True North

by Kelly Collins

  A robust laugh escapes his mouth. I can see it comes from deep inside his core, because his whole body is shaking with laughter.

  “Do you always do what people tell you? You could have told me to kiss your butt.”

  “That’s not really my style. Anyway, I did owe you, and you looked like you could really use the help. Since I’m stuck in town for a bit, I thought it would be a good distraction.” I look around the bar and wonder how he got here. “What made you become a bar owner? You don’t look like your customers.”

  “I’m exactly like them. There is nothing I would rather do than pull my Harley out of the garage and take a road trip. Unfortunately, my life has taken some turns lately that prohibit me from doing that.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. I’ll be right back.”

  I walk to my tables and make sure everyone is taken care of before I return to our conversation. I find Zane deep in thought.

  “What are you running from?” he blurts out when I return. “You have a new car...well, not exactly new, but it has temporary plates. You have no phone, and you have no place to go. What has you running? Are you in danger?”

  I ponder his question for a moment. I suppose I’m running, but not from anything specific; I’m running to something; something I haven’t named yet.

  “I’m not in danger. I’m not running as such, I am exploring my options. I left a bad situation, and I’m making my life better. I do have a phone…now. Thank you.” I lean against the counter, crossing my arms over my chest. “Are you from here? Have you always lived here? We’re all running to or from something, aren’t we?”

  Another laugh, but this one is more of a “you have to be joking” kind of laugh.

  “I moved here two years ago and purchased the bar. My mother settled here after her retirement and then became ill. I came to help. If I’m dashing out of the bar, it’s usually because she needs me for something.”

  “That’s really sweet. I’m sure she appreciates that. What did you do before owning the bar?”

  I watch him as he formulates his answer. His face has scruff on it; he must not have shaved today. It takes his baby face away and gives him a gruffer look—one that matches his everyday personality.

  “Believe it or not, I lived in Los Angeles and worked as a financial analyst for an investment firm. I spent my weekends on my bike. I loved to ride down the coast. The salty ocean air blowing in your face is fabulous.”

  “You’re not too far. You could still head to the ocean on the weekends. I’m sure you can get someone to watch the bar so you could go on occasion.”

  “I’ve got too many commitments these days.” He looks off into the distance, as if he’s reliving a memory. “Have you ever been on a bike?”

  “No, I have never ridden on a motorcycle. They are dangerous. I don’t even like to ride a bicycle.”

  The door opens, and our next rush walks in. Two couples take seats in a corner booth. I scurry over to take their drink order. The man raises his hand in a wave to Zane.

  “Hey man, how are you? How’s the family?” he calls out.

  Zane walks over from the bar and pats the man on the back. “Things are good. I can’t complain.”

  “Glad to hear it. We’re taking a ride in two weeks to Calabasas. You should join us. We’re leaving Friday night and coming back Monday around noon. Think about it.”

  “I will.”

  I leave them to finish their conversation. I didn’t mean to hover; it’s just that I haven’t seen him interact with his customers, and watching his eyes light up at the mention of a weekend ride makes me smile.

  I pour the drinks and set them down in front of the foursome. I pull a stool over for Zane so he can sit and visit with his friends. I pat him on the shoulder and tell him I’ll hold down the fort while he talks. The smile he gives me warms my heart. I suppose there is a softer side to him after all.

  Customers float in throughout the day. It’s never really insanely busy, just bursts of business. In-between, I manage to wipe the entire place down.

  “Why are you doing that?” he asks.

  I turn to him and answer, “It needs to be done. Since you’re paying me, I’m not going to sit on my butt and do nothing. It’s not in my character just to wait for the next thirsty person to come in. I have to keep busy.”

  “I don’t think the bar has been this clean since I bought it. Are you sure you can’t stay? You’re the best thing that’s come through that door in a long time.”

  His statement paralyzes me for a moment. It’s been years since anyone has paid me a compliment. I think the last time someone said something remotely nice to me was when I cut my hair and Tyler said it didn’t look that bad.

  “Thanks. I appreciate that.” In the background, Aerosmith’s “Sweet Emotion” fills the air. I grab my dishrag and dance around the mostly empty bar, wiping everything in sight. I look at the bar and see Zane watching me. His lips are turned upward into a smile.

  I lock the door after the last customer leaves and queue up Queen’s “Bohemian Rhapsody”. I feel happy and carefree. I haven’t felt this good in years. I belong to me, and no one gets to control me anymore. I dance around, feeling the rush of freedom. For the first time since I left Los Angeles, I feel like things are going to be all right.

  Zane closes out the register while I sweep and mop the floor. Just as I’m beginning to have pleasant thoughts about him, a chubby brunette descends the stairs. She waits at the register for her pay. She exits without a glance in my direction. I never saw her enter today, but he did disappear upstairs several times throughout my shift. He always came back down, looking happy and relaxed.

  I put everything away and walk out the door. I don’t wait for him to walk me across the street. I don’t want to be around him right now. I understand men need sex. I understand he’s busy and can’t commit to a relationship, but it gives me the creeps knowing he’s upstairs screwing somebody while I’m serving up beer and wings below. This is his business, and he should be down here taking care of it. Why is it the men I meet always want to take something from me? With Zane, it’s my time and energy. I’ve given enough.

  “Hey, wait up. I can walk you,” he calls out from the door.

  “No worries, I’m good,” I yell back as I reach the other side of the street.

  I slip my key in the door and escape his madness once again. My car should be ready by Friday. I’ll pack up everything Thursday night and be on my way Friday morning.

  I grab a beer from my little refrigerator and open my laptop. I hold my breath as it starts up. The ping of incoming emails makes my breath hitch. What will it be today, another stab to my heart? A reminder of what was stolen from me?

  I scour the emails; seeing none from the devil, I release the breath I was holding. My sister emailed with a message of love. After I read the four other emails, I close it up for the night.

  Just as I am getting ready to hit the sack, I hear an unfamiliar chiming coming from the nightstand. I go in search of the annoying beep and realize the phone Zane gave me is ringing. I don’t recognize the number and figure it’s just someone calling by accident. I ignore the call and go about my nightly ritual. Less than a minute later, I hear the sound again.

  “Hello?” I answer the phone with a question in my voice.

  “Thank goodness. I thought maybe you didn’t charge the phone.”

  “Zane, is that you?”

  “Yes, I need a favor. I need you. I’ve called all of my regulars, and none of them can come right away. Can you come here now? It won’t take long. I’m desperate.”

  I can hear the panic in his voice, but the message he’s delivering doesn’t compute in my brain. “What the hell? She was just there.”

  “I know it’s terribly inconvenient. I know it’s late and you’re tired from working all day, but I’ll make it worth your while. You can rest here. My bed is really comfortable. It’s a life and death situation, or I wouldn’t ask. I’ll meet you at the
door of the bar.” He hangs up abruptly.

  I stand in my room, dumbfounded. Did I say I would go? Of course not, but he did sound desperate. Can a man sound panicky from lack of sex? His young little thing just left thirty minutes ago. Why would he need me? I mean, we talked today, and I got to know him a bit, but not enough to want to give it up to him.

  I throw a hoodie over my pajamas and slip on my tennis shoes. I’m going to have to set this man straight. I’ll walk over, tell him to kiss off, and let him know I won’t be working Tuesday. I have my project to start tomorrow anyway.

  Chapter Four

  I grab my key and march across the street ready to give him a piece of my mind. I stood by for years while my ex-husband made me into a shell of myself. I’m not about to let another man use me, take what he wants, and then toss me aside.

  By the time I get to the door, I’m furious. He opens it, and before I can say one word he takes my arm and rushes me upstairs.

  “This is my house. Everything you’ll need is on the counter. My cell number is on the phone I gave you. If you forgot it, the landline is here.” He points to a table next to the sofa. “All of my numbers are on the refrigerator. I shouldn’t be more than a couple of hours. He just went down to sleep, so he shouldn’t wake up for a while. His food is in the refrigerator.” I watch as he frantically races around the room, grabs his keys and jacket, and dashes out the door.

  “What? What the hell are you talking about?” I call after him. He doesn’t respond, just jumps in his truck and takes off like he’s being chased by demons.

  I’m left speechless and alone in the middle of the room. I turn around in a circle, taking in my surroundings. So this is the upstairs. I never considered it could be a house. I thought maybe an office or storeroom, but his home never crossed my mind.

  I walk around the room, taking it all in. It’s a big open space. I slowly rotate in a circle and process everything I see. To my right is the kitchen; it’s sleek and modern with white cabinets and stainless steel appliances. To the right of that is a dining table. It is round and made of dark wood. Six beige, upholstered chairs surround it. In the center is a bowl that seems to be a catchall. I can see coins, bills, and a half-eaten roll of Tums. Next to the Tums is a pacifier. I rotate further and see the door where Zane exited. When I open it to get a better view, I see it leads down to the backyard. In the center of the lawn sits a swing set and a teeter-totter.

  I close the door and walk farther into the living room. A massive television takes up an entire wall. Leave it to a man to decorate. Across from the wall are a brown leather sofa and two chairs. The coffee table that sits in front of the sofa is littered with newspapers and books. I begin to straighten things up when I see the book that brings it all together for me, From Birth to Toddler.

  You have got to be kidding me? I think, and then it all comes back to me. The young girls and his constant disappearing act. He was always freshly showered, and he smelled of something sweet. That scent was baby lotion or powder. His gruffness is probably caused from lack of sleep. My eyes dart to the pacifier on the table. Why didn’t that raise a flag? I just skimmed over it.

  My heart begins to beat wildly in my chest. This can’t be happening to me. I can’t take care of a kid, even for a minute. I’m not equipped to handle it. I have no idea what to do. I pace back and forth in the room. I glance up and see a hallway, and know I will eventually have to venture down it.

  I feel myself start to hyperventilate and know I have to get my breathing under control. If I don’t, Zane will find me passed out on the floor, and his kid will be left unattended. I sit on the sofa and put my head between my legs. I repeat the mantra my therapist gave me. I begin So-Ham, Ham-Sa, So-Ham, Ham-Sa…breath in on the So-Ham, and out on the Ham-Sa. It’s an effective tool to get myself under control. The loose translation in Sanskrit is “He I am” and “I am he”, which in my way of translating means, “I got this shit.”

  When I finally feel comfortable enough to pull away from my knees, I look at my surroundings more carefully. The signs of parenthood are everywhere. In the corner is one of those plastic frames that has crazy stuff like animals and rings hanging from it. A basket full of pacifiers and teething rings sits smack dab in the center of the coffee table. The corners of the square table have pads attached to them. A stack of diapers and box of wipes sit at the end of the sofa.

  How could I not see that? You saw what you wanted to see. I hear my inner voice, and she’s right. I’ve seen what I wanted to see since I arrived. I didn’t see a dedicated father; I saw a sex-crazed man. I didn’t see a kind Samaritan; I saw a man who bristled and grumbled and told me I owed him.

  I’m ashamed of myself. How did I become such a cynical person? I was never that girl. I used to see the good in people. I was the embodiment of a Pollyanna. If you looked up Pollyanna in Webster’s Dictionary, it would have said, “a person characterized by irrepressible optimism and a tendency to find good in everything,” and after that it would have said, “Alexa”.

  I let him change me; I let them all change me. Between my mother, father, and Tyler, they sucked the joy and optimism out of my life. If I continue to be like this, it means they win. I need to find myself and get back to the Alexa I once was—the girl who laughed so much, she snorted. I want soda to spurt out my nose. I want to sing when I shower. I want to dance in the rain and have water balloon fights in the heat of the day. I want to live again, not just exist.

  I square my shoulders and tiptoe down the hallway. I open the first door and find a king-sized bed, neatly made. Two nightstands and dresser complete the room. There are two doors in this room. One door leads into a large walk-in closet. I enter and inhale. It smells exactly like he does. He smells fresh and clean, with a hint of leather and baby powder. It’s a weird combination but somehow works for the man who flips between gruff and gracious on a dime. I run my fingers along his clothes and bring a shirtsleeve to my nose and inhale.

  I walk in a circle around his closet and see he has mostly jeans and cotton tees, and some button-down shirts. In the corner is a leather vest. I pull it out and see his name stitched onto the right breast. Turning it around, I see the back that has a patch of an adult hand and a child’s hand locked together. The initials BFK are stitched above the clasped hands. I have no idea what that means.

  I venture into the next room, thinking his child might be in there, but only find the most fabulous bathroom. In the corner sits a large Jacuzzi tub, and next to it is a separate shower with a bench. The double-sink vanity is directly across the way. Being the nosy girl I am, I open his medicine chest and see only staples. Things like aspirin and Band-Aids. I feel guilty looking through his personal stuff, but that doesn’t stop me from opening a few drawers. I find the majority of them are empty; only one contains anything, and that is a razor, brush, and comb.

  I leave his personal space behind and venture down the hallway. The door to my right is open, and I can tell right away it’s a bathroom. It smells heavily of baby shampoo. I flip on the light and see a tub full of toys. The tub’s tap is covered with a rubber elephant snout. In the corner is one of those shampoo rings shaped like a duck. The idea is to put it on a kid’s head. When you shampoo and rinse, the water rolls off the sides and never gets in the baby’s eyes or ears. I wonder if it works?

  I open the next door to my left and find an office. At least I was right about one thing: on the wall hangs his diploma. He finished his degree three years before I graduated from USC. That would make him roughly twenty-nine or thirty years old.

  There is one door left to open. This one is slightly ajar. In the distance, I can see the movement of light. I creep into the room, trying to make as little noise as possible. On the dresser is the source of light I noticed before entering. It’s rotating and throwing images of stars and moons onto the wall and ceiling.

  I slip farther into the room and come up next to the crib that is dead center on the wall. In the dim light, I can barely make out the
theme of the bedding, but I think it’s the cow jumped over the moon. What is that nursery rhyme? I think goes something like—hey diddle, diddle. What the hell is a diddle?

  I peek into the crib and see a sleeping infant. I listen to his even breathing and hear his lips root around for something to suckle. Since my split with Tyler, I have avoided anything to do with children, marriage or couples. Looking at this infant, I am consumed by emotion. I want to reach out and stroke his hair. I gently touch his downy soft locks, trying not to wake him. His hair is dark in this light. His skin feels like velvet; it’s so soft and supple. I gently rub my hand down his back and stop to feel him breathe in and out. I brush one finger along his arm and trace down until I reach his tiny little hand. He startles, and his arms and legs flex out. When he relaxes, his little palm closes tightly around my finger.

  I look at this little human grasping my finger. Tears begin to spill from my eyes. This very moment will be embedded in my mind forever. This baby, whatever his name is, has marked my heart in a way I can’t explain. The rocking chair is just a few feet from my grasp. I can’t grab it. I refuse to release his hold on me. With my toes, I take hold of the leg and slowly drag the chair toward me. I settle in next to this little man and wait for his father to return.

  In the silence, I have nothing to distract my thoughts. I begin to question how a man like Zane ended up with an infant. By the looks of this baby, and I’m no expert, he can’t be more than a few months old. Where is this child’s mother?

  While I was snooping, I didn’t come across anything that would indicate the presence of a woman. His closet was full of men’s clothes; his bathroom didn’t have makeup, curling irons, hair dryers or tampons.

  I thought the man was an enigma before, now he’s just a puzzle I have to figure out. What man takes care of an infant by himself? There is a story here, and I have every intention of figuring out what Zane’s story is all about. All the things that irritated me before, I now find endearing. Reality changes everything. When I thought he was trotting upstairs for a quickie with a teen, I was disturbed and disappointed. I should have called him on it, but something about his demeanor didn’t match his actions. I think I knew deep down inside he wasn’t up to anything bad.