“And what is it you want, Clayton?”
“I think I already expressed that,” I said.
“Suppose I said yes, Clayton. What are you proposing? Some kind of an interview for your book?”
“It wouldn’t be an interview, Bud. You would write the book with me. It’s my life story, Bud. You can ask any questions you want. And your name will appear on the cover with mine.”
“What’s the catch?”
“There isn’t a catch, Bud,” I lied, because there was one. The biggest catch of all.
“Right,” he said, not believing any of it.
“I’m offering you the opportunity of a lifetime, to write the follow-up to a best-selling book. But, of course, it’s up to you, Bud. You can always say no. Do you think there’s even one reporter in this building who wouldn’t quit his job to start this afternoon?”
The game I was playing wasn’t only out of Bud Abbott’s league; it was out of his universe. His eyes darted around the cluttered room, searching for something to bring the situation back to his understanding of normalcy.
“Where would these interviews take place? How many?”
“It’ll require your complete attention for the next eight weeks.”
“You want me to quit my job?” he roared, shaking his head.
“Or take a leave of absence.”
“I can’t get two months off. Are you trying to get me fired? Is that your game?”
“If you can’t do it, I understand. Of course, my publisher would pay you an advance for your half of the work.”
This got his attention. “How much?”
“Twenty-five thousand dollars.”
That put a hook in him. He hated the idea, and every time his face blinked serious consideration, it was tinted with sourness. I imagined him wrestling with my offer, wondering if, like Fortunato in “The Cask of Amontillado,” he was being lured into the cellar for a taste of the amontillado, only to be sealed up in there forever.
“Sorry, Clayton, I don’t see myself driving to Providence, Indiana, anytime soon. That’s going to be a kil—”
“Actually, Bud, I’m staying in Chicago for a while,” I said. “I think I’d like to move into your place.”
The blood drained from his face, followed by violent shaking of his head. “No way! There is no way you’re going to come live in my house!” He spat out my suggestion like spoiled milk. “Do you honestly think you can come in here to my office, entice me with your twisted game, and then ask to live in my house? You’re out of your mind. Do you know that? There’s no way I would work with you.”
I stepped out of his small cubicle and noticed we were no longer alone. Half a dozen journalists and staffers poked their heads above cubicle walls, eavesdropping.
“This is a serious offer, Bud. I need your full-time involvement. I can’t write the book in the evenings and on weekends. But if you can’t muster writing something more challenging than the potshots you took in your sophomoric piece, then I understand.”
I buttoned the front of my coat. “I’m staying at the Westin here in town. You can reach me there if you’re interested.”
I turned to leave, not meaning for my exit to be so dramatic, but how could it not be? Pockets of Tribune employees ducked back behind their cubicles as the “reclusive author” walked past them to the elevators. Perhaps they were disappointed by the lack of violence. Maybe their journalist souls secretly wished I had punched one of their own, only to be tackled in dramatic fashion by security guards. That would have made front-page news for sure.
I exited the building and walked up Michigan Avenue. The windy city lived up to its nickname; Chicago’s unforgiving cold whipped at my uncovered face. I didn’t mind. I had just experienced red-zone chutzpah. It felt fantastic.
A few blocks down Michigan, I stepped into a restaurant called Melvin’s Underground and ordered a hamburger. It came to the table still steaming hot, and I ate it in minutes.
I was doing what I needed to do, but doing it blindly. I know I’d confused Bud Abbott, and I wasn’t sure about it all either. I only knew this is what God wanted me to do. Maybe He would have wanted me to be a little less brash, but still, I’d been obedient, the only thing that’s ever really asked of us.
A classic neon jukebox spun records at the back of the room. “Almost Paradise” was playing. One of Erin’s favorites, a song from the Footloose movie. Jenny liked it too. I saw myself on Frank Willis’s tractor the summer before I left Overton, mirroring the farm scenes from the movie. Was life simpler then? I hadn’t known then what life would be like when Mitch and I moved to Providence. But I was certain it would be good.
Sitting in a small booth in the back room of Melvin’s Underground, I felt anything but certain. The uneasiness was as thick as the smell of burger grease and stale beer. I reached for the only thing sharp enough to cut through it all: hope that things would work out for good.
~ TWENTY ~
I swear that I can see forever in your eyes.
—Mike Reno and Ann Wilson
“Almost Paradise”
During the six days with the Camerons, we played eight games of chess, five rounds of cribbage, and one marathon night of high-dollar Monopoly. We talked nonstop, got to know one another well. There were last-minute shopping trips to Fairfield Mall, long, spontaneous afternoon naps, and two occasions when Jenny and I spent time with Mitch and Erin in Indy.
On December 27, we said our good-byes to Howard, Angela, Tessa, and Mike. Jenny and I hugged everyone, and I thanked the Camerons for giving me the warmest Christmas in memory. We must have looked like the steady couple, staying together a week at Mike and Tessa’s, then leaving for our next stop on our holiday tour of parents’ homes.
Jenny was excited about meeting Marianne. I wondered what kind of greeting we’d receive, considering the scene when I’d left, but Marianne was hospitable and warm.
“Welcome home.” Marianne gave me the first hug, the second to Jenny. “You must be Jenny,” she said, squeezing her as if something was owed, a debt of gratitude perhaps. The third embrace went to Erin, who’d come inside to check out my home before abandoning her best friend.
“Mitchell’s in the car,” said Erin, “and we still have one more stop to make. Jenny, call us tomorrow. Maybe we can all get together.”
Erin left. We heard the heavy door of the Cutlass open and slam, then the same chugging muffler I’d waited to hear the day of my exodus, sounding louder in the frost of winter.
I carried Jenny’s bags up to Ruthie’s room. I’d be sleeping in my old bedroom again, only this night would be different from other nights. Jenny would be sleeping in a room where no one had stayed for the past three years. Seeing a girl in Ruthie’s room brought back a powerful flood of memories.
Jenny unpacked her suitcase on top of the bed. Around her were all the things that made it Ruthie’s room. A collection of ceramic figurines—a bashful bassett hound, a devoted farm collie. Souvenirs Marianne brought her from Davenport and Des Moines. A mahogany jewelry box with yellow hand-painted daffodils across the lid, a pink satin bed pillow embroidered with the words “Everybody Footloose!” Ruthie’s clothes still hung on their hangers in her closet, and underneath them on the floor was her high-school band clarinet in its case. My room looked no different than when I’d left it either. Nothing had changed; our rooms were portraits of the two of us brushed in another era when we were other people.
The days spent in Overton were remarkable. My mom and Aunt Nancy felt instantly at ease in Jenny’s presence. Jenny seemed ready even then to step into the family, perfectly happy watching Jeopardy in the evenings with my mom, the two of them chatting away in the den.
We spent New Year’s Eve at the Pizza Hut in Davenport. Jenny and I met up with Erin and Mitch afterward at his place, and the four of us played cards with his parents until midnight. Then we kissed our girls and sang “Auld Lang Syne,” accompanied by music from an antique Victrola.
On New
Year’s afternoon, the four of us left Overton for Providence, feeling like rock stars coming off a ten-day concert tour. Jenny and I talked quietly in the backseat of the Cutlass as the late-afternoon sun gave way to evening.
“Did you have a nice Christmas?” I asked.
“I got everything I wanted. Time with my parents, time with you.”
“Do you know how happy seeing you happy makes me?” The words sounded like nonsense, but she sighed her approval anyway. “Could you tell how much my mom likes you?”
“I like her. She’s a strong woman.”
“Did you notice how everyone treated Mitchell and me as if we were grown up?”
“You are grown up, Jack. Your mother and Mitch’s family see you both differently because you’ve moved away, been successful at school, and brought home two smart chicks who don’t take any crap from you.” She chuckled, and I gave her a playful jab in the ribs.
The falling darkness chased away the last of the sun’s light. Erin leaned her head on Mitch’s shoulder. A few frozen, solitary cars passed us on the frozen highway. The warm hum of the engine and the coziness of the backseat turned our conversation deeper.
“So what do you think about Mitch and Erin? Do you think they’re getting close?”
“Well, he’s asked her to marry him. I’d say that’s pretty close.”
“You’re kidding?” I said, surprised. “When?”
“He asked her while they were staying at Erin’s house. Don’t say anything to him because he doesn’t want anyone to know, especially you.”
“Especially me. Why?”
“Because he doesn’t want to get ribbed over someone he cares deeply about.”
“Is that what I do?”
Jenny drew nearer to me, her voice inches from my ear. “Jack, Mitchell’s found someone he’s in love with. I don’t think he likes it very much when you tease him about all his high-school girlfriends. Mitchell’s changing. Did you know he met with one of the pastors at our church?”
“What about?”
“His faith. He’s accepted the Lord and wanted to talk about being baptized. I think he’s getting serious about a lot of things in his life, the kinds of things he doesn’t want you to joke about.”
“I’m not that insensitive, am I?”
“No, Jack, you’re not insensitive. But you and Mitchell grew up together playing football and listening to John Cougar and making each other laugh. What he’s doing now doesn’t have anything to do with those things.”
“I’m hurt.”
“Don’t be. He loves you very much. He’s just … different. I’m sure he’ll talk to you when he feels comfortable with that. Now, do you want to hear more about the engagement?”
“Yeah.”
“I don’t know when or even if they plan to make it official, but he’s definitely serious about it. They both are.”
“How serious can they be?” I asked, sounding like the parent of a lovesick teenager. “He’s only just gotten out of high school.”
“People get married just out of high school all the time. Plus, she’s not just out of school.”
“So they could conceivably be married in a year or two?” I said, still feeling stung that Mitch would consider such a major decision without talking to me.
“Jack, conceivably they could be married next week.”
I sat in silence. I’d wanted change when we’d left Overton months earlier, but exactly what had been left unchanged?
“Let him tell you in his own time.” She reached through the darkness, feeling for my arm, then worked her way down to my hand and held it. “Jack, do you think we’re serious?”
“I know how I feel about you. That’s serious.”
“I don’t just mean in our feelings for each other. Do you ever think of us in any kind of future sense?”
“I don’t think that far ahead. I know you think about these things. But … well … isn’t it enough to have the here and now?”
That should have been a warning sign for Jenny, a flashing yellow light signaling her to slow down. We had every needed piece for building the perfect relationship, except one: my long-term commitment. These emotionally clumsy moments were small intimate reminders that something foreboding was looming just ahead. For entirely different reasons, we each invented our own rationale that allowed us to shrug it off.
“I’m not trying to rush you, Jack,” she said, sensing my uneasiness.
She was utterly unaware, as was I, of private beliefs held in the vault of the subconscious, which I doubt I could have expressed then had either of us even known what they were. We continued to talk as we traveled the last stretch of highway to Providence, but what about, I don’t remember. What I do recall is an awareness of a shadow. A sickening feeling that while my love for Jenny would grow every day, something else was growing too. She was in love and committed. I was only in love.
~ TWENTY-ONE ~
Your kiss is on my list of the best things in life.
—Hall and Oates
“Kiss on My List”
A bitterly cold wind blew through all thirty-one days of January 1986. It carved furrows in the frozen snow, cutting abstract ice sculptures across the four corners of campus. It blasted against the sides of the buildings, launching clusters of snowflakes high into the colorless night, and it compelled students to sequester themselves voluntarily inside their warm apartments, braving the frozen outerworld only for classes or emergencies.
We kept our apartment at a snug seventy-two degrees, thanks to two hearty ancient cast-iron heaters we worked like a team of rented mules. Through the large windows in the living room, I watched the chapped and bundled faces of the Providence student body returning from late classes, wrapped in layers of thick clothing. My day had ended by two thirty. After an arctic trek home, I eagerly embraced the warmth and shelter of the apartment. I’d worked the night before and was grateful not to have to go out and wait tables at City Club. Mitchell and Erin were in Ontario, Canada, on a short-term mission trip and wouldn’t be back until Sunday. Jenny had spent her morning in classes, and afternoon in a work-study lab. An hour earlier she’d called to talk.
“Hello, is this the man who used to jog around campus in those cute little running shorts?” she teased.
“Speaking.”
“I want to file a complaint.”
“What about?”
“I want to complain about this scandalous weather that’s kept me from seeing you in them.”
I grinned at her flirtation.
“Sorry, I’ve been banned from public streets. But I still do private shows.”
She laughed. “What are you doing right now?”
“I’m cleaning this disgusting pig sty I call home. But I have cabin fever. Are you thinking of coming by for a surprise visit?”
“Only if I can tempt you away from housecleaning.”
“I thought you had a full day of school and work-study?”
“I did have a full day. It’s four thirty. I’ve been here since eight.”
“Oh, I see. You’ve had a hard day at the office, and now you want to come home to someone who will cook your dinner and fetch you your pipe and slippers.”
“And my newspaper,” she added without missing a beat. “And while you’re at it, cancel all my appointments for tomorrow. I could use a break.”
“Well, I’m no secretary, but I think I can manage dinner. The apartment’s clean; that’s reason enough to come over.”
“What are we having?”
The cupboards were bare except for Mitchell’s last can of tomato soup. “Let’s just say it’s a surprise.”
“Sounds delicious,” she played along. “Give me another twenty minutes, then I’ll be on my way.”
I slogged to the corner grocery, picked up Diet Coke, angel-hair pasta, and a jar of spaghetti sauce. I spotted a raspberry coffee cake, thick with white icing, one of Jenny’s comfort foods, and bought that, too, then brought it home.
A few frozen Eskimos, numbed by the cold, made their way past my window in the dark. Then I caught sight of Jenny coming up the sidewalk. I darted across the room and opened the door before she reached the top of the stairs, bitterly cold air biting at my arms and stocking feet.
“Get in here!” I said.
Jenny rushed in. I shut the door and held her mittened hands, rubbing the cold away.
“I’m only going to say this once, and then I’ll stop complaining, but man is it freezing out there!”
I sat her down on the sofa, fussing over her, and helped her take off her coat and icy mittens. Then I held her close, warming her chilled body.
“This is the kind of reception I was hoping for,” she said.
I pushed my face into the chilled nape of her neck.
She giggled and squirmed. “Jack, you’d better stop that!”
I pulled back to arm’s length and looked at her. We hadn’t seen each other in twenty-four hours. Too long to be apart. She put her arms around my neck.
“I’ve missed you, Jack Clayton.”
“I’m never letting you go.”
“Promise?”
I smiled, not knowing the answer.
Jenny didn’t see a college freshman in her arms, or a small-town boy from the corn-row world of Iowa. She saw her best friend and suitor, a man and a rose growing beautifully in her generous heart. She was wise enough to know all roses have thorns, but inexperience convinced her they could all be pruned away. What she wanted more than anything was to be my wife, my best friend, and my lover. We were both aware of the intensity she brought to our relationship.
“Are you hungry?” I asked.
“Only starved.”
“How’s spaghetti sound?”
“Mmm,” Jenny reluctantly pulled herself away, and we moved into the kitchen. She rummaged through the refrigerator, pulling out a bottle of Diet Coke.
“There’s coffee cake on the table. Why don’t you start with that? How long can you stay?”
“A little while,” she said, tearing at the cardboard-and-cellophane box. “I’ve got to call my mom tonight when she gets home from work, and I’ve got to get a message to Anne in my study group. Otherwise, I’m all yours.”
Providence: Once Upon a Second Chance Page 15
