The One Who Got Away: A Novel

by Bethany Bloom

  “How do people go to work each day and just put their time in there?” Henry had asked, shaking his head. “They must know that they have just spent a bit of their lives, while they were in that building. How do they go and sell something or make something that is trivial and asinine and pretend that this is what they were put on earth to do?”

  “It's not trivial and asinine if that's how a person makes his living,” Olivine had replied. “If it’s how they support their family.”

  Henry shook his head.

  “It’s not their entire life,” Olivine continued. “It’s just for seven or eight hours a day. And their job makes it possible for them to finance the stuff they love.”

  Henry considered this and then said, “Somewhere deep inside, I know this to be true. I know I’m in a special circumstance in that I grew up making things out of wood, and so did my father,” Henry said. “I’ve always loved it, and so did he, and so I never had to find a real job. In an office. I don’t even know what they do in there all day. Make reports? Reports about what?”

  Olivine laughed. “I can’t exactly see you working in an office anyway. You need to be outside.”

  “Absolutely.”

  “But some people love that kind of work. Just like you love carpentry.”

  “I’m sure you’re right,” he said, but he gave a shudder.

  “It might even pay better, you know.”

  “Yeah, it might,” he said, watching the people on the street for another moment. Then he added, “But, do you know what? I have always refused to have a job or a career that I wouldn’t have recognized as a job when I was a kid.”

  “Explain.”

  “No one, as a child, says, ‘When I grow up, I want to sell insurance.’” Henry said, “Or, ‘I dream of, one day, selling mutual funds.’ And then they become adults and they discover that this is a pretty lucrative thing to go and do. So people graduate from college and they go and do it. To me, those have never felt like real jobs.”

  “So a real job would be…”

  “A firefighter. A farmer. A guy who builds stuff. Or drives big trucks,” Henry said, laughing. “What was it for your friends, when you were growing up?”

  “Oh, all my friends wanted to be teachers or nurses.”

  “And you?” he asked.

  “I wanted to be a writer. Also, Wonder Woman.” She laughed, remembering the costume she had as a child and how she had worn it way past Halloween. “So do you mean to tell me that you always wanted to be a carpenter? Always?”

  “Yes. Also, Spider Man.”

  “There you go. We belong together,” she had said, resting her head on his shoulder and squeezing at his bicep. “We are Superfriends! Heroes of the universe. Defenders of the good.”

  “And always shall we be,” he said, raising a fist straight up.

  “So what does that pay?” she asked.

  “Who the hell cares? You’re a superhero.” And they both laughed, and he kissed her on the tip of her nose.

  Chapter Nine

  The following evening, after her professors had returned her exams, Olivine decided she had better spend a bit more time with her textbooks. Paul was working and she was busy making flashcards for herself when there was a curt knock at the door in her sister’s special pattern. Five quick raps, followed by a pause and then one more. It had been their secret knock since girlhood. Olivine capped her marker and bounded toward the door, swinging it open and grinning. How she needed a study break.

  Yarrow shoved a canvas shopping bag toward her, with tomatoes and springs of fresh basil sprouting from the top. “Oh,” Yarrow said, “Thanks so much for inviting me over for a game of Scrabble and tomato basil soup.”

  “You know I didn’t, right?” Olivine replied.

  “I know. But even though you didn’t...Truth is, I needed a little air, so I told Jon and the kids that we had a thing.” She pulled her lips back.

  Olivine stood aside and motioned her in.

  Yarrow bounded to the kitchen where she heaved the canvas bag onto the counter. “I brought some fresh tomatoes we can roast and chicken stock and some basil and a recipe that looks a-ma-zing.” She stopped and gestured toward Olivine’s stack of notecards and open textbooks. “Please don’t tell me you have other plans.”

  “No, it’s great to see you. Of course. By all means, make a mess of my kitchen.” Olivine smiled.

  “You know I have no friends except you, right?”

  “You have your kids and your husband.”

  “Yes, and you have two lovers.”

  “I do not.”

  “No? Just one still?”

  “I would never cheat on Paul.”

  “I know that. Really, I do. I was only kidding.”

  “Truly, I do. I would treat him like a human being. I would never, ever cheat on him. I’m not a cheater. And I would never be the Other Woman.”

  “I know, Olivine. You don’t have to convince me. Really, I was just joking,” Yarrow took a handful of tomatoes to the sink and began washing them. “It’s been on your mind, obviously. Jeez. By the way, just so you know, Jon said Paul called last night looking for you, while we were out at the café. Jon told him we were just grabbing some dessert, but we both thought it was weird he was checking up to see where you were. I mean, since when does he care?”

  “Yarrow!”

  “That came out wrong. He is just always more concerned about where he is than where you are.”

  “Weren’t you begging and pleading me to get things going with this guy? To not let him go. Just last night?”

  “Yes, yes. No guy is perfect, you know. And I know you don’t exactly want him to be around you all the time,” Yarrow said. “And about last night, I probably shouldn’t have said some of the things I said. Jon would kill me if he knows you know,” she dropped her voice to a whisper, “about the debt, etcetera.”

  Olivine pantomimed herself locking her lips with a key.

  Yarrow unloaded an industrial-sized can of chicken stock from the bottom of the bag and shoved it toward the back of the counter.

  “Goodness,” Olivine said, “How much soup are we making?”

  “Well, enough to freeze some. Oh, and mom’s coming, too.”

  Just then, Christine came through the door. “Helloooo,” she cooed. She thrust a potted plant toward Olivine, its leaves deep green, broad and waxy.

  “So I brought you a new plant, love, because I noticed you killed the last one I brought. I think you set a new record on that one.” They all turned and looked at the plant above the sink. The leaves had turned dark on the edges, and they shriveled in on themselves.

  “That one’s dead?” Olivine asked, taking the new plant from her mother.

  “Yep,” Christine replied.

  “But it’s still green.”

  “No, it isn’t,” Yarrow and Christine said, together.

  “There’s no way I could revive it?” Olivine twisted her lips to the side and raised an eyebrow.

  “Nope. No way.” Christine shook her head, “I’m going to teach you how to take care of this one, Olivine. I mean, if you want kids someday, like you say you do, you’re going to have to start with a plant, huh? And then maybe we can work our way up to a goldfish.”

  “Ha ha, mom.” Olivine looked away.

  “Hell, I’m a great mom and I can’t keep plants or fish alive either,” Yarrow said.

  “So,” Christine said, leaning against the counter and drawing a deep breath. “I have a feeling this isn’t going to be news to either of you, but I stopped by the cabin earlier today. And did you know that Henry Cooper is there?”

  “Yeah,” Olivine said. “We’ve met. Again.”

  “He’s a tall, cool drink of water, isn’t he?” Christine said, not taking her eyes off Olivine. “The years have been good for him. I mean, mercy! Those eyes. How long has it been, Olivine?”

  “Ten years, or so. I guess. Ten and a half, maybe.”

  “So have you become reac
quainted?”

  “No, Yes. Sort of.” Olivine felt her face flush with color. She turned toward the windowsill, taking the dead plant in her hands to inspect it. “I stopped by there the other night and Paul was talking to him.”

  “Really?” Christine prodded.

  “Yes. Paul was really pretty taken, actually, by the idea of what he has been commissioned to do. The door.”

  “The doors Henry makes are amazing,” Christine said. “I mean, have you seen his website? He’s not so much a carpenter as he is an artisan. No. An artist.”

  Olivine nodded. She stayed facing away from them as she opened the cabinet under the sink and overturned the pot, dumping the dried soil and her dead plant into the trash. “You’ve seen his website?”

  “Oh yes. And we had quite a nice chat.” Christine said.

  Olivine felt heat rise to her cheeks. “Oh, you did?” she asked, trying to sound nonchalant. She took the new plant from the counter and poked her finger into the moist soil. Then she turned once again to the windowsill and took her time arranging it on the sill. “So what did you talk about?”

  “Oh, well, we exchanged pleasantries for some time,” Christine said, “He really is such a charming man. And then I asked him why on earth he broke your heart in two so many years ago.”

  Olivine turned to face her mom. “You did not.”

  “Well, I wasn’t going to. I really wasn’t. And then it just came out. You know how those things do.”

  “No, Mom, I don’t. I am an adult. I am in full command of the words I say,” Olivine replied.

  “Well, I figured by the way he was talking about you, that you had never asked him what in the world happened back then. And I figured, you know, you are so in love with Paul, right? What’s the harm in figuring out our little mystery. You know, so we can close that chapter.”

  Yarrow laughed and pulled up a bar stool to the island in the center of the kitchen.“Wow, Mom. So what did he say?”

  “Well, let’s see…” Christine pulled a cutting board from Olivine’s cupboard and then she chose a knife from the block on the counter. She squeezed one of the washed tomatoes and cut it in half. “He told me it was complicated and it had been a terrible time in his life because he had just lost his dad and that he wanted nothing more than to explain things to you, Olivine.”

  “Wanted nothing more?” Yarrow raised her eyebrows. Her over-plucked arch reminded Olivine suddenly of a bird’s wing.

  “More than that,” Christine went on, “he said he would never forgive himself if he didn’t get the chance. To explain things to you. To tell you how he felt.”

  Yarrow whistled through her teeth, and Olivine turned away from them. She gave the new potted plant on her kitchen windowsill a final nudge and poked the plastic card with its care instructions deeper into the soil.

  “Does Paul know anything about this?” Christine withdrew a roasting pan from the cupboard next to the stove and turned on the oven.

  “Yeah, mom. I told you they were talking when I went to the cabin the other day.”

  “I know they have met. What I mean is, does Paul know he has a problem?”

  “He doesn’t, Mom,” Olivine said.

  “He doesn’t have a problem? Or he doesn’t know he has a problem?”

  Olivine shook her head, still facing away from them.

  They fell silent for a moment.

  “Huh. Well, one thing I’ll say. It’s uncanny really,” Christine continued. “Henry. He reminds me so very much of your father at that age.”

  Her words triggered a surge of memories. Suddenly Olivine was a little girl and it was the day before she started third grade, and Grandpa had been brushing her waist-length blonde hair and he said, “You are getting too old for such long hair.” So, that very afternoon, Olivine asked her mother to cut it. And as soon as the tresses fell to the floor, she knew she had made a mistake. Her hair, which she had been growing since she was a toddler; which slapped along her shoulders as she ran; which, after a day of playing outside in the summertime, smelled rich and earthy. It was gone. Cropped close to her head now. And Yarrow had stood next to her, swinging her own long hair, and telling her she looked just like Tinkerbell. How she longed for her long, swinging locks to return, but she didn’t want anyone to see that she was crying over her hair.

  That evening, her father had come home from work, and he walked straight over to her and he held her very tight, and he whispered straight into her ear in that way of his in which she could smell his aftershave and feel the scratch of his whiskers. And he said, “Oh, Olivine. You are beautiful and special and brave.” And she had burst into tears because these were precisely the words she had needed to hear just then, spoken right into her ear, without having to share them with Yarrow or with anyone else. Words for her alone. And when Yarrow had asked her later that evening, while they were doing dishes, what Dad had said, Olivine said she didn’t remember. And Yarrow had said, “Yeah, he says stuff like that to me, too.”

  It all made sense. That’s why she couldn’t get Henry out of her head. It wasn’t him. It was her father. She wasn’t going crazy, and she didn’t have a self-destructive streak. She was simply responding to something familiar. Something she loved, deeply and truly.

  “I mean, so much like your dad,” Christine continued. “The guy lives in a bus, for crying out loud.” Christine said. “It’s not a VW, but it’s so much like the one your dad used to drive around. On the inside.”

  “Henry lives in a bus?” Yarrow asked. “You forgot to mention that, Olivine.”

  “Well, not all the time. Just when he’s on location.” Olivine felt this need, suddenly, to defend him. “At least I think he has a home.”

  “Have you seen it in there? Artie is going to pee his pants when he sees it. Such a man cave. Backcountry skis and a single speed bike and all kinds of tools and gear and books.”

  “What else?” Yarrow wanted to know.

  “Olivine, he has a pair of handmade snowshoes in there. I mean, come on. Did you ever tell him our snowshoe story?”

  “No.”

  “Do you mind if I do?”

  “The story that ends in Dad’s proposal? You want to tell him that story. Now?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What are you trying to do to me, Mom?”

  “Nothing! I mean, if he’s going to be part of our lives, why shouldn’t I tell him certain stories? I’ve got to talk about something. He’s coming over for dinner tomorrow night.”

  “Seriously?” Olivine asked.

  “Yeah, Artie wants to see him, too. To get caught up.”

  “I just don’t think that’s very…appropriate,” Olivine said. “And what do you mean by ‘since he’s going to be part of our lives?’”

  “He’s making something very special for this family, dear. He’s really something very special.”

  “Mom, you can’t invite him to dinner. He’s my ex-boyfriend.”

  “Well, it’s really none of your business what I do, because you are not invited.” And she slid the tomatoes, lying halved on the roasting pan, into the oven. Soon the kitchen would fill with the acrid scent of burning sugar as the tomatoes began to roast, smoky and raw.

  Chapter Ten

  The following night, Paul arrived home early with a brown grocery sack full of produce and fresh pasta from the natural foods store. He blasted Count Basie on the stereo, the tiny white speakers tinkling with fast piano and wails from a saxophone, and he told Olivine she could relax on a bar stool and keep him company while he cooked their dinner. He moved mostly in silence: boiling water, wiping countertops, pouring, chopping, occasionally whistling along to the music.

  When he was nearly finished, Paul held a carving knife in a flat position, just off the cutting board, and struck the side of the blade twice with his left hand. He checked to see if the garlic cloves beneath were sufficiently smashed. Then he peeled the garlic off the board with the blade of the knife and shook it over the bowl of prepared who
le wheat Rotini, atop freshly chopped basil, ripe tomatoes and grated parmesan.

  Olivine took a long pull on her red wine glass, which felt too large in her hand, like she was Alice in Wonderland and had been shrinking alongside ordinary objects. And she wondered what her mother was, at this moment, feeding Henry.

  Paul pointed to the copy of Brides magazine that he had brought home and that had been sitting near Olivine’s elbow all the while he had been preparing their dinner. “Had a chance to look at that yet?” he asked. His hair gel made the top of his hair swoop up just so, and she had a sudden urge to tousle it. To put her palm on it and scrub hard. She placed her wine glass down on the counter, opened the cover of the magazine and flipped through the first twenty pages. “A little bit,” she said, though she hadn’t.

  “Anything catch your eye?”

  “A little bit.” Why didn’t she care about any of this stuff? Her budget was without limit. He had told her so. Twice.

  “I guess the first thing we need to do is set a date, so you have a timeline you can follow. So you know what you are looking at. I mean, if you want to have a dress designed or something.”

  “Set a date. Yeah, I guess that would be the first logical step.” The idea made her throat clutch. “I don’t need anything fancy or anything. I mean, maybe we should just start planning and see how things go.”

  “It’s fine with me if you just slip on a pair of jeans, say ‘I do,’ and be done. In the backyard, even. I don’t care. But I think your parents will want something more.” He lifted a spoonful of pasta to his nose, dropped it back in the bowl and began to grind more pepper over the top. “Besides, you know that you can get whatever you want. Isn’t that what every girl dreams of? Planning the fairy tale wedding. Carte blanche.”

  “I guess so.”

  “But then, I guess, you’re not every girl,” he said. He handed her the serving bowl over the bar and she turned to set it on the table in the dining room.