Did Marilyn ever tell you she once almost won a beauty contest?” He said it with an undisguised reverential tone. In many ways, he and Chris were a lot alike—both had careers in sales for one thing—but they differed in their evaluation of women.

  Andy began buttoning his shirt. “No, but I heard. Second runner-up. Oklahoma, was it?”

  “Tennessee.”

  “Got the southern part.”

  Chris sighed again. “I’m supposed to find out if you’ve gone blind or something.”

  “We had a wonderful time,” Andy replied, shrugging, remembering his first and last date with Marilyn, nearly a month ago. They’d gone to a fancy steak place on Colorado Avenue. She’d worn a flowery skirt and blue blouse. Talking had seemed almost effortless. She’d joked about being a brunette instead of a blonde. “They called me Monroe in school,” she’d laughed. “Accused me of dying my hair brown.”

  By the end of the meal Andy had determined she was the real deal, a genuinely sweet girl, not to mention a committed Christian.

  Chris frowned. “But …”

  “No but,” Andy replied firmly.

  Chris went to the mirror, pulled a comb across his scalp, and continued to parrot Debbie’s instructions. “I’m supposed to tell you she’s been waiting by the phone.”

  Andy was chagrined. They’d had a good time, but he didn’t think he’d made that big of an impression. “I didn’t lead her on,” he insisted, combing his own hair, aware of how defensive he sounded.

  “I know, but girls are like flypaper sometimes,” Chris said casually.

  Andy flinched. “Good thing Debbie’s not here. She’d burn you alive.”

  Chris grabbed his bag from the locker. “Okay. I’m done. ’Nough said. Feel like I’m in high school again.”

  “You did well. Did you practice?”

  “I was winging it the whole time,” Chris said.

  “I’m only mildly annoyed.”

  They drove Andy’s gray Toyota sedan to the Denver suburb of Littleton. Debbie was standing by the curb in front of Denny’s. She looked at her watch as Andy pulled up.

  “Are we late?” he asked Chris, who shrugged. “I don’t know, maybe five minutes.”

  Debbie leaned in the window frame and kissed her boyfriend on the cheek. She smiled at Andy. “Did Chris tell you?”

  “Pretty sneaky.”

  Debbie narrowed her eyes. “Marilyn’s holding our table. She thinks she did something wrong.”

  Chris turned to him. “Girls are always thinking, as if—”

  Debbie slugged him playfully in the arm.

  “Ow!”

  She turned her attention back to Andy. “She’s going to ask you to the church picnic. And you, my friend, need to say yes.” She gave him a humorous take-no-prisoners look.

  Chris turned to Andy. “You’ve got your marching orders. Hut, hut, hut …”

  “Are you going to slug me, too?” Andy asked, smiling.

  “Depends,” Debbie laughed. “So … are we set?” Andy paused. “Debbie …”

  “Don’t even start with me, Andrew. One date is not enough.” She pushed away from the car. “I’ll see you both inside.”

  Andy parked behind the restaurant and set the brake. “I think your girlfriend’s a bit strong willed.”

  Chris shrugged. “You think?”

  “She’s pretty, though.”

  “My only consolation.”

  Marilyn and Debbie were waiting at a table by the window, the morning sun beating down on their backs. Debbie acted as if nothing had been said in the parking lot. Marilyn looked a bit sheepish, but just as he remembered, her eyes were soft blue, her face silky smooth, her brunette hair delicious but conservatively styled. She was wearing a flowery blue blouse, pleated skirt, and sandals … and her beauty was intimidating. She’d been robbed of that Tennessee title. Marilyn lifted her eyes to Andy and smiled demurely.

  “Hi.”

  Chris looked at her, then back at Andy. Chris’s expression clearly said, Are you blind?

  Breakfast progressed effortlessly. They discussed church, sports, and national politics and laughed at Debbie’s humorous puns. Marilyn was rather quiet, yet when she did speak, she had a simple, confident, expressive charm. Andy found himself watching her out of the corner of his eye and the more drawn he was, the more depressed he felt. Soon, he was counting the minutes till the end of the meal.

  Eventually, Debbie grabbed Chris for some “important” conversation by the rest rooms, leaving Marilyn and Andy alone.

  “Debbie’s a bit obvious,” Marilyn offered apologetically.

  Andy shrugged, embarrassed for Marilyn. “She’s a great gal. Chris is lucky.”

  “Good friend, too,” Marilyn added, and just as Debbie had foretold, she asked Andy to accompany her to the church picnic. Andy hesitated and felt like an absolute jerk.

  “I wanted to give it another try,” she offered. “I’m interested, but if you’re not, that’s fine. I respect that.”

  Andy sighed softly. “I’m sorry, Marilyn.”

  “I’m a big girl, Andy.”

  He wanted to say more, but Debbie and Chris were already returning. Debbie raised her eyebrows at Marilyn, who gave a subtle smile and a slight shake of the head. Debbie looked incredulous, glaring back at Andy, who pretended he hadn’t seen the nonverbal exchange. When they said their good-byes on the curbside, Debbie didn’t speak or make eye contact with him.

  “So …” Chris replied when they’d gotten in his car. “That went reasonably terrible.”

  “Are you in trouble?” Andy asked.

  “Why? Because my best friend turns down my girlfriend’s best friend? Are you kidding? Debbie and I … we’re solid.”

  Andy slipped the car into reverse. “You are, aren’t you?”

  “Big. Big. Trouble,” Chris replied, sighing. “Will you come to my funeral?”

  “I’ll even sing at your funeral.”

  Chris frowned. “But you can’t sing.”

  “I’m willing to make that sacrifice. For you.”

  “I’m thinking I want someone who can sing on key.”

  “Very picky you are,” Andy commented. “There’s always karaoke.”

  “Fake sing at
my funeral?”

  “Kind of fitting, eh?” Andy looked over his shoulder and began backing out of the parking place.

  “I like it,” Chris said as he seemed to reflect. “What would you sing?”

  Andy twisted the steering wheel and headed for the parking lot exit. “I’m thinking, ‘What Kind of Fool Am I?”’

  “Hmm … I was thinking ‘How Can I Live Without You?’

  might be more like it… .”

  Andy dropped Chris off at the health club, where he’d left his car, then drove north to the Hamden exit before turning toward the mountains, a rugged shadow of blue-gray against the horizon. He had moved out of his parents’ home two years ago, renting an apartment in Castle Rock, about fifteen miles south of Denver. Having spent the first twelve years of his life in blink-and-miss-it Palmer Lake, he’d never acquired a taste for the big city, relishing instead the rustic small-town feel of Castle Rock. After a hard day at the office, he could feel the gentle decompression from big-city stress as he drove home.

  On Saturdays he spent part of the day visiting his parents. Thirteen years ago his father had transferred his medical practice from Monument to Denver, more specifically, the southern suburb of Englewood. Due to his father’s compassionate nature, his general practice had exploded after the move, making him a reluctantly rich man. At first his father had tried commuting, but the travel eventually grew tiresome. His mother, who’d grown up in Hartford, Connecticut, was bored with rugged small-town living anyway. So they moved.

  Andy turned into a curved driveway leading to a Spanish stucco home. Entering through the double wooden doors, Andy heard the sound of professional baseball filtering from beyond the open hallway.

  “That you, Andy?” His father’s voice echoed from the family room, which, if combined with the separate dining room, was larger than their entire last home had been. A cathedral ceiling hung high over the rooms, and a giant wall of windows faced the mountain range. Expensive hardwood flooring accentuated the slate stone fireplace, and there was a big-screen TV on the opposite wall.

  “Who’s winning?”

  “Who do you think?” his dad came back with a disgusted tone. He was lounging in the beige sectional sofa, wearing his comfortable gray chino slacks.

  “Maybe they’ll pull it out.”

  His father snorted. “Staying for lunch?”

  “And dinner,” Andy replied, grinning.

  “Given any thought to the trip?” his father asked, referring to a medical missions trip to India. He had invited Andy to tag along.

  “I’d like to, Dad, but you know—job and everything.”

  “Say no more.”

  “Andy, come give me a hand,” his mother called from the kitchen.

  Dad winked at him. “Your mother’s got a list a mile long. Wouldn’t think of asking me.”

  Andy headed for the kitchen. “Everyone knows you have two left thumbs, Dad.”

  “You should move back, Andy. Fix this place up.”

  Andy gave a respectful but dismissive wave. They’d had this discussion before. He entered the stainless-steel kitchen with hardwood flooring and white cupboards and kissed his mother on the cheek. She was wearing a pink apron over blue slacks, stirring her mixing bowl. Her brown hair was pulled back and pinned in a simple knot.

  “So how’s the best-looking unmarried man in Denver?”

  “Content.”

  “Impossible.” Susan McCormick pointed to the light fixture hanging from the ceiling. One bulb had died on the vine.

  “Hmm. We might need to hire this out,” Andy mused.

  “Don’t get smart, young man.”

  “Where’s the stepladder?”

  “Wherever your dad lost it last.”

  “Garage?”

  “I can’t guarantee your safety out there.”

  “Just needs a little organization.”

  “Nothing a giant fire can’t fix. We could start over.”

  Andy smiled. If his mom had her way, they’d move to a new house every couple of years. She had a restless spirit and loved interior decorating.

  “A man is required to keep a messy garage, Mom. It’s an unwritten code.”

  She gave him the look. The same look that petrified him as boy. Now it seemed comical. “Still going to that church of yours?” she asked, her lips pursed as if dreading the answer, daring him to tell the truth.

  “Yep.” He didn’t say he hadn’t attended in a few weeks.

  “Is it an all-male church?”

  “Nope. Last I heard, they let women in.”

  His mother raised her eyebrows. “Single women?”

  “Sure,” Andy said, smiling. “But mostly single women over fifty-five. I’m dating a sweet widow lady—sixty-four, wonderful grandchildren, a little older than me, but hey, love is ageless. Did I forget to tell you about her?”

  Mom gave him another look and began to wrap potatoes in tin foil.

  After replacing the light, Andy went out to organize the garage, starting with the tools. He wondered why his father even bothered to purchase them. Five minutes later, his dad peeked his head out the door. “Need some help?”

  “Sure.”

  “I’ll see if I can find someone.”

  Andy chuckled. A few minutes later his father returned in his grubbies.

  “You’re really making me look bad, son.” He grabbed a pail of rusty nails.

  “That’s why I visit, Dad.”

  “I suspected.”

  Two hours later they emerged, greasy and ruffled, their weekly father-son bonding ritual complete. After washing up in the laundry room, the trio ate turkey sandwiches on the deck overlooking distant Mount Evans. By now Andy was old enough to cherish these times as much as his folks did. After lunch they moved to the lower level and worked on a puzzle, the scene of two peaks in the Rockies called Maroon Bells, they’d begun two weeks earlier.

  “That blue is the sky, not the water,” his mother complained, looking at Andy’s gathering pile.

  “How can you tell?”

  “Oh, for mercy’s sake,” Mom replied.

  As a child, assembling puzzles always seemed like a monumental waste of time to him until he understood the true function they served—the same reason some men assembled to play poker.

  “Remember when we went to Maroon Bells?” Dad asked, pressing a small piece into the corner.

  Maroon Bells was just a few miles from the richest small town in America—the only place where the billionaires were pushing out the millionaires. His parents weren’t the Aspen types, though, and it took one visit to shake the dust of that heathen place from the soles of their feet.

  “I remember,” Andy said.

  “We took that little girl along, didn’t we?” His mother appeared distracted, plugging another blue piece into her sky. Each of them had their preferred approach to puzzle assembly. Andy had always wondered what that said about them. Mom always did the sky first. Dad was fixated with constructing the border. Andy merely liked to group similar colors and patterns together.

  “That’s right,” Dad said in his let’s-not-go-there tone of voice. His resistance only fanned her flame.

  “What’s the matter?” Mom asked.

  “Nothing, dear.”

  She leaned toward Andy as if to confide in him. “Your father hates to lose.”

  Oh boy, Andy thought, That’ll do it… .

  And it did. His father pushed himself right in the middle of the topic, just as his mother had intended. “Losing has nothing to do with medicine, dear.”

  “You take these things personally, as if sickness were the opposite team in a football game.”

  “That little girl’s mother wasn’t even my patient.”

  “But her father was.”

  “I think we tried to rescue her for a weekend,” Andy said, trying to deflect the conversation back to its origins. They looked at him curiously.

  “You know … Jessie.”

  “What do you think ever h
appened to her?” his mother asked, frowning at her puzzle pieces.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Boy, oh boy,” his mother said after a few moments of silence as she popped in another puzzle piece. “I used to worry about you two.”

  “Why?”

  “She followed you around like a lost puppy.” His father glanced over at Andy and chuckled.

  “How did we start talking about this? That was eons ago. I was barely out of the cradle.”

  His father nodded toward the puzzle and smiled as if to say, You’re on your own… .

  Andy sighed. “C’mon, Mom, she was just a pudgy little tomboy who lived next door.”

  “Methinks—” his mother said, beginning her favorite quote from Shakespeare. This, of course, signaled a return to her favorite topic—Andy’s marital prospects.

  “You sound like an Italian movie, Mom. Men don’t get married anymore until they’re in their thirties.”

  “Nice try,” she said, as if that were an argument of monumental proportions.

  Another humorous glance from his dad. They spent the better part of the day dissecting every woman Andy had ever dated, starting in junior high school and working up to college, with his parents weighing in on their favorites. He was surprised to discover that his mother liked any of his old girlfriends and not surprised that his father liked most of them. But they didn’t touch Elizabeth. She was off limits. His mother’s all-time favorite daughter-in-law prospect. A major sore point for all of them.

  Andy briefly wondered how a girl like Marilyn might fit in with his folks. Almost certainly they would adore her from the first meeting, admiring her quiet yet fervent faith. His mother would be giving him the winks and the nudges, just as she had done with Elizabeth five years earlier. Eventually Marilyn would bond with his mom, appreciating the directness that accompanied her demonstrative love. To know my mother is to love her, Andy thought, varying the old cliché. Marilyn would especially admire his dad, a man who proclaimed his faith in every medical or personal deed of his life, as long as it didn’t involve repairing or remodeling.

  No, he would be a fool to mention Marilyn’s invitation. Mom would be demanding the poor girl’s phone number so she could call and apologize for her son’s rude behavior. Then she’d invite her over for a Saturday night meal and surprise her unsuspecting son.