The Long Journey to Jake Palmer

by James L. Rubart

  “Sprinklers.” Jake shrugged. “I know, I’m nuts for letting it bug me.”

  “Sprinklers? What are you talking about?”

  Jake tried to laugh.

  “You want to tell me?”

  “Nah.” Jake waved her off. “Not a big deal.”

  “Let me rephrase that.” Susie jammed her hands into her hips and put on a mock fierce face. “You’re going to tell me.”

  “All right.” This time, he did laugh. “But the short version only. It’s stupid to even think about it, but the summer I turned thirteen my dad had me put a sprinkler system into our lawn. Part of my Be-a-Palmer-Man education.” Jake clacked his teeth together. “I got an F.”

  “What happened?”

  “I can’t believe I never told you about this. I put the whole thing in, but my lines weren’t straight on six of the sprinklers.” Jake lowered his voice and imitated his dad. “ ‘Jaker, that’s not quite going to make it, is it? No sir, nohow. That isn’t the way a Palmer puts in a sprinkler system.’ I told him it was close enough. Not the best choice of words, as you can imagine. You knew my dad.”

  Susie’s face went stark. “Yeah.”

  “So I told him I’d dig up that section and do it again. But he decided that wasn’t good enough. He thought it would be a good lesson for me to dig up the whole thing, even the parts that were done right, and redo the entire system. The whole thing.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Got a C-plus the second time around.”

  “No.”

  “Oh yeah, but on my fourth try I got a B-plus and my dad only redid a quarter of it the next weekend.” Jake slumped forward, his elbows on the deck railing. “So when I see sprinklers, it doesn’t give me the warmest of fuzzies.”

  “Wow.”

  He cocked his head. “What was it you wanted to say to me?”

  “It can wait.”

  “No, tell me.” Jake straightened up. “Seriously, I’m fine. Just a little trip down the part of memory lane that has a few potholes in it. I’m good.”

  Susie sighed, rested her hip against the railing, and stared intently into his eyes. “Do you remember what happened when my family moved into the house next door to yours the summer after third grade?”

  “We became best friends.”

  “And what happened after we decided we would be friends forever? Do you remember where you took me?”

  “No.”

  “You took me into the field across the street from our houses and up into that tree fort of yours that should have been condemned—I can’t believe our parents let us hang out in that thing, but given the kind of parents we had, it probably shouldn’t surprise me.”

  Susie leaned her elbows on the railing and gazed out over the lake. “You told me something as we sat on those half-rotted boards that I’ll never forget. Maybe because it seemed so secret at the time, or maybe it was because it was pretty mature for a kid to say, but it’s always stuck with me.”

  “Yeah?” Jake had no idea what she was going to say. “And you think I need to hear it again now.”

  “I know you need to hear it again now.”

  Susie narrowed her eyes in that way that said he’d better listen, and more than listen, take whatever she was about to say to heart.

  “Okay.”

  “Little ten-year-old Jake Palmer stares at me sitting in that tree house and says, ‘I don’t think we’re really ourselves until who we are on the inside is the same as who we are on the outside.’ ”

  “I said that?”

  “Yes.” Susie poked him in the chest again. “It’s time to start acting like it.”

  “I’m trying.”

  “Good. Oh, oh!” Susie shook his arms. “I forgot to tell you, I wrote a song for you. You’re going to love it. Andrew even helped me with the lyrics.”

  “Can’t wait.” Jake folded his arms and grinned. Just being with Susie lifted his spirits.

  “Yeah, it’ll make you cry, but that’s good for the soul.”

  “No doubt.” He strolled with Susie toward the barbecue. “How’s the summer concert series going?”

  “The audiences haven’t been huge, but it’s been sooooo fun. I’m doing the classic get-someone-from-the-audience-to-get-up-and-dance, and for the most part it’s been a show highlight.”

  “Most part?”

  Susie laughed. “So I get this guy up there who’s so nervous—”

  “Why’d you pick someone who would be nervous?”

  “I didn’t pick him, my team did. And they claim the guy begged to get up there.”

  “Bad?”

  “Couldn’t dance. At all. I don’t mean he was terrible. He literally could not take a step without stumbling or falling over. And you know how I get when I’m nervous for someone.”

  “You didn’t.”

  “Yes! Couldn’t stop laughing. Loudly!” Susie groaned. “Felt sooooo bad. But I ended up taking him and his daughters out to dinner afterward, gave them a bunch of CDs, so it worked out in the end.”

  “He must have felt like an idiot.” Jake smiled.

  “Yeah, Jake, maybe he did.” Susie paused till he looked directly at her. Serious face again. “But at least he had the courage to step into his fear.”

  “That wasn’t subtle.”

  “Time for you to get up onstage and dance again, Jake.”

  8

  After promising Susie they’d talk more about her music and his stage fright, Jake strolled into the kitchen and glanced at the counter, full of bowls of pasta. Peter stood at the stove stirring a fattening-looking cream sauce. Another of Peter’s masterpiece meals looked to be well on its way to completion.

  “Looks like you’re whipping up a simple concoction for our first dinner.”

  “Chicken Alfredo with artichoke hearts, pine nuts, mushrooms, and of course, garlic.” Peter pointed to his right. “Kalamata olive bread, olive oil and balsamic vinegar for dipping, roasted tomatoes with basil, and tiramisu for dessert. Nothing special.”

  “You are going to let me do one night of hot dogs and hamburgers, aren’t you?”

  “Sure. Absolutely.” Peter turned and winked. “As long as I don’t have to eat them.”

  Jake snatched a spoon out of the silverware drawer to dip in the sauce for a quick taste.

  “Don’t even think about it. There’s just the right amount for everyone.”

  Jake frowned at the almost overflowing pot of Alfredo sauce. “I think you’ve got more than enough. Or are you planning on a few surprise dinner guests?”

  “What?” Peter kept his gaze buried in the stove.

  “You’re cooking for five, not eight. Right?”

  “Leftovers. Heat ’em, serve ’em.”

  “ ‘Leftovers are beneath those with a cultivated palate.’ ” Jake whacked Peter on the arm. “I’m quoting you when I say that.”

  “Better to have too much than too little.” Peter opened a cabinet over the kitchen counter and rummaged through it, found what he wanted, and sprinkled the spice into the pot.

  “You want to tell me what’s going on?” Jake cleared his throat loudly. “You think I’m stupid?”

  Before Peter could answer, his wife sashayed into the kitchen. Great. The moment Jake had been waiting for.

  “Hey, honey.” Peter glanced up. “Good run?”

  “I can’t believe this is it.” Camille blew out her obvious disgust. “How are we all going to fit in this place for a week?”

  “The cabin is plenty big.”

  “I mean this.” Camille waved her arms around the kitchen.

  “It’s fine.” Peter sighed. “It’s only a little smaller than—”

  “A little?” Camille spun in a tight circle and waved her hands. “Try half the size. Maybe less. We’re supposed to cook here?”

  “We will cook in here.”

  “I can’t cook in here.”

  “Since you haven’t cooked a meal once in the nine years we’ve been gathering together
, I wouldn’t worry about it.”

  “I make the lunches.” Camille jammed her hands into her hips. “Same thing as cooking. Still have to maneuver around a kitchen the size of an outhouse. I’m not saying it won’t work, I’m just saying it’s going to be a pain in the butt.”

  “You’ll survive.” Peter slapped a plastic grin on his face.

  “What are you cooking, dear?” Camille sidled up next to Peter and scowled at the pans on the stove.

  “Pasta. Alfredo sauce. What’s it look like?”

  “I told you to save that dish for Monday night.”

  Peter ignored the comment and Camille jabbed her elbow into Peter’s ribs.

  “Ouch!”

  “Well?”

  “I know you said that, dear.” Peter looked up again and glared at her and pointed at his ear. “These work.”

  “But you didn’t save it. Or you ignored me when I told you the order of the meals. We talked about this in detail. Hello?”

  Peter and Camille both pulled out their dagger eyes. Jake was easing backward out toward the living room when Camille shifted her gaze away from Peter, fixed her eyes on Jake, and pranced over to him.

  “Jake! So good to see you. You look wonderful.” She reached up and gave him a quick hug.

  “Good to be seen. How are you, Camille?”

  She raised her arms and flexed her biceps. They were taut and tan. “Not bad for a thirty-six-year-old, huh? Not bad for a twenty-six-year-old.”

  Jake gave a weak smile and nodded.

  “Did Peter tell you I’m going to do a triathlon this fall?”

  Right on cue. Expected. Camille had brought up the one hobby Jake loved more than any other, the one he would never do again. Laryngitis would look so good on her.

  “He didn’t mention it.”

  Camille smacked Peter on the back. “Well I am. I’ve been training all spring and summer, and there’s no way I’m not going to break my personal record this time.”

  “That’s a good goal. I hope you make it.” Jake started to move toward the living room again, but Camille blocked him.

  “Should be hard, but really fun.”

  “Yeah, should be awesome.”

  “And how can I not be great in a place like this?” She swept her hand toward the kitchen window, which looked out over the deck and lake. “Plus we’re all together again for ten days of fun in the sun. I love it.”

  “I hear you.”

  Camille leaned toward Jake and lowered her voice. “I hope it’s not going to be awkward between you and me this week. I’m your friend too, you know.”

  “I know, and it’s fine.”

  “Good. I told Peter that’s how you’d feel.” She patted him on his upper arm.

  Yeah, that’s exactly how Jake felt. He glanced at Peter, who had turned away from them and was rustling through a bag of groceries on the kitchen table.

  “I hope we have a chance to catch up a bit while we’re here. We haven’t talked much since last summer.” Camille’s mouth smiled at him, but there wasn’t any smile in her eyes.

  “Hope so.” Jake nodded and motioned toward the stove. “I’m going to get out of here and let you two figure out your menu for the rest of the week.”

  He pushed past Camille, through the family room, and out onto the deck, asking himself for the five hundredth time why Peter had married her in the first place. Jake stood at the railing of the deck and stared out over the lake. He’d die for Peter and maybe he was. In a way, being around Camille was like a slow death.

  A few minutes later, Peter came up beside him and handed him a drink. They stood in silence as a breeze brought the scent of pine swirling around them.

  “I’m sorry about that. Sometimes Camille isn’t the most sensitive person on the planet.”

  “Her performance in there isn’t giving me a lot of hope for the coming week.”

  “I’ll talk to her, but she’s had a hard year. It’s not about you, it’s about her trying to figure out where she fits in now that our kids are hitting the midteens and starting to get their own lives.”

  “I get it. I do. I’m just saying it doesn’t exactly make me want to slice open my chest and bare my soul this week.”

  “You’re going to have to do it someday. You ever want to find yourself in another relationship, you gotta let yourself be known.”

  “I don’t want to be in another relationship.”

  “Yeah you do.”

  “No. I don’t.”

  “I know a woman who would be perfect for you.”

  Jake clamped his mouth tight to keep from spewing his drink across the deck. “You’re kidding, right?”

  “Okay, I might have missed a couple of times, but I’ve become more discerning.”

  After Jake and Sienna’s divorce was final, Peter decided his new calling in life was to be Jake’s matchmaker. Every three weeks like a clock hitting midnight, he’d set Jake up on blind dates. No, that wasn’t accurate. They weren’t blind dates because Jake hadn’t agreed to any of them. They weren’t even dates. They were frontal assaults sprung on Jake without warning.

  9

  Hello.”

  Jake had looked up from his laptop on a Friday afternoon in February to find a midthirties woman with short black hair standing over his table at the coffee shop. She had bright eyes behind brown glasses, and a stack of three books under her arm.

  “Yes?”

  “Are you Jacob Palmer?”

  “Jake. Yeah.”

  “I’m Irene Barring. It’s good to meet you.” She sat in the chair across from him and set her books on the table.

  “Who?”

  “Peter’s friend.”

  “Peter’s friend?”

  “Am I at the wrong table?” Irene glanced around the coffee shop.

  “Unfortunately not.”

  “Excuse me?” Irene cocked her head and frowned.

  “No, no, I don’t mean it like that. I just mean Peter didn’t tell me. I thought I was meeting him here, not you. So this is a bit of a shock.”

  “Nice.” Irene grabbed the edges of her books and pressed her lips together. “Not the way I wanted to break on through to the other side.”

  “The Doors.”

  “You know Jim Morrison’s work?” She leaned forward, eyes growing wider.

  “Only because my roommate for two years after college was way into classic rock. I couldn’t get him to stop talking about it.”

  “Then you may not know that Morrison was a prophet. He has more to say to us than anyone other than Sri Ramana Maharshi.”

  “Jim Morrison? A prophet?”

  “Yes.”

  “What about Elvis?”

  “That’s good. Very good. Very funny.” Irene smiled and pointed at him. “Peter said you had a great sense of humor. But I’m serious. Morrison was not a singer, not a rock star, he was a poet who was thrust into a world he didn’t want to be in. If we forget the music and look at the days before The Doors, and then immerse ourselves with the verse he created, we find a man so consumed by his spirituality, his entire being reflected truths we still are just barely starting to grasp today.”

  She reached over and picked up Jake’s cup of coffee and took a sip.

  He cocked his head and stared. “Would you like some of my coffee?”

  She laughed. “I had to see if we’re compatible.”

  “Are we?”

  “Yes.” She grinned. “So far anyway. I’ll let you know when we pass the next signpost.”

  “You’re talking about the man who suggested we crawl into our minds and play a game where we go insane, where we forget the people around us, where we forget the world, where we let go so we can break through.”

  “Yes!” She took his hands. “Maybe I should meet your old roommate. It’s rare to find someone who knows Morrison’s work like that. I am truly impressed.”

  “He’s married. My old roommate.” Jake shut his laptop, picked up his coffee, and stood. “I’m sorr
y, but I have to go. It’s good to meet you, Irene.”

  “Are you a spiritual man, Jake?”

  “I believe in God and in his Son and in the Spirit of God. So I’m thinking that pretty much disqualifies me from ever worshiping in the halls of the Lizard King.” Jake backed away from the table and waved good-bye.

  The second time Peter dropped one of his setups, Jake could have sworn he was on a reality-TV prank show and the woman was a paid professional actor. Jake was sitting at Third Place Books at the end of Lake Washington with no greater ambition than to read his book and sip an overpriced cup of java.

  “Hey, Jake, what are you doing here?”

  Jake blinked and glanced up at Peter. A woman stood next to him, a shy smile on her face. Pretty, reddish-blond hair at shoulder length, average figure, height maybe five-five or -six, and an engaging smile.

  “Having coffee. Reading. You?”

  He opened his palm toward the woman. “We were headed back to the office after a sales call and decided to grab a quick cup of coffee to debrief on the meeting.”

  “Instead of debriefing in your office?” Jake tried to use his heat vision to drill a hole in Peter’s head, but unfortunately it got stuck in his imagination.

  “So many distractions there.”

  “But this is five miles from your office.”

  “So?”

  “This is a bookstore. An out-of-the-way bookstore. There’s three coffee shops between here and there. And you know I hang out here.”

  Peter turned to the woman. “I am so sorry. What am I thinking? I gotta introduce you two. Jake, this is Maggie Welker. Maggie, this is my best friend, Jake Palmer.”

  “Hi, Maggie. It’s good to meet you.”

  “You too. Peter has told me all about you.”

  Nice smile, but there was an overeagerness in her eyes that screamed DANGER.

  “Oh?”

  “Yes. Oodles and oodles and lots of gobs.”

  Maggie should have stopped right there, or Jake should have advised her to stop, but it didn’t happen. They sat down and Peter pushed Maggie’s crazy button.

  “Why don’t you tell Jake a little about yourself?”

  “Okay, okay, if you really want to hear a little bit about me. But after that, I want to hear about you.” She scrunched up her face, smiled, and poked the air in front of him. “I love flowers, I do, and if that’s wrong, well, piddle on you, they’re beautiful and they brighten everything up, and they smell so gooooooood.” She clutched her arms across her chest. “Do you love flowers, Jake? I betcha do, I know you do, or Peter wouldn’t have ever introduced us in the first place.”