by Peter Giglio
* * *
A little before three, the phone rings.
“How’s the place holding up?” Bud asks.
“It’s still here,” I say, trying not to sound too cocky.
“Well?”
“Ran a couple bad credit applications. Terry Lawrence and Marty Jasper.”
“Usual suspects,” Bud says. “How’d they take the news?”
“Like they expected it.”
“Sounds about right.”
“And I sold a car to Mike Mitchell.”
“Lucky break, kid. His son’s been eyeing that Tiburon for weeks. Knew it was only a matter of time before—”
“Sold him the ’98 Cav.”
“Bea Lumley’s old car? Been trying to move that thing for two years.”
“I know.”
“How’d you—”
“I reasoned with the decision maker instead of playing the kid’s game.”
Bud laughs. “Goddamn, you might just have the stuff after all. What’d you get?”
“Full price.”
More laughter. “Well, if that doesn’t beat all. Hey, I’m heading back into town now—let me take you out for a steak. We can talk about the future.”
“Can’t, I have a date.”
“A date, huh? Sounds like I really underestimated you.”
“Just a little.”
“Lock up and have a good time—you’ve earned it.”
“Thanks.”
“Oh, and can you come in on Monday morning?”
“Sure.”
“We’ll talk more then.”
Chapter Eighteen
When I get back to my apartment to pick up clothes, there’s a note taped to my mail box.
What the hell happened to my door?!?!
Ernie
Heading inside, I ball up the message and toss it at the trashcan in the kitchen. A real three point shot and then some. The paper ball sails…sails…bounces off the rim…lands in the can…
…and the crowd goes wild!
“Fuck you, Ernie,” I mutter. Then, laughing like a kid, I jaunt to my closet and grab my finest digs.
* * *
At Dad’s, Nora sits on the porch swing with a thousand yard stare. After a long moment of me standing on the porch, she acknowledges my presence. “Hi, Uncle Jack.” There’s no sadness in her voice, just fatigue. Putting my free hand on the swing’s chain, I sit next to her.
“You look nice today,” she says. “Is that suit for your date?”
“The suit’s for work.” I hold up the stack of clothes—a burgundy Perry Ellis oxford and a pair of charcoal gray slacks.
With a look of surprise, she says, “You washed cars in that?”
“Not today. Today I sold cars.”
“That sounds like fun.”
“It was. Where’s Dad? Why are you out here alone?”
“He’s inside talking to Momma. They didn’t tell me to go outside, but I kinda thought it was best to give ’em some space, you know.”
“That’s…that’s probably best. I didn’t think she’d be out of the hospital for a while.”
“There was a problem with her ’surance. Grandpa yelled at the lady behind the desk, then he offered to pay for everything, but Momma wouldn’t let him do it. Said she’d be all right.”
“How are they getting along?”
“Who?”
“Your mom and grandpa, who else?”
“Well…”
I give her enough time to answer, then nudge with, “Yes?”
“I don’t know,” she says. “They’re not yelling, but…I’d prolly be inside if it felt all right. I mean, The Flintstones is on TV. My favorite one, too.”
Quickly remembering the episode in question, I adopt a pseudo-serious expression. “‘You, sir, are a wiggly worm.’”
Her eyes go wide as she laughs. “Princestone University,” she bellows. “I love it.”
“Ah, you have that on DVD anyway. You can watch it whenever.”
“Yeah, but I like it best when the TV plays it. Makes me feel less…crazy.”
This spins me. “What do you mean?”
“Well, kids at school call the stuff I watch ‘lame.’ They say it’s ‘old’ and ‘stupid.’ Say that Flintstones are just dumb vitamins. But when the TV plays it, I feel like…like someone’s agreeing with me, you know.”
“I agree with you.”
“Sure, but you’re my Uncle Jack. You have to agree with me ’cause you love me. The person at the TV station who plays my show doesn’t even know me.”
“Huh,” I say. “That’s…that’s an interesting point.”
“So, you nervous ’bout your date with Paige?”
Rather than answer with words, I hold up two slightly separated fingers.
“Do you,” Nora says, “love her?”
Putting my arm around her shoulder, I laugh. “I don’t even know her yet.”
“But you want to, don’t you?”
“Very much.”
“Will she come with us when we leave?”
“I don’t know. Probably not.”
“Why?”
“Well, there’s just not enough time to…”
“Why?”
I pull her close. “Aren’t we getting ahead of ourselves?”
“You tell me.”
“I think I just did.”
We sit there for a while, not saying anything, and I, sweating up a storm in my wool suit, start longing for the air-conditioned comfort of Dad’s house.
Finally, Nora breaks the silence: “If you start to love her, will you stop loving me?” She looks up with the most heartbreaking eyes I’ve ever seen.
“Why would you ask that?”
“I don’t know. It just crossed my mind.”
“No, of course not. I’ll never stop loving my Bear.”
“Never hurts to ask.”
As I stand and start for the door, Nora says, “Uncle Jack?”
I turn. “Yeah.”
“‘You, sir, are a wiggly worm,’ and I’ll never stop loving you, too.”
Chuckling, I step inside, but my mirth quickly withers. Lily’s asleep on the couch, and Dad’s sitting next to her in a chair, just staring at her.
“I don’t understand,” he whispers, “how someone can do this kind of thing to another human being.” He turns to me, eyes red.
“She never did know how to run away from trouble.”
Dad stands up and walks toward me. “But you do?”
Looking down at the carpet, I shake my head. “No. But I’m learning.”
“Heard you talking to Nora through the window. So, Bud let you work the lot, huh?”
“Yeah.”
“Well…?”
Teeming with pride, I say, “Made my first sale.”
He manages a brief smile, then says, “Sometimes, son, it’s better not to walk away.”
“Dad, I need to—”
“Listen to me.” Dad pulls some cash out of his pocket—three twenties—and hands it to me. “This is for your date tonight. Have a good time. But remember, sometimes it’s better not to walk away.”
“Thanks,” I whisper.
“I love you,” he says.
“Thanks again.” Then, without another word, I head to the bathroom.
Chapter Nineteen
The fabric of my life isn’t sewn with many moments beyond articulation. Don’t suppose too many lives are. But only one word fits Paige as she saunters across the street to meet me.
Grace.
Her pink sundress flutters in the boiling breeze, and she’s wearing her strawberry hair up. Red lips. Smokey eyes. And the way she moves: catlike but on the safe side of sultry; confident but far from smug.
Like I said: grace.
Smiling, she doesn’t approach like a stranger, like so many have on first dates. Familiarity. That’s a big part of this; hard to explain, but easy on the eyes and the soul.
We start with a hug, not a han
dshake. She instigates, but me, I’m not complaining.
“You look nice,” she says.
“I clean up pretty well,” I respond with a chuckle. “You…I really don’t have words for you.”
She twirls around once, beautifully childlike, then says, “What, this old thing?”
I take her hand and we start walking. For a few seconds, I worry she can feel my nerves through the vibrations of my grip, but then I realize, I can feel hers. There’s comfort in that.
“You look wonderful,” I say. “Just so there’s no confusion about—”
“Why would there be any confusion,” she says. “I saw the answer in your eyes. The eyes, they talk for us when we don’t have words.”
We do that a lot, Paige and I, we talk without talking. This, I know, is us. Silence in my life is routinely a story of discomfort, but not now. Not with her. She puts salad in my bowl, and I like that. The simplicity of it. Of us. The little things, like the way she sips her wine. The way she compliments the waitress about the food, even though the truth is in her eyes. The food is bland. Everything in Sunfall is. But not Paige. She’s a breath of fresh air, a blast of oxygen in the driest desert. And the truth, it’s not hidden from me. It’s all there. Her life has been tough, I can see. One disappointment after another.
Our entrees are consumed, wine glasses empty, and I’m talking about Nora. I’ve been talking a lot about her, maybe too much, but a twinkle in Paige’s eye tells me something important.
“How old’s your child?” I ask.
“I never told you I have a child,” she says, smiling.
“How old?” I’m not pressing. The smile, I’m wearing it, too. And my voice, it’s gentle. How could anyone ever dare raise their voice to this angel?
“He’s nine.”
“What’s his name?”
“Cody.”
“How was everything?” That’s the waitress checking in on us. I affirm that everything is terrific, because it is, before ordering more wine. First I check Paige’s eyes, making sure that’s what she really wants. She does. I order the wine. The waitress walks away.
Paige leans across the table, eyes intense, cutting but not injuring. “Talking without talking,” she says.
“What are my eyes telling you right now?”
“They tell me you’re a good guy, mostly. But they say something dark, too.”
“Like what?”
She shrugs and leans back. “I’m not psychic,” she says. “But…but I don’t think there’s anything there I can’t handle. Also, you want to kiss me.”
Now it’s my turn to lean forward. She follows my lead. And we kiss, long and passionate, not caring who’s watching. Not giving a damn about anything else in the world. Two people. One connection. Silverware clatters to the floor. Wine glasses tremble. Her breath is sweet. Her tongue, insatiable. And that connection of ours—a flash in time, but also a lifetime worth of passion—doesn’t end ’til the wine arrives.
“Sorry,” I say. “We got…carried away.”
The waitress smiles, says, “No need to apologize, sir,” then glides to the next customer.
“She’s jealous,” says Paige.
“Of what?”
“That thing we just did. The way we did it. That doesn’t happen often. I can see it’s never happened to her.”
“That’s a shame.”
After we finish our wine, we take a walk. And as we walk, I talk and talk. I tell her everything, except for the shit about Lee. The untellable.
We’re sitting on a bench in front of Bud Sweeny’s lot, and I say, “That’s everything.”
“That’s not everything,” she says. “What about that douchebag with the sports car? That shit looked pretty serious.”
I tell her about Lee, but I don’t tell her about Jenny Snowdon, and this bothers me. I want to tell her everything, but how do you spill beans that hot? Answer: you don’t. But the existence of such truths, they still linger in one’s eyes. If she sees it, however, she’s merciful. Not pressing.
I learn about her, too. She grew up in Kansas City, the Kansas side. Cody came into her life when she was fifteen. She ran from one abusive relationship to the next. Two months ago, her mom died and left her and her dad a significant amount of insurance money. Unsure what to do, they consulted with her father’s accountant brother, also my business teacher from high school, Marty Sterling. He suggested they come live with him, bank the money, and figure out the future over time. Paige and her dad never had any. Money, that is. Nor time, I guess. The two, they have a way of going hand in hand. Paige and her dad decided that country living would be good for them. Good for Cody, too.
She finishes her story, then says, “Now’s the time.”
“What time?”
“You know my story. I know yours. So, this is it, the witching hour, when you ask me over to your place.”
I consider that proposition, then, slowly, I shake my head.
“What,” she says, “you don’t want to?”
“I want to, but not tonight.”
“Interesting.”
“Don’t get me wrong. I want to make love to you all night.”
She puts her arm around me, moves closer, puts a hand on my thigh. “I’m listening.”
“But…not tonight.”
She pulls away suddenly and is still smiling despite an expression that I hope is only feigned indignation. “Tease,” she says, then laughs.
“What I’m going to do is walk you home, give you the biggest goodnight kiss ever, then go home and whack off. But that’s not the end, I hope. The next time you have a night off, I’m going to take you out again.”
She’s still laughing. “I haven’t said yes yet.”
“When’s your next night off?”
“Tuesday.”
“Wanna go out?”
“I’d love to.”
This girl, I realize, could gain one hundred pounds tomorrow. All of her hair could fall out. She could lose her arms and legs. Still, I’ll never see anything other than that strawberry girl walking across the street for our first date.
Grace…
She will never be anything less in my eyes.
And for the second time in my life, I know love for another human being.
Sunday
Chapter Twenty
Tuesday is a distant memory.
And here we are—Dad, Nora, Lily, and Yours Truly. Lily’s surprising us all by walking around, though the pain killers are clearly taking their toll. She occasionally excuses herself for a nap but never sleeps for more than an hour. Her spirits are remarkably high.
The past is doing what it’s supposed to do. Hanging in the past.
Food keeps coming, thanks to Dad, and we keep eating.
Talking without talking. I like that notion, and I’m doing my fair share of it.
After the last dish of the day is washed, and Nora is safely tucked in bed, we take coffee onto the porch. I’m worried that without Nora things might get tense, but that fear quickly dies in the pleasant Nebraska night. We’re getting another reprieve, the air actually cool. Dad and I have a splash of Kahlua in our coffee. Lily, she’s just riding the meds, but she’s here. Sometimes I can tell she’s forcing herself here, but that’s clearly because this is where she wants to be.
“I was worried this might never happen,” Dad says.
Neither Lily nor I respond to this observation. We just share friendly glances filled with disbelief that this is happening.
“Nora’s crazy about you, Dad,” Lily says.
He replies, “I’m crazy about her.”
Dad lights a Kool, takes a deep drag, then shakes the pack at me. I hold up a hand and say, “I’ll pass.”
“It’s okay with me if you smoke,” Lily says.
“I know,” I say. “But it’s not okay with Nora. Or Paige.”
“Paige, huh?” says Dad. “So this mystery girl has a name now.”
“Sound like Jacky got lucky,” Lily s
ays.
“Will we be meeting this girl soon?” asks Dad.
I respond by reaching out a hand and saying, “Okay, I’ll take a smoke.” And Lily and Dad laugh at me. Being the butt of the joke doesn’t matter; it’s just good to hear their voices joined in celebration.
I scowl, not because I’m angry, as I take a drag from the cigarette, then lean back in my chair and, letting randomness bleed past any filter, say, “Stealing night.”
This gets Dad’s attention. He asks, “What made you say that?”
“Just thinking about those words,” I say. “You remember saying them?”
“That’s what I used to tell you when oncoming cars scared you at night.”
“What does it mean?” I ask.
“I don’t know,” he says. “A bit of poetry for a kid. Something, I guess, to help you grasp order without understanding the full truth.”
“And what’s the full truth?” Lily asks.
“That,” Dad says, “that…sometimes the other car really is heading straight at you.”
A gunshot, without warning, splits my memory wide. Again, I see Jenny Snowdon drop… The blood pooling around her head… Lee’s wicked grin… And the money, all that money.
“Stealing night,” I whisper.
Lily and Dad, they continue to reminisce. Lily’s talking about how she used to convince me that aliens from Jupiter had killed her and taken over her body, and that she was going to kill me next. Dad and she laugh at how shitless that scared me.
New fears, however, take center stage. Fears that might fade into the wallpaper of my life, but they’ll never die. Slowly, I detach from the conversation, smoking cigarette after cigarette.
Finally, Dad says, “Slow down there, Joe Camel.”
“Huh?” I say.
“What’s that?—your seventh?”
I cough, trying to force a smile. “Sorry,” I say. “I guess I drifted on you guys.”
Lily says, “‘Deep Thoughts’ by Jack Lewis,” then she laughs.
“That’s our Jack—always the deep thinker,” says Dad, clearly missing the SNL reference.
