by Harper Kim
I stepped into the heated bar and shivered. Immediately I could feel my cheeks redden, either from the drastic change in temperature or from the curious gazes that zeroed in on the lone outsider. I shrugged out of my coat and hung it on the antler rack by the door. Rolling up my sleeves, I casually scanned the room, carefully avoiding direct eye contact.
The room was quaint, as one would expect a bar in a small mountain town to be: rustic tables and chairs, wood beams, and bare, carbon-filament light bulbs speckled with dust. The wooden walls were cheaply lined with the same material lining the two pool tables positioned near the back, and were cluttered with California sports memorabilia, US flags, and photos of exuberant, half-naked cheerleaders. Smoking and large dogs were permitted, so the smell was far from pleasant. Mostly men in work boots, plaid shirts and jeans (mirror images of the old man I met earlier) filled the bar stools and ladder-backed wooden chairs. The light pine tables gleamed from the many layers of lacquer required to endure years of hard use.
After a few minutes the noisy chatter returned and I was forgotten.
A large jukebox stood in a corner and a young man was hovering over it, contemplating the long list of songs. He settled on Jailhouse Rock and moved toward the bar, leaning his solid body against the gleaming rail. His posture was hunched but anxious as he drummed his calloused fingers against the counter while peering into the back room from time to time. I took the seat two stools down from where the guy stood, picked up a laminated menu, and waited.
Scanning the menu, I noted most items were deep-fried. When a matronly lady with a hearty laugh and large smile hustled over with pad and pen in hand, I ordered a bowl of chowder and a glass of cider. “Excellent choice. Our chowder is the best in the county,” she said grinning, showing off the gap between her two front teeth. “So what brings you around to these neck of the woods?” She leaned closer, her eyes sparkling with excitement and the hope of gossip.
“I thought you said the chowder is the best in the county,” I said, giving nothing away.
She peered at me in silence, before brushing off my unwillingness to chat with a carefree chuckle. “Honey, I wasn’t born yesterday. Shouldn’t you be at school or work or something?”
“I took the day off.”
“For chowder?”
“Maybe.”
“Humph.” Clearly annoyed at my clipped answers, she gave up and headed to the back to ladle a bowl of soup and pull a warm cider. When she returned she eyed the anxious guy still strumming his fingers against the lacquered counter. She plopped the bowl and mug in front of me indifferently before addressing him.
“Nathan, what are you still hovering around here for? Don’t you have better things to do than bothering Ms. Darling?”
At the sound of her name, I stopped slurping my chowder and listened.
“Awww, Patty. I just wanna talk to her.”
“But maybe she doesn’t want to talk to you. Have you thought about that?”
Nathan plopped on the stool, defeated. Nodding, he said, “I know. But—Liz!”
Time stood still when Elizabeth flowed out from the back room. She tied a crisp white apron around her blue dress, while her brown hair was already tied back in a simple ponytail, accentuating her large blue eyes and slender neck. Her lips were taut as she hurriedly clocked in for her afternoon shift. Grabbing a damp cloth, she skirted around Nathan’s puppy dog eyes and began wiping down the empty tables.
I watched curiously, hunched over my soup bowl, as Nathan pathetically attempted to ask Elizabeth on a date. I sat hypnotized as she made her way around the room, her hips swaying softly to the beat of the music as she took orders, refilled drinks, and scrubbed grime off tables. As she made her way back toward the bar stools, I swiveled forward and finished off what remained of the thick chowder. Although the guy was at least a foot taller and broader in chest, I wasn’t threatened. I felt more alive than I had in years. She was the type of woman that could make a simple man feel invincible.
“Would you like a refill?” Her eyes were downcast and her sweet voice remained soft and steady, yet trepidation and anger fizzled in the background. If I didn’t know what to listen for, I would have missed it.
I nodded stupidly, still unable to speak or even look her in the eyes. She passed by without a second glance. Reaching into my front pocket, I removed the box that had weighed heavy on my heart for the past few weeks. Unsure if the timing would ever be perfect, I opened the tiny box and pushed it forward when Elizabeth returned with my refill.
The gold gleamed like diamonds in the dingy room. The commotion in the pub heightened after a lengthy pause. I wasn’t even aware of Nathan’s presence; my only focus was Elizabeth and her stunned face. Fear eased into recognition and delight. Her cheeks bloomed into a rosy pink as her blue eyes misted in tears. As if the ring were made of glass, she carefully plucked the ring from the gray cushion of the box and slipped it onto her delicate finger. Fluttering her hands in the air so the light caught the glint of the metal, her lips curved into a delighted smile.
“You came back,” she breathed.
“Of course.” I silently counted to ten, patiently waiting for her to relax her tense shoulders. I knew she needed time to let my presence sink in. Time for her mind to process the situation and not be afraid. I gave her that time so I could reach out and touch her hand without her flinching. I wanted to create the perfect moment. “I love you, Elizabeth. Thank you for patiently waiting for me. Now, let me take you home.”
It is seven o’clock and dinner is getting cold. The table is set with two economy sized bowls filled with dinner—our trusty “meal bowls” that have serviced us well throughout the years. Usually filled with one type of meat, vegetable, and a cup of brown rice—meeting all the necessary nutrition requirements—the meal bowl has become a staple in our household. Mr. Dimples’ bowl, stationed under the table, is already licked clean.
I am starting to worry about Elizabeth and wonder why she isn’t home yet. Maybe her last patient arrived late or they had a staff meeting after work. Though that is unlikely on a Saturday, since the office closes early. But why hasn’t she called? She would have called.
I make sure to turn the porch light on before starting dinner so she doesn’t have any surprises. Danger lurks everywhere in the dark. She hates the neighbor’s cat that seems to be out to get her, she can’t stand the wind chimes clanging out back, and she especially despises spiders. I can’t do anything to prevent the first two from scaring her, but I can do something about the latter. I never want her to walk into a well-designed web before she makes it to the front door. That could ruin the evening.
As predicted, the cat and the wind chimes bring chills to Elizabeth’s skin, but she is grateful for the light that illuminates her spider-free path to the front door. She comes in, arms full of groceries, wearing a worn smile. Mr. Dimples puts up a good fight to win her attention, but I am bigger and stronger and head in for a kiss.
“You made dinner? I thought we didn’t have much in the fridge so I stopped by the market on the way home. I should have called. I’m sorry.”
I reach for the bags of groceries with one hand and hug my wife with the other. She seems disoriented and tired. I try to guide her to the table, but she stalls. It is then that I eye the distorted orange pumpkin propped by the doorway under the hazy glow of the porch light.
I shriek with glee, grinning from ear to ear. “You bought us a pumpkin?”
“And a few special gourds to decorate the table with,” she proudly adds.
“You’re a doll.” I lean in a second time to kiss my blushing wife. “I was worried about you when you didn’t call.”
“I know. I’m sorry. I was going to, but the roads were so hectic and you know how I get when I’m frazzled. All I wanted was to be home as fast as I could. Plus, I had to focus on the cars around me before I got smashed to smithereens.” She smiles when I frown. I don’t even want to think about the possibility of losing my wife to a carel
ess driver and she knows it. She is my everything and I am hers. Shifting her stance, she continues, “Then I was thinking about dinner so I stopped by Keil’s on the way home.” Her eyes drift to the meal bowls cooling on the table. “I didn’t realize we had enough food for a meal bowl. If I’d known I would’ve headed straight home instead of hunkering through the aisles fighting for the juiciest chicken and freshest squash.” She grins. “I’m beat.”
“Well at least we have food for tomorrow night.” I quickly place the purchases into the fridge and head toward the table to pull the seat out for my wife.
Since the day I fell in love, I promised myself that I would do everything possible to keep her safe, to love her, and to make her feel like the happiest woman in the world. There is nothing I wouldn’t do for my Elizabeth.
Some of our earlier dates were to the same grocery store she went to tonight. The San Carlos shopping center, although recently renovated with a fresh coat of beige paint and forest green trim, still holds the drab historic look of the seventies. All the town’s necessities can be found in this lot. There is the market, liquor store, pharmacy, hardware store, a couple of restaurants/eateries, gas station, dry cleaning, and bank.
Our dates, such as walking up and down the bakery, meat, and produce aisles, renting a comedy or action video from the automated kiosk, or walking the aisles of the pharmacy, were cheap but delightful. We used to walk along the well-stocked aisles, holding hands and creating lively stories of what we would have in our model kitchen one day.
Sometimes we’d make a game of it and snoop over people’s shoulders to peer into their carts. I would rate the carts based on its content and describe what meal I’d make us with the cart that scored the highest. The best one was a cart filled with a package of ground turkey, red potatoes, tomato paste, onions, garlic, carrots, canned corn and beans, and an assortment of spices (garlic powder, cumin, chili powder, and paprika). I described a culinary chili masterpiece. The only thing missing from the cart was a box of cornbread mix.
I don’t know what came over me, but I had to intervene. I scanned the checkout lines until I spotted the lady with the chili cart waiting three carts behind the register and made a dash down the baking isle. I probably startled Elizabeth, but I couldn’t help it. I was on a mission to make the meal perfect, as if I were desperately trying to make ours perfect. I definitely shocked the chili cart lady but in the end she agreed with my addition and thanked me.
Elizabeth and I always talked about our future. “Just wait,” I would whisper in her ear, “one day we will have our own well-stocked kitchen with all the good eats and glittery appliances that your heart desires. I will make it happen. You’ll see.”
Although I’m a year younger, I always make sure she can count on me. Age is merely a number and ultimately it is my actions that reflect my role in the relationship. I’m the protector and she is my guiding light.
“Thanks again for the pumpkin,” I whisper in her ear, “I love you so much.”
“I love you more.”
Chapter Two:
Monday, October 31, 2011
7:30 P.M.
Loral Holmes:
Just as I figured, I got grounded that day at the pool for not keeping a close eye on the girls. Bella skinned her knee after stumbling over a loose piece of flagstone jutting from the pool surround. Luckily she didn’t break a bone, hit her head, or worse. Then I would be receiving a harsher sentence rather than just missing tonight’s yearly Halloween shindig over at Mike’s house.
Michael Cobb is my best friend turned boyfriend—not by choice but due to the natural progression of not refuting the situation. Apparently he liked me for years—or so he claims—waiting in the wings until I noticed him. Come to think of it, he was always there to walk me to class, ready to go for a run just as I headed outside in my running gear, and offered his friendship without asking for mine in return.
Eventually, I gave in, and then before I knew it, got slapped on the back with the label of “Mike’s girlfriend.” At first I was annoyed, but then I realized I was above the rumors and petty drama surrounding high school and shrugged it off. The fact is, I actually enjoy having him around.
Mike is a sweet guy, with sandy brown hair that remains tousled from running his fingers relentlessly through the thin strands, bright puppy-dog eyes that luminesce every time he catches my attention, and a stocky build from playing quarterback on the high school varsity football team (Go Patriots!).
I met Mike when my new family moved into town a few years ago. He was out shooting hoops in his driveway with a few of his friends. I caught him missing a pass when I stepped out of Tess’s car. While his friends were eying the Beemer, Mike was eying me.
He told me later that he received a few nudges and catcalls from his friends, but he shirked them off. He was instantly infatuated when I couldn’t have cared less. Nothing against him, but how can you be infatuated with someone you haven’t even met yet? Plus, I was in no mood to make friends that day. I didn’t want to move to a new house, with a new car and a new family. It was weird, uncomfortable, and I missed my old life. The life before Brett came into the picture, when it was just Tess and me.
Being popular, wealthy, and charming, Mike was invited to every birthday party, event, and trip in the school’s social calendar, to which he always tried to drag me along as his plus one. Most of the time I met his plea with a frown and abruptly declined, but I could never say no to his Halloween bash. Not because it was the biggest event in town, but because everyone arrived as someone or something else and I loved the possibility of being different for a day. To be someone else. To not be Loral Holmes.
There is distinct disappointment laced in Mike’s voice when I call to inform him of my plight. His puppy dog whimper does little to lessen the chill that ices my heart.
To most, my demeanor is off-putting at best. I don’t try to be unfriendly; it just comes across that way. Only Mike has been willing to crack my icy surface and patiently await my approval and trust. Mike has been my only friend and ally at Patrick Henry High School and we both seem to be fine with that.
“Maybe I can talk to your mom and stepdad and explain that I need you to help with the decorations. That way you can at least come for the beginning of the party and snag a few treats on the way out.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Why not? I can be very convincing when I want to be. Parents love me.”
“Yeah, I know. But remember last year? I don’t think they’ve forgotten about that yet.”
Through the pause, I can almost visualize Mike blushing.
Last year I made the mistake of sneaking into Tess’s closet to put together a Halloween costume. Apparently, the nurse outfit was too revealing for Tess and Brett and cost me a scolding from Tess and the silent treatment from Brett. The look on his face when he saw me walk down the stairs was priceless. A cross between seeing a ghost and seeing a bloody clown. Brett didn’t look at me for a week and ever since, he avoided me as much as possible.
I still don’t understand what the big deal was. I was sixteen then and all the girls my age were wearing similar or more scandalous costumes for Halloween. It wasn’t like I even had anything to show. The white button-up dress was a tad short and the crisscross in the front dipped a bit low, but everything else was covered.
A part of me wonders if last year’s costume scandal played a role in this year’s grounding sentence. Brett looked pleased when Tess grounded me, although I have a hard time deciphering his smirks, smiles, and frowns. They all look the same to me.
“Well it won’t be the same without you. I’ll save you a caramel apple. I know they’re your favorite.”
“Thanks, but I’m sure you’ll have fun without me. You probably won’t even know that I’m not there.”
“I’ll know,” he admits wistfully.
Stepping into the shower, I anticipate a peaceful night alone, removed from the hectic household. Trading my freedom for a night to
myself, I can’t wait for a night of snuggling under the covers, nails deep into a scary movie, munching on buttery popcorn, while Tess and Brett take the girls around the neighborhood to trick-or-treat and stockpile their bellies with sugar, chocolate, and gummies galore. I’m sure they didn’t realize at the time, that grounding me meant grounding themselves to trick-or-treat duty.
The steaming spray of water pounds down over my chilled body. Shivering slightly, I ease back my head, greedily soaking up the high-pressure steam that warms my bones. Tonight I have the luxury of spending thirty minutes in the shower rather than the normal ten. Taking my time, I lather my skin with Tess’s prized body wash that smells of flowers and leaves my skin feeling like silk. I don’t care much for the womanly scent but I take pleasure in using what is forbidden. Happily, I douse the sponge with more body wash and lather my body a second time.
As I bundle up in my terry-cotton robe, I can hear the music thumping from across the street. From the vantage point of my window, I can see kids dressed up in Halloween garb piling out from the line of cars parked along the street. More cars circle the neighborhood trying to find parking. Lights flicker and glow from the decorated front porch.
From my years of attendance I can visualize the house (inside and out) decorated with cotton webs, ghouls, goblins, witches, skulls, vampires, and loose eyeballs. There is always a huge ice sculpture of a hand, face, or body part floating in a large bubbling punch bowl, filled with blood-colored punch. Dance music blares through the recessed high-def speakers, mixed every so often with creepy snippets of howls, footsteps, scratching noises, and heckles.
