The Color of Home: A Novel

by Rich Marcello

  “How do you go in any further without getting lost? I’m afraid I’ll never come out.”

  Fellini barked, growled, dropped his bone, sprang up, and darted toward the front door.

  Probably an animal. Nick flipped on the outside light as they both made their way out onto the porch. What the?

  A young girl, maybe seven years old, capered in the front yard. She had long blonde hair decorated with blue ribbons. She stood no more than four feet tall. Lanky for her age. A white dress. White ankle socks. White Nike sneakers.

  Fellini loped out to the girl and pranced around her. As they played, Fellini’s black coat and the girl’s white dress melded. Grace. Even in the dark. A moment later, she plopped down on the ground. Fellini crouched next to her, hind legs straight, tail wagging, and offered his paw.

  “Hi, doggy. You look like a big bear.”

  “Hi, honey. Are you lost? Do you need help?”

  “No. I’m playing. I like your dog. What’s his name?”

  “Fellini. What’s your name?”

  “Evangeline. What’s yours?”

  “Nick. Can I call your parents?”

  “I live over there.” She pointed toward dense woods to the north of the cabin.

  “I don’t think there’s a house over there.”

  “What’s a house?”

  “You know, like this cabin I live in here.”

  “You don’t live in a cabin.”

  “Sure I do, honey. I live right here with my dog Fellini.”

  “You live in between.”

  “I don’t understand, Evangeline. I’d better call your parents.” Nick hurried into the cabin, located and switched on his cell phone, hurried back to the porch. “What’s your number?”

  “You know, you have to go through the sadness to get to the big blue sky. That’s why you’re here, silly, eating apple pie.”

  “Why don’t you come onto the porch and I’ll call your parents?”

  “Then you’ll get out of the middle.”

  “The middle of what, honey?”

  “Bye, bye, Nick.”

  Evangeline skipped off. Nick hesitated, went after her, lost her in the darkness and woods. Back on the porch moments later, he called the police.

  Two officers showed up at the cabin within twenty minutes. They asked Nick some general questions, then searched the property for clues. No sign of Evangeline. Before the police arrived, they’d checked with all of the local towns to see if there had been any reports of a missing girl fitting Evangeline’s description. None. The officers, skeptical, formal, recorded Nick’s statement, encouraged him to stay close to the cabin, committed to call him if there was any news.

  As the night wore on, Nick, shaken, lay in bed. Was Evangeline okay? Eventually, he sprang out of bed and went to the kitchen to make beet-carrot- apple juice. Two large glasses later, he wandered into the living room and built a fire, topped it off with a bundle of sage. He lay on the floor. Fellini curled up in a semi-circle next to him. The room took on the sage as he drifted back to what Evangeline had blathered about being in between. What the fuck? He dozed off without an answer.

  • • •

  On the one-year anniversary of Rachel’s death, Nick listened to a sketch recording of a partial song tentatively titled “Love.” Before she died, the two of them had started writing the song, a Beatlesque tune with a lot of harmony in the chorus. They’d planned to complete it when they returned from their visit with Sassa in Portland. Was he ready?

  Rachel had written a catchy chorus consisting of a single line, “There is love, love here,” repeated four times with four-part harmony layered over the main vocals. She came up with the idea for the song one night while deep in conversation with Nick about the lack of positive love songs in contemporary music.

  “No good love songs these days, Dobbie,” she said.

  “I need a new nickname.”

  “Too late. Dobbie for life.”

  “‘Love Song’ by the Cure.”

  “I’ll give you that one.”

  “‘I Will Follow You Into the Dark’ by Death Cab for Cutie.”

  “I wouldn’t want you to,” she said.

  “Really. Why?”

  “We all need to live our lives.”

  Unlike their other collaborations, “Love” started with the title and, from there, they built the song in pieces. They dedicated the session to the chorus hook, writing it over and over with minor variations, until they found one that drove the song. They finished the chorus, complete with gorgeous, intricate harmonies, only hours before they travelled to Portland. Before they left, unexpectedly, Rachel had launched into a killer rendition of a song they both loved, “Look at Miss Ohio.” She’d done good.

  Nick pulled out Rachel’s guitar. Miss Ohio. He smiled. He mapped out a structure for “Love,” chorus/verse/verse/chorus/bridge/verse/chorus. Rachel’s chorus. He clicked record on his laptop and strummed verse chords that complemented the chorus they’d written. He jotted down phrases in his notebook. Love was just an evening prayer / . . . / Words they penetrate me.

  Frequent distractions sprinkled across the day slowed his progress. Juice making. Fellini walking. Mailbox checking. Working out. Multiple showers. He caught himself procrastinating, thought he should do better, replaced should with can. At the end of the day, he still hadn’t come up with an idea. What would have Rachel done? He replayed their session conversation. No new hints. How could he finish without her?

  He flung a dozen or so guitar picks on the floor one at a time, like he was skimming flat rocks on water. When he ran out, he drove into town for dinner.

  • • •

  Nick had his favorite spots in Great Falls, and that night, he headed for Lucca’s. When he’d first dined at the restaurant months earlier, he’d christened Lucca’s as a sister restaurant to Pellegrino’s, the restaurant where Sassa worked during her Michigan days. Had Sassa guided him there? Rachel? Probably not. He stepped inside. At least ten types of freshly made antipasti—olives, fish, meat, cheese, mushrooms, and zucchini—were on display on a large table in the lobby. Black and white photos of Italians at work, at cafés, walking the city streets, and farming in Tuscany lined the walls. Someone he didn’t recognize showed him to a candlelit table adorned with a white linen tablecloth and a single place setting. Would he ever see Sassa again?

  Debbie approached him. She had long brown hair, her second strongest feature after her laugh. Close in age to Nick, her body, with more than enough curves, would have been considered perfect in the fifties. She was wearing a silk vest with spiraling neon-colored serpentines over a white button-down shirt. Her black tie, shaped into a perfect Windsor knot, toned down the serpents. He’d come to view her as his only real friend in Great Falls and went out of his way to ask for her when he visited the restaurant.

  “Nice outfit.”

  “It would look better if I were twenty pounds lighter.”

  “Not possible to look better.”

  The corners of her lips turned upward for a split second. “How are you? The usual tonight?”

  “I’m well. I started working on a song today. Yeah, the usual would be great, with some iced tea. Also, some antipasto from the window. Mix it up.” Although all of their entrees looked delicious, he only ordered a couple of items on the menu whenever he visited the restaurant. Linguini with a white clam sauce. Broccoli saltati with extra garlic.

  Later, Debbie returned with his meal. “I’m glad you’re writing again. What’s the song called?”

  “‘Love.’ I wrote the chorus with Rachel before she died.”

  “Wow. You’re ready to finish?”

  “I think so. It’s been a year and I had this strange thing happen to me one night, which nudged me.”

  “Fate?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Nick described Evangeline and recounted what happened, including what she jabbered before she ran off. He still couldn’t make any sense of it. “Do you know any y
oung girls who fit Evangeline’s description?”

  Debbie shook her head. “Though a lot of campers pass through this time of year.”

  “What do you think she meant?”

  “I don’t know. You know how kids are. They say all kinds of things that don’t necessarily mean a thing.”

  “You may be right, but I must admit her little rhyme has stuck with me.”

  “Pay attention then. I’ll be back in a few.” She scurried off to serve her other customers.

  Nice walk. In another life. Why had the rhyme stuck with him? What was she trying to say? He slowly picked out extra dark pieces of garlic from his broccoli dish, like they were all the nourishment he would ever need. He hardly touched the rest of his food.

  “Food okay?” Debbie asked.

  “Not too hungry.”

  “How about some lemon ice? We made it fresh this morning. Good and tart, just how you like it.”

  “Okay.” Since grade school, his favorite dessert. Outside of New Jersey, Lucca’s had the best lemon ice he’d tasted. Ice reminded him of summertime on the boardwalk with his mom and dad. He smiled.

  A few moments later, Debbie returned with an extra large dish of lemon ice. “I couldn’t get what the little girl said to you out of my head. Maybe there is something in the rhyme.”

  “Like what?”

  “Well, maybe you’re in between Rachel and Sassa?”

  Debbie had learned his story. Pieced it together over months of short conversations. How generous. He didn’t know much about her. Had he been that self-absorbed? From grief? For how long? He had to do better; she deserved it. “Yeah, I thought about that too, but I had clearly committed to Rachel by then, so I don’t know.”

  “But Rachel is dead now and Sassa isn’t.”

  “I’m not following you.”

  “Maybe she didn’t mean that you’re in between the two of them. Maybe she meant to warn you that, eventually, you need to stop grieving and choose life over death.”

  “Who are you?”

  “That’ll be $100, please.”

  Images of his father surfaced. Planting tomatoes in their yard. Crabbing on the Jersey shore with chicken wings. Strolling on the Seaside Heights Boardwalk. He’d shared the Rachel and Sassa story with Debbie, but he’d never mentioned anything about his father. He was shaky. Why his father instead of Rachel?

  Debbie stopped laughing, reached down, placed her hand on top of his shoulder. “Are you all right?”

  “Yeah. I think I’ll take the bill. I didn’t sleep that well last night and I’m exhausted.”

  “I didn’t get too personal, did I?”

  “You were incredibly helpful. I need some sleep, that’s all.”

  He paid his bill and bolted out of the restaurant. He drove back to the cabin, topping eighty most of the way. Debbie and Evangeline spoke to him all the way home. In between Sassa and Rachel. Choose life over death. Get out of the middle. Through the sadness to the big blue sky. Fuck.

  He pulled into his driveway. The headlights cut through the fog like projectors. At the edge of visibility, Debbie and Evangeline became one, like in the famous scene from Persona.

  The whole black and white scene played before him. He’d been in between since his father died. Partially alive, partially dead, he’d straddled both worlds without existing in either. He’d fed on others’ emotions to taste living without committing, without risk, longing to join in but not knowing how, until Sassa. Until Rachel. And with them, only snippets. Unsustainable snippets. No wonder they left him. Fuck. Why had it taken him so long to understand the truth?

  • • •

  Fellini licked Nick’s face. 6:00 a.m. He rolled onto his side and brushed Fellini’s coat, already warm from the sun. A slow wake-up and stretch later, he slipped out of bed.

  After whistling through his morning juice and exercise ritual, he returned to “Love.” He brewed extra strong coffee and, pot in hand, made his way to the studio. He missed Joe’s coffee. He placed the coffee on the floor, sat cross-legged next to it, and poured himself a large cup. Fellini guarded the entranceway.

  He focused all of his energy on a spot right below his heart, as if it were an infinite pool of creativity. God. Muse. Whatever. The clutter in his mind cleared as the spot opened wider. Big sky. Something preverbal trickled through, like he’d found the song’s resonant frequency. Time slowed and the rest of the room blurred. A rush of warmth came over him. The aroma from the coffee deepened. He took a sip. Rachel.

  He picked up his guitar and replayed what he’d already done the day before. Workable. What a great word. He opened his notebook and placed it next to him, opposite the coffee pot. His palms were sweaty. Barefoot, his feet jittered against the wood floor. Everything but “Love” cleared, making way. Dad. Sassa. Music. Great Falls. Pain. Loss. All of them made space. He glanced at the coffee pot. An amulet. Okey dokey. He strung together all of the pieces of the song—verse, chorus, bridge—as he hummed the lyric-free sections and sang where words existed. He lifted up his notebook, the melody still in his mind. It seemed to float. He jotted down new lines. One pass. He rewrote old lines. Another pass. He didn’t second-guess any of his choices, and he didn’t dwell on what Rachel might have done. He turned on his recorder and sketched out the song in one take. Tracked all four harmonies, one take each. Played back the song with all of the harmonies until he had a rough mix.

  He jogged out of the house and went for a short run with Fellini. “I tapped into something deep today, Fellini. I hope it comes again.”

  Back in the cabin, he cycled the song full blast until he was sure. It was better than anything he’d ever written. The infinite pool of sadness and the infinite pool of creativity had melded. He’d mastered love and loss. He’d made peace, contentment, “Love.”

  There is love, love here

  There is love, love here

  When we wake up in the morning

  and the light shines through your hair

  Your beauty overtakes me

  Your skin so pure, your eyes so aware

  When we do simple things

  We are free, we are happy, and content

  In each moment I can see everything

  without any fear or regret

  There is love, love here

  There is love, love here

  There is love, love here

  There is love, love here

  There was time when I was alone

  when love was just an evening prayer

  I wasn’t sure it would ever find me

  And then we took that leap midair

  Sometimes when it is hard to see

  I think over everything you’ve said

  Your words they penetrate me

  and guide me back to our bed

  There is love, love here

  There is love, love here

  There is love, love here

  There is love, love here

  • • •

  The next day, Nick rocked back and forth on his porch in an Adirondack cedar chair he’d built. Fellini sprawled at his side. Why did life appear fuller? He shut out his surroundings—the mountains, the trees, the yard, his truck, Fellini—and concentrated on an arrow-shaped rock he’d placed on the porch railing in front of him. Hosen in Sanskrit. Connection. He stilled without expectation.

  Then the flood came.

  Years of searching. Music. Pain. Words. Sex. Building blocks. Wisdom. Whatever. They’d come from nothing more than arranging puzzle pieces to avoid the really hard work, the work that would heal, the work that would lead him home.

  Music. He’d found solace there. And it also allowed him to stay in the middle, close to his dad, never fully willing to grieve. His songs, lifeless, not realized, took on new meaning as unintended eulogies chronicling his own blind feats to remain stuck. Lyrics he’d written pictured an imagined life. And erected a barrier that kept him from fully experiencing it. Except for “Hold You.” He’d gotten that song right, magically, d
ivinely. No wonder he was so scared to share it with Sassa.

  What about “Love?” Generative. Did he finally know what that word meant? Did he have to grieve, to open, to not overthink first? Could he only be generative in loss?

  Puzzle pieces? No more. Building blocks? No more. Forgiveness. That was key. Invisible threads of connection? They were key. He flashed on Sassa julienning vegetables. Headline: A refrigerator magnet saved his life. Within that world, infinite possibilities, more than enough for a lifetime, with or without Rachel. Sassa. Dad. And with connection, with compassion from unknowing and understanding, an older, more universal, not-just-in-your-head view surfaced. How to describe unknowing? Like dark matter. Everywhere and unseen.

  He snapped out of the trance. Dribs and drabs of rain fell, followed by a short, freakish thunderstorm. Protected by the porch roof, he remained seated and steady, fingers loosely clasped on his lap. Fellini, panting, extended his paw. Nick scratched behind his ears. “Is it really that simple, Fellini?”

  Fellini tilted his head, trying to understand.

  He went into the cabin and found his pocketknife. Back on the porch, he picked up the stone and settled back in his chair. He opened the knife, and carved an S on one side, and an R on the other.

  Two sides. Dual motivations. His quest for truth and honesty, noble in intent, had also protected him. A movie like Persona did push him toward intimacy, toward living without masks, and it also lodged him between two worlds. Unable to open his heart from that middle place, his most fundamental mask firmly isolating him, he remained in the dark, observing, compressed, feeling without real consequences, never re-integrating all he’d lost. For years, unsuccessfully, under the illusion of movement, of staying busy, of trying new things, he’d controlled his surroundings, had remained on solid ground, and unknowingly, had remained stuck, had remained numb. He hadn’t forgiven. His father. Sassa. Rachel. Himself.