by J. J. Murray
So much potential color for my life…
What makes a rainbow anyway? Maybe the clouds do, pressing them out like linguini or sweating them out like Play-Doh. And what makes them go away? Do breezes blow them around? How do they stay locked in place during a storm? And who would ever chase them?
Besides me?
I’ll bet there’s a rainbow with every storm, and I just haven’t always looked with my soul hard enough to see it.
I’m not after the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.
Just a man.
A man like Roy G. Biv.
That was poetic.
It’s a bit too flowery.
At least it sounds like a woman might say it.
It wasn’t a woman saying it. It was me.
You want…a man like Roy G. Biv?
No, but I wouldn’t mind having a woman who thought like she did.
You’re getting heavily into your feminine side, aren’t you, Jack?
Maybe.
I reread the screen. There’s something…wrong with it.
It’s soft.
It’s crap, and I should delete it.
Noël would have liked it.
Yeah, she would have. I’ll keep it.
Good.
27
Diane
The phone is staring at me. It’s been staring at me all night. Occasionally it even shouts, “Call him!” As a result, I’ve read the same freaking page of The Da Vinci Code at least fifteen times!
I’ve picked up the phone at least ten times, but I can’t force myself to punch in the number. I’ve never called up a man first in my life…which might be one reason I’m twenty-five and still an unmarried virgin. Hmm.
But the man is supposed to call the woman. It’s in all the romances I read. I mean, there she is, by the phone or window or up on a lighthouse, waiting for her man to call/visit/ come home from the sea.
He doesn’t have your number, Diane.
Oh yes he does! He could always call the library!
You’re not at the library, Diane.
Oh yeah.
I need more courage.
There’s pound cake in the fridge. That will give me enough courage. Sugar can do that.
No. I shouldn’t eat sweets after nine. I need to just pick up the phone and call him.
I pick up the phone.
What if he’s not there? What if his wife answers? What if no one’s there?
I set the phone back down.
If no one’s there, do I leave a message for him to call me back? I could do that, but…then I’ll fall asleep with the phone in my hand, and since I’m an active sleeper, I’ll most likely make a long distance phone call to Fiji by accident. If his wife’s there and he isn’t, I could…play it off as a…fund-raiser for the library. It might work. And if no one answers, I’ll…just hang up.
But he’ll see my name on his Caller ID! And so will she! Unless he doesn’t have Caller ID, but who doesn’t have Caller ID these days? He has to have Caller ID, and when he checks for a message, there won’t be one from me. I hate when that happens to me. Someone calls for whatever reason and doesn’t have the decency to leave a message. That’s just plain rude.
Yet, I always call the person back anyway. Why is that? Am I a “rude person” magnet or what?
I dial Jack’s number, and after five rings with no answer, I become rude and hang up.
That was dumb. He might have been in the bathroom or the shower or out walking his dog. He seems like a dog person, and I don’t know why I think that. It must be his former shagginess. He might have even been giving his son a bath or reading his son a bedtime story or taking out the trash or…messing around with his wife!
Eww.
Or he might have been asleep! He looked so tired.
It is kind of late. Oh, Lord, I probably woke him up, he couldn’t find the phone, and now he’s seeing my name on his Caller ID, his wife is seeing my name on the Caller ID, and—
Time to play it off. I dial Jack’s number again.
He answers on the first ring. “Hello?”
He doesn’t sound groggy. “Hi, Jack.” Good grief! I just said, “Hi, Jack”! I’ll bet he hates that joke!
“Hello, Diane Anderson. Did you just call a minute or so ago?”
He has Caller ID all right, but at least he has my number somewhere in his house. Or apartment? No, he seems like a man with a house. And a dog. “Oh, yeah. I didn’t think you were home.”
“I was downstairs writing.”
Of course he was, Diane! He’s a writer. What else would he be doing? “Well, I don’t want to disturb you.”
“It’s okay. Do you want the LOC number?”
Oh, yeah. That. And that number is the reason he thinks I called. “Of course. That’s why I called.”
I write down the numbers as he reads them, and I read them back to him. “Thanks. I’ll be sure to get our preorder in tomorrow.”
“Great.”
And then there’s silence. We’ve just taken care of the “reason” I called, and now there’s static-filled silence. I hate silence, unless Mama’s on the other end.
“So, uh, how’s your writing going?” Whew. Hopefully this will start a conversation.
“Better.”
Better? Just…better? How vague is that? I want to ask him if he’s been writing about me, but I just can’t. “Well, that’s good.”
“I’ve been writing about you.”
And now my face is on fire. How do you respond when a man says this, especially if he’s writing “better” and about you? “You have?”
“Yes.”
“Um, great.” Why can’t I put together a decent sentence? And why didn’t I eat some of that pound cake? I don’t have enough sugar going to my brain! “That’s, um, that’s great, Jack.”
I hear him sigh. “Listen, Diane, I have something to tell you that I should have already told you.”
I brace for the worst. “Okay.” Time to hear about the wife and kid…or kiddies? Maybe there are other rugrats or there’s one on the way….
He sighs again. “When I brought those books back that day, um…this is hard for me.”
Books? Oh, yeah. Strange way to start, but…okay. He’s going about this from the very beginning.
“I found those books in my son’s room…where I’ve been sleeping for the last six months.”
Teenaged no-ironing wife kicked him out of their bedroom? Is this where he tells me he’s leaving his wife?
“And I’ve been sleeping in his bed because…my son, Stevie, and my wife, Noël…died in an accident last July.”
Died. They…died. He’s a widower. Oh, that’s so sad! And now I’m sad! I was pestering him about his wife and son, and he was standing there…dying inside. I can’t even imagine the heartbreak he’s feeling! But why was he still wearing the ring when he was shaggy?
“And anyway, I don’t know if you even remember, but when you gave me my change for the fine, you touched my hand. I hadn’t let anyone, I mean, no one had touched me for the longest time, and, um, you did.”
I hear him sobbing, and I start to tear up. I’ve given change to countless patrons, and to think that this one time…just a touch. And the next time I saw him, I didn’t even see him because he had changed so much.
And now I’m rhyming while I’m thinking.
Why didn’t I see him? Was it because he was a cookie-cutter white man? Or was it because I really wasn’t looking?
But he saw me. Jack saw me. A man saw me as more than just a name on a badge behind a counter in a public library. Lord, I need to work on my blind spots.
“I’m sorry,” he says, finally. “I shouldn’t be dumping all this on you.”
“It’s okay.” I walk into the kitchen to get a napkin and dab it at my eyes. “It’s okay, Jack.” And it is. It’s okay. I’m okay with this.
“I’ve been meaning to thank you for…touching me, even though you didn’t know you did it. This must
sound so strange.”
“It’s not so strange.” The slightest touch can change a life. “Remember, I work at a public library.”
“Right,” he says, his voice less weepy. “But if I put any of this in a book, no one would believe it.”
A few minutes ago, I wouldn’t have believed it either. Right. A touch exchanged with change. Sure. But now…“I believe it, Jack, because I know it can happen. It just did, right?”
Silence.
“I’m, um, sorry I didn’t recognize you right away today, Jack.”
He laughs, at least I think it’s a laugh. Kind of…throaty, but nice. “Today is how I used to look. I mean, well, you know what I mean.”
“I understand.”
More silence.
“I’ve lost so much weight.”
I smile. “You did kind of look like a scarecrow.” Now why did I say that? I mean, other than the fact that he does look like a straw-filled stickman in his clothes. He’s a blond Ichabod Crane…who saw his own headless horseman this past summer. Oh, what a shame!
“Yeah. I forget to eat sometimes.” He coughs. “Speaking of eating, would you like to have lunch with me sometime?”
Whoa. I just called the man a scarecrow, and he asks me to lunch. I would trash this whole scene if I had read it in a book, but here it is happening to me!
“Uh, I mean, you know, Diane, to discuss your character, the one in my book. I could maybe…interview you.”
He’s trying to play it off as a “professional” arrangement. Should I let him?
No.
“You mean you’d be taking notes during our date?” Oh my Lord! I just used the D-word. He was just asking me to lunch, and I think I’ve just made it into a date.
“Oh, um, yeah, that would be tacky. I won’t take notes.”
It would be tacky.
“I’ll, uh, just take you in.”
Blink-blink.
“I mean, I’ll…I’ll just talk to you, Diane.”
I don’t know, getting taken in sounds kind of fun. But he hasn’t questioned the D-word yet. Maybe he didn’t hear me say it. “So, we’ll just talk during our lunch date.”
“I’d like that.”
Is “lunch date” the same as “date”? Hmm. I have to be sure. “Are you asking me out on a date, Jack?”
A slight pause. “If I were asking you out on a real date, I’d ask you out to dinner on New Year’s Eve.” Another pause. “But I know you have to work, so it would have to be a late dinner.”
I smile. He has actually thought this through. But has he thought it all the way through? “It would probably be hard getting a dinner reservation this late. I mean, it’s just two days until New Year’s.”
“I can call around. I have plenty of time.”
He still hasn’t asked me officially. “So, are you asking me out for New Year’s Eve, Jack?”
He clears his throat. “I’d, um, rather ask you in person, Diane, and by then I ought to know where we can go. So, will you go with me or meet me somewhere for lunch tomorrow?”
I smile. “Sure. Where?”
“I was hoping you’d tell me. I don’t normally eat downtown, so I don’t know what’s good and what isn’t.”
I don’t eat out downtown much, either. Hmm. But, I’ve always wanted to go to this one place…. “How about Bandini’s on the Market?”
“Great. What time suits you?”
“My lunch hour starts at twelve-thirty, so…twelve-forty? It’s only a ten-minute walk for me.” Hint-hint: Pick me up, Jack. It’s supposed to be cold.
“Could I pick you up in front of the library at twelve-thirty-five?”
He’s quick! “That would be great.”
“Okay. I’ll see you tomorrow in front of the library at twelve-thirty-five.”
“Great.”
More silence, but it’s the kind of silence you swim in and enjoy, waves of silence filled with tingling, sweaty fingers and warm hands.
“I’m glad you called, Diane.”
I’m glad I did, too, but I can’t just…jump for this man. “And I was only calling about the LOC number.”
“Oh, yeah. Well, I’m glad you listened…and accepted.”
I’m glad about that, too, but I’m still not jumping. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Jack.”
“Okay. Bye, Diane.”
“Good-bye, Jack.”
Click.
I…have…a…date!
I, a twenty-five year-old suede sister with some junk in my trunk am going out to lunch with a six-foot, skinny, ashy, blond-haired, blue-eyed scarecrow.
Lord, we are going to clash so badly!
And, for some reason, I can’t wait!
It’s about time I had some kind of life.
28
Jack
You are so smooth when you want to be.
I wasn’t trying to be smooth. I was scared to death!
Fear works for you. You can put the phone down now.
Oh, yeah.
I put the phone in its cradle and wiped my hands on my pants. I had to switch hands several times during the conversation, they were sweating so much. I felt like such a kid.
Was I babbling? I was babbling, wasn’t I?
It takes a while for you to get going, but once you do, you flow out loud, too.
Geez, Bandini’s. I hear it’s good.
Just don’t wear white to an Italian restaurant.
Yeah. What do I wear?
The same thing you’ve been wearing. Be casual.
But I’d be wearing the clothes Noël picked out for me on a date with another woman.
So?
There’s something…wrong with that.
Look, unless you do some laundry, the only clothes you have that are clean are—
Okay, okay.
Just don’t iron them this time.
I don’t even know if I have any clean underwear.
Go “cowboy,” then.
No way!
You’re changing, Jack. You’re getting better. Live a little.
Without underwear?
How will she know?
That’s not the point. I’ll know. It’ll be cold tomorrow, and I know I’ll feel a draft.
So, do a load of whites.
I’ll do a load of whites.
Ten minutes later, I realize something: I have a lot of “off-whites” to wash. Why is it that whites don’t want to stay white? Maybe the entire universe works toward color or something.
Nothing white can stay, either.
You said it.
I am shin deep in six months of unwashed clothing in the laundry room, none of it Stevie’s or Noël’s, thankfully. She must have done the laundry that day….
You’ve let them pile up for far too long, Jack.
I know, but…how can someone live this way?
You weren’t really living, Jack. You were just getting up in the morning for lack of anything better to do, wandering around the house, and drinking yourself to sleep. But now, you have a purpose.
And that is?
To start over. You have a woman coming over tomorrow morning to drive the car. She sounded pretty on the phone.
How…Just because her voice sounded pretty doesn’t mean—
“Pretty choices made by pretty voices.”
Will you quit quoting that…novel I don’t want to think about anymore?
I’ll bet she’s hot. Mustangs are babe magnets.
Noël drove the Mustang.
And she was a babe.
You’re talking about my wife and Stevie’s mother, now. “Babe” isn’t used to describe—
It should be, especially by her husband. You still thought she was a babe, especially when she pulled up in that Mustang the first time you went down to Smith Mountain Lake.
Yeah. She was a babe that day. The Mustang is a babe magnet.
Right. It’s a muscle car.
I have no muscles, but that’s not the point. I can’t pick up Diane in that
beat-up old truck! I’ll have to take the Mustang.
You’re going to pick up Diane in your dead wife’s car in the clothes your dead wife picked out for you? Gee, Jack, you’re pushing the envelope now.
I can’t sell that car, and not because I think Diane will like it better. It’s…it’s a link to my past.
And now you’ll use it to link to your future.
Something like that.
The best of both worlds.
Or the worst.
I dump as many whites (and plenty of grays) as can fit in the washing machine, dump in a full scoop of Tide, and pour in at least a quart of bleach. I turn the right knob to the longest wash setting—
Use hot water, Jack.
I turn the center knob to “hot,” set the left knob to “oversized load,” and pull out the right knob. Water streams into the tub, splashing up on me.
After six months collecting dust, it still works!
Yeah.
And so do you, Jack. So do you.
29
Diane
So…I have a date.
I keep saying it over and over again in my head. I even say it to the cake, to my glass of iced tea, to my reflection in the mirror, to my toothbrush—
I’m so glad I live alone.
I’ve been kind of floating through the rest of the evening. I’m even actually watching TV while ironing. It’s some reality show or other I’ve never seen before where the kids try to get their dad a new wife. It’s kind of…charming, though I doubt all those women’s breasts or faces are real. What some people will do for love.
Like calling up strange white men, I guess.
I finger through my wardrobe and pick out a burgundy pantsuit. I’ll wear a plain crème blouse underneath and a push-up bra I haven’t had the nerve to wear. The first time I put it on, my breasts…moved. They just…smiled up at me.
