by Theresa Weir
Sometimes, when the sun was shining on a jacket he’d picked up at Everyday People, he swore he could smell an old bar in downtown Minneapolis where a blues act had played back in the sixties. Like time travel, but the time travel machine you stepped into was a piece of clothing.
Today he was wearing a jean jacket over a black T-shirt as he pedaled toward Lake Harriet. The girl at Everyday People had set the jacket aside for him knowing he’d want it since it brought with it a strong sense of yesterday.
“This has you written all over it,” she’d said, pulling the jacket out from behind the counter. “I saved it for you.”
She was right.
And now he was tooling down Lyndale, sans the cat, definitely sans the cat, because Emerson was on a mission to kick his cat habit, at least when it came to Lola, because no way would he get rid of Sam. No way in hell. And after a week and no response to the posters he’d stapled to various power poles throughout southwest Minneapolis, he was beginning to feel that Sam was now his.
His cat. He liked that. And even his roommate, Chris, said Sam was a nice addition to their home. But Sam was Emerson’s cat all the way. Sam didn’t sit on Chris’ shoulder, and he didn’t sleep in Chris’ bed even though Chris had tried to tempt him on several occasions. Sam went into the room and hung out a while—just enough to be polite—but he always returned to Emerson.
Sam and Emerson.
“You can’t come with me today,” Emerson told Sam earlier when he left him in Abe’s care at Let It Be. And now, as he hit the trail that led to the Lake Harriet Rose Garden, his heart began to beat faster. You don’t need to talk to her, he reminded himself. No talking needed.
He parked and locked his bike in the designated area, then reached into the breast pocket of his jean jacket and pulled out a folded piece of notebook paper. He scanned the words one final time, nodded to himself, refolded, and strolled toward the garden.
He heard her before he saw her. The sweet sound of Lola’s violin mingling with the sweet scent of roses. And yet to his well-tuned ears he couldn’t help but think about how those same notes would sound on a different instrument, because that was his nature. His analysis had nothing to do with her playing, which was graceful and haunting, but he could never seem to stop thinking about how to improve upon an existing sound.
She was near the fountain, the fountain itself creating another instrument and layer to her song. And god, what a day. Sunny and maybe sixty-five degrees. The kind of day where the air felt cool, but the sun on your skin felt warm. Off in the distance, he could see white sails on Lake Harriet where water shimmered as the echo of children rolled over the grass toward him.
The sun warmed up his new old jacket. Once again he got the sense that it had been worn by someone much cooler than him, and the mystery made it that much more appealing.
The day itself calmed him and gave him a sense of peace and well-being, and so it was with more confidence than was common for the everyday Emerson that he walked toward the music, passing a woman in a straw hat painting roses at her easel, and past the dog walker with four dogs ranging in size from some tiny little Shih Tzu to a wise-looking black lab with gray around its muzzle.
Lola was playing with eyes half closed, the butt of the violin under her chin, dressed in black boots and a floral skirt and a red sweater with a flower on it. Her hair was pulled back at her neck, probably to keep it away from the strings and bow. He didn’t recognize the song, and he could only hope she wasn’t near the end because he didn’t want her to stop, and he didn’t want her to look at him, see him, recognize him and expect him to talk.
With two fingers, he pulled the folded paper from his pocket, walked silently up to her open case and dropped it inside the blue velvet lining. Not much money in there, just as he’d suspected. He made a mental note to bring cash next time.
He slipped away unseen, moving among the roses to a grove of trees that edged the garden. Under the shadow of the tree branches, he watched as she finished the song. After a brief pause and a nod to the few muffled claps her performance elicited, she placed the violin under her chin once more and began another number.
Emerson smiled to himself, turned, and walked toward his bike.
* * *
Once Lola played her final song, she was scooping up the measly profit from her violin case when she spotted a folded piece of lined paper. She pocketed the handful of change, settled her violin and bow in the case, snapped it closed, then sat down on a bench to unfold the message.
She expected to find some nasty comment about her playing, or some stalkery thing, or maybe some kid’s drawing. What she hadn’t expected was a note from Emerson. A letter, really. Handwritten in strong print with absolutely no slant, filling most of the front of the paper, his signature at the bottom.
At first she just skimmed it, trying to figure out the what and why, but it didn’t really seem there was a what and a why. It was a charming message telling her he’d had a nice time at the party the other day, and how he’d enjoyed being in a castle with a princess.
There was a bit about his work, and how he was in the process of making a new instrument in his apprenticeship with a guy Lola had heard of, someone pretty famous who lived in St. Paul and only accepted one student a year.
And that was it. Just a note. Kind of like something someone might have put in the mail years ago, before email and texting and Facebook and Twitter. He’d made the effort to actually write it out, and he’d made the effort to actually come to the rose garden…
Just minutes ago Lola had decided she wouldn’t play in the garden again, but the message had her changing her mind. She’d come another day. Maybe a few more days…
Emerson and Lola
Chapter 10
Emerson continued to write the notes to Lola, and he continued to ride his bike to Lake Harriet during his lunch hour to deliver them. On his third visit, while sneaking up behind her to drop the note, he spotted a red envelope in the blue-lined case. The envelope had his name on it.
He smiled to himself. The game was progressing…although it wasn’t a game for him. Not really a game at all.
There was no way to snatch the envelope from the case without being seen, so he slipped from behind her, dropped a dollar bill and his note in the case, and snatched the red envelope, looking up as he straightened, catching her in profile.
She faced the fountain. The bow moving against the strings never hesitated, but there was a smile on her lips that hadn’t been there before. He turned and walked away, envelope in hand.
Once he was no longer in the open area, he leaned against a shade tree, broke the seal on the envelope, and pulled out a red piece of stationery that was folded once in the middle. Handwritten in black ink and slanted cursive writing that had a certain artistic and delicate quality to it that was very much the handwriting he would have expected her to have, was her reply to him.
Dear Emerson,
I’m glad you enjoyed the castle, and I’m glad you were able to come to the party, and I’m sorry I got mad at you for leaving the dance floor.
She went on to thank him for the kind words he’d said in his last note about her music and how perfectly she added to the garden.
I’d like to see the instrument you’re working on. Is it a guitar? And if so, acoustic or electric? I’ve heard about Les Ray and know he’s a local treasure. And I’ve heard it can take months to make a guitar. I’ve been interested in learning such a thing, but I doubt I have the talent. My dad says it’s almost a calling, almost a sixth or even seventh sense that comes into play, and that the good craftsmen are really old souls who created instruments in their past lives.
There were more words, words that weren’t romantic, just cordial, but the fact that she’d answered and that she’d played along made his heart sing in the most peculiar way.
And now that he had a piece of paper with her handwriting on it th
at he could stick in his pocket? That gave him a sense of hope and a sense of euphoria he had to tamp down, because at some point there would have to be spoken words. Words that came out of his mouth and floated to her ears.
* * *
His notes continued, and her notes continued. A few times when she wasn’t at the park he panicked until the following day when she was there again. And as their note passing continued, something else began to happen. People began to come to the garden with their lunches.
They sat on the benches surrounding the fountain, and they listened to Lola play while they ate, and once they were done eating they smiled at her and left a tip. Even the people who came to paint the roses, and even the people who walked their dogs, and even the people who would lie on the benches with their eyes closed, listening to the sweet and haunting tones that filled the air—they all left tips.
And it became obvious that they were drawn to the garden because of Lola’s performance, as if by some collective unconsciousness they’d all decided she was for them and she was part of the garden and the fountain and the experience.
After two weeks of notes, and after Emerson had filled a shoebox with her red envelopes, he decided it was time. Time to take the next step…
* * *
Out of the corner of her eye, Lola watched Emerson drop coins in her case along with the folded notebook paper. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him pick up the red envelope with his long, delicate fingers. And out of the corner of her eye, she saw him stand there a moment before spinning away to walk toward the stand of trees where he almost always paused to read her note.
It was hard to maintain her performance, hard not to stop and say something to him, but this was his thing and she was willing to play along.
The hardest part was waiting. The hardest part was making herself finish her set and not look at his note until she was done, until she packed her violin and took a seat on a nearby bench. And as she read, she could tell that some of the people on the benches were there to follow the story, their story, the story of Emerson and Lola.
And maybe those people dreamed up the contents of the letters in their own minds. Maybe love letters they’d once received, or love letters they hoped to find one day. But Emerson’s notes weren’t love letters. They were just correspondence.
She unfolded the crisp paper in her hand and immediately knew that this one was different.
Dear Lola,
You’re the best song I’ve ever heard. Will you meet me for dinner this Saturday night? I could pick you up, but I think that would be too conventional for us.
Emerson
At the bottom of the paper was a time and location.
She refolded the note and stared straight ahead at the fountain. Was dinner a good idea? She wasn’t sure. Through all of this she hadn’t allowed herself to be fooled. There was that other Emerson in him, the guy who was rude at the shop and the guy who walked away in the middle of a dance. The letters had been a way to circumvent that guy, to create this false persona, this charming and sweet and flirty persona that was unlike anybody she’d ever known.
He was offering her reality, but she wasn’t sure she wanted it. And yet her mind kept going back to his simple words, words that were as romantic as any words ever spoken to her: You’re the best song I’ve ever heard.
Sam and Emerson
Chapter 11
“You can’t come along.”
Emerson is looking dapper in a white button-down shirt and dark tie, his curly hair slicked back, but it’s his deer-in-the-headlights expression that has me on edge. He’s going on his first date with Lola, and he’s not ready. And I can’t let him go out there alone.
I haven’t mindmessed with him since that disastrous backyard party where I had to step in and save the day after he’d behaved so inappropriately. Even when he was writing those somewhat lame notes to Lola I stayed out of it, hard as it was for me to keep from suggesting more poetic language. Go big or go home.
But this is different. This is the real deal. A date. The poor guy needs me. And so I have to do what a cat like me is born to do…and as always it’s so damn easy to play him because he’s such a softy.
I meow and place a tentative paw on his red sneaker, and within a few seconds he’s asking me if I want to come along. Just like that. I almost feel bad for him. He’s like a computer with no virus protection. Lucky for him I’m not out to hurt anybody.
* * *
Just this one last time, Emerson thought as he drove his old green Civic to the restaurant in Uptown where he hoped to meet Lola. If she comes. Just this one last time with Sam along. And anyway, it was a bad idea to go cold turkey. Everybody knew that. You just didn’t stop an addiction; you had to ease out of it.
He had a plan, and that plan was to get inside the restaurant before Lola. Luckily he found a parking spot right away on a side street. He shut off the ignition and pointed to the open snare drum case on the passenger floor.
“Get in there, Sam.”
The cat looked at him.
Emerson picked up the case and held it in front of the cat. “Here.” He tapped. “Inside.”
The cat looked at him.
“Just until we get in the restaurant.”
The cat looked at him.
Emerson grabbed him under his cat armpits. Sam squirmed and yowled, but Emerson finally got him inside the case, quickly zipping the lid while leaving a gap of several inches.
Sam made a sound of protest and stuck one white paw through the opening. That was followed by a nose. He pressed against the zipper until the gap enlarged enough for him to force his head through.
Emerson pushed him back into the case, re-zipping the zipper. Then, before Sam made an escape, Emerson bailed from the car and hurried to the restaurant where he was seated next to a window. He stuffed the case under the cloth-covered table, and unzipped the zipper. “Stay,” he whispered to Sam.
Sam let out a tiny meow.
“Shh!”
Another meow, this one louder.
A woman at a nearby table sneezed, then asked: “Did I just hear a cat?”
“It’s my phone.” Emerson pulled his phone from his pocket, fumbling as he pretended to turn off the sound.
A few seconds later he forgot all about the cat because the hostess was leading Lola to the table. Emerson got to his feet, circled, and pulled out a chair for her, neatly pushing it back in as she settled herself.
“Your hands are cold,” he found himself saying after dropping back into his chair, surprised to see that somewhere between standing and sitting he’d reached across the table and grasped both of her hands in his, and now he was rubbing them.
“Hard to believe it’s June,” she said.
She looked…she looked like Lola. Black sleeveless dress, those colorful arm tattoos. Emerson wanted a tattoo, but he’d never been able to settle on a design. Yeah, there was the music thing that was so much a part of his life, but where did you take that? Some notes? Some lyrics? An instrument? Music didn’t lend itself that well to a tattoo.
Maybe he should get a tattoo of a cat… Another thought: Maybe he should get a tattoo of Sam…
He found himself letting go of her hands and tracing his fingers over the designs, turning her arm to examine the delicate vines on her wrist. “Did that hurt? I’ll bet that hurt.”
“Like hell,” she said, smiling.
Her lips were red, and they matched the red rose tucked in her hair. It looked real. He was pretty sure it was real. Dangling from her ears were pieces of green glass. He was still holding her wrist, and she was still staring at him with an expression he could only describe as a bit bemused.
“You look nice,” she said.
He released her and his fingers felt empty. With a nervous gesture, he smoothed the hair back from his forehead. “Thanks. So do you.”
“I’m sorry
I’m a little late. Melody stopped by. And then, rather than taking my car, I just had her drop me off.”
Which meant she would need a ride home…
Their server showed up. A young blond guy who seemed to have a hard time taking his eyes off Lola. Emerson understood.
Once the server left them to their menus, Emerson leaned forward and said, “I didn’t know if you’d come.”
“It was an easy decision.”
An easy decision. He nodded and smiled to himself.
They ordered pad thai with an appetizer of spring rolls and a bottle of wine. This would cost more money than Emerson made in a week, but he didn’t care.
The wine helped them loosen up, and soon they were talking like best friends. Emerson would say something and Lola would laugh until tears streamed down her face.
A few times during the meal, when the sound of cutlery died down and the piped-in music stopped temporarily, Emerson caught the faint sound of Sam purring under the table. And a couple of times Emerson sneaked small pieces of chicken to him.
Was he losing his mind? Because this seemed more than him, more than his thoughts. All along he’d figured Sam was just his lucky sweater, but the words… He could almost see them floating from his mouth, and it wasn’t until he spoke them that he realized what he was saying.
They could very well have been his own thoughts, right? But sometimes… And it wasn’t just the words. He’d never been the kind of guy who pulled out a chair for a girl. Not because he wasn’t a gentleman, but because he’d worry that the chair was a thing of the past, a gesture that could imply a woman was weak.
