"Are you reading this weird horror shit now?" Kevin held a copy of The Reincarnation of Peter Proud in his hand, his dark brows scrunched together. "I thought you hated this stuff."
"I usually do," I admitted, "but someone recommended it and it's actually not bad." I didn't want to explain Ehrlich's book or talk about reincarnation with Kev right that minute — or perhaps any minute. Kevin's Pomo grandparents had embraced Christianity lock, stock and barrel in an effort to appear more "white." To Kev, Native American spiritual beliefs like the Iroquois' Ondinnonk in Ehrlich's novel was just Indian voodoo and he couldn't care less.
"We going to Olivetti's or what?" As if on cue, my stomach growled.
Kevin heard the grumbling sound and smiled. "Let's get out of here." Tossing the paperback onto the couch, he grabbed me by the hand as if we were a couple again and the four months separation had never happened. I didn't have the heart to correct him, and part of me wasn't sure I wanted to.
Chapter Eight
"He knelt by your chair?" Rita's dark eyes widened in shock, two black buttons beneath the brim of a floppy red knit hat that had definitely seen better days. "The same Kevie Mac I used to know? Had he had too much firewater or something?"
The California rain pummeled the warehouse roof, creating a thunderous metallic roar. Rita and I stood beneath the entryway awning, Rita smoking a cigarette, me tapping my feet in a shallow puddle in rhythm to Anne Murray's classic country western hit Could I Have This Dance?. An image of Bud and Sissy dancing at Gilley's fluttered through my mind, as if looking for love in all the wrong places only happened between folks like John Travolta and Deborah Winger in the movies.
"Nope. He was totally sober. Said he loved me and was a fool to let me go." Yanking my long black leather coat closed at the front, I tried to quell my shivering. California or not, the day was downright cold.
"Hellfire. What did you do? Did he actually ask you to...?" Rita's voice trailed off before the word "marry." Despite her unequivocal appreciation of anything male, she didn't take to the idea of marriage any more than I did.
"No," I said, answering Rita's second question first. "I suggested we go out for dinner. Which sort of diverted the conversation." I gazed up at my friend. "Don't ask me whether we're back together. Kevin probably thinks we are, but I don't know. I just..."
"Jay," Rita said, her cranberry lips in a thin line. "You think Kev found out."
"Who knows?" I shrugged. "And if he did, so what? It made him jealous or something? Made him realize he was really losing me? Sometimes I have no idea what makes Kevin tick. But I have to admit, what happened Saturday night took me by surprise."
"Did you sleep with him?" As always, Rita cut right to the chase.
"God no! Not that he didn't have it in mind, but I didn't want to make him think everything was back to how it used to be. Because it isn't." I bit my lip and contemplated my next statement. "I've changed, Reets. I'm not the same girl who told Kevin to shove it last September. I'm not going to put up with the crap I did then. He needs to know that before... well, before we...you know..."
"Good," Rita said, her voice pleased. She pulled her rabbit lined leather gloves higher up to cover her thin wrists. "Kevie Mac needed to grow up. And maybe he has. But, then again, maybe he hasn't. Don't rush into anything."
"I don't plan to. But Kevin's impatient. You know that."
Earl Wyse stuck his bearded head outside the shop door, and peered across the parking lot. Spotting me beside Rita, he waved a summons. I waved back so he'd know his wayward office girl was on the way in just a minute.
"Yeah. But what I really want to know is what you want, Jess. Do you want Kev back? Or do you want something else? Someone else?" Rita looked at me out the side of her eyes, pretending a nonchalance I knew she didn't feel. Her question was loaded for bear, and the woman flat out knew it.
Essentially Reets was asking how I'd choose between Jay and Kevin. The answer was complicated, because Jay and I could never be together like other couples. He'd never leave his daughters without a father or Candy without a home. The man I'd grown to know and love was stuck in this 1950s paradigm of always doing the right thing — which I could never fault him for, but I knew how much grief his marriage had cost him. The bigger question was whether I was willing to wait it out until Jay's daughters were old enough that he felt like he could finally live his own life — whenever that might be. None of this was new; Jay and I had discussed it and he was quite clear where his responsibilities lay.
Now it was my turn to get clear. Even though I knew he probably wouldn't ever do it, I'd been teetering on the verge of asking Jay to leave Candy because I couldn't stand the half-life of loving someone who I couldn't be with the way I wanted. I could barely admit that to myself, never mind to Rita. So instead I spoke the simple truth, knowing I had to remind myself things were what they were, and would probably never change.
"I can't have what I can't have, Reets. And I can't really have Jay. No matter how much we'd like it if things were different, they aren't." My throat suddenly felt tight, as if speaking the truth was that much more painful than simply knowing it. The sensation made my voice quiver, and as much as I hated the sound, I spoke anyway. "So all we have is today. Right now. No promises." I looked toward the foggy horizon, my eyes misty. Sugar-coating had never been my specialty, and I knew Rita would understand. "What I want doesn't really matter when it comes to any future with Jay. As for Kev, the door is open. I get to decide if I'm going to walk back through it or say good-bye for good. Because there's no middle ground with Kev — he's an all or nothing guy."
Chapter Nine
The next weekend I spent researching my Social Psyche paper. I absolutely had to finish it. I was behind on the project and had a midterm in Stats the following Monday. I badly needed to pull A's in those classes if I had any chance of getting accepted into grad school. Kevin tried to talk me into hanging out with him at the Riverrun tavern Saturday night, maybe play some darts, maybe stick around to hear the band, but I pleaded deadlines and refused the invitation. Interestingly, he took it in stride and said he totally understood, which surprised the hell out of me. I still hadn't firmly decided whether I wanted to fall into being Kev's girlfriend again. Part of me wanted to, part of me hesitated because choosing Kev undoubtedly meant giving up Jay.
I needed to talk to Jay and figure stuff out before I made any decisions. Yet I knew Jay wouldn't tell me not to go back to Kev. I was vacillating, procrastinating, putting off the conversations I didn't want to have. I was delaying the conversation with Kev because if we got back together, hands down he'd never stand for sharing his girlfriend with anyone. I was deferring the conversation with Jay because I didn't want to think about us ending. I also didn't trust that I wouldn't make a fool out of myself and ask him to leave Candy. But I knew things couldn't stay in this tense stasis. Something had to give and that something had to be me.
As Rita was fond of saying, it was a shit-or-get-off-the-pot moment. Somehow these decisions always seemed easy for other people; unfortunately, they weren't easy for me.
Sunday morning I settled onto my couch, coffee cup in hand, notebook in my lap, stacks of texts beside me on the floor. My Social Psyche paper was close to finished and I was feeling rather proud of my progress.
As soon as I thought the word "proud," I remembered Jay's book, The Reincarnation of Peter Proud. I'd stashed the tattered paperback on my nightstand, thinking I'd read it before bed, but then I hadn't finished it. Suddenly unable to focus on anything else, I retrieved the book and returned to the couch. I located my bookmark, poised now at the beginning of Part III.
Peter Proud had finally discovered his name in his previous life, read the 1946 obituary of his death by drowning, and obtained a smiling photograph of the man he used to be, a decorated World War II Marine. Now he was on his way to visit his own grave — kind of bizarre, but an interesting read. Ehrlich's novel built on Morey Bernstein's Bridey Murphy case, the possibility of "p
roving" reincarnation to Western non-believers by recalling specific historically traceable memories under hypnotic regression. The therapist in Ehrlich's novel, Hall Bentley, thought to make a fortune off Proud's story, not to mention shaking up the Christian status quo. I didn't need to be convinced of reincarnation myself, but I was reading the novel for Jay, so I finished it in a few hours. The conclusion struck me as inevitable — although somewhat a change from the "happily ever after" denouements many Western readers preferred. Death by drowning. Again.
The concept of repeated life patterns was not new to me. The Buddhists touched on this with the term karma, the endless wheel of births and deaths, the idea we repeat the same lessons with the same people until the debt is cleared. All with the idea that once we resolve what we need to resolve and evolve past attachment and desire, we reach enlightenment, no longer need to incarnate, and can transcend the physical plane. I'd also heard about the idea that groups of people chose to reincarnate together, to support each other's goals or work on a collective goal. It somehow made sense to me, and I didn't particularly care how or why. But with my Social Psychology paper research fresh in my mind, I wondered about how the intricacies of diverse family and cultural patterns intersected with individual life patterns and karma, and how to extricate one from the other, or even if you could.
Setting the novel aside, I wandered into the kitchen to make a chicken salad sandwich. Ehrlich's story also brought a tragic romantic element to the forefront. The power of love across lifetimes was one of my personal explanations for the phenomena many labeled "love at first sight." The cliché was one of those familiar Western literary tropes and the basis for thousands of songs, films, and poems, yet something many people personally experience. I'd experienced it to some degree with Kevin, but also oddly with Jay, the odd part being how I disliked him so much at first sight, and then — well the rest was our ongoing saga. I wondered whether Jay had experienced something like that with his wife or perhaps me. Recalling his request for me to read Ehrlich's novel with the promise it would explain a lot about us seemed to point in that direction. I had tried meditating on the subject of my past life with Jay, hoping to see the images of how and when we'd been together — like I'd seen with Kev — but so far, nothing.
The phone rang as I was chewing the first bite of chicken. I answered it, expecting Kevin's deep voice, but instead it was a woman.
"Hello, Jessica?" The woman's southern accent was soft, like a spring breeze across the prairie.
Figuring the caller was a telemarketer, I responded cold. but polite, thinking I'd hang up if I she didn't let me off the line gracefully. "Who's calling please?"
"This' Candace Green. I'm calling to speak to a Jessica Maneiro. Is she there?"
The bite of chicken lodged suddenly in my throat. I took a swig of water to wash it down, my mind rushing madly. Why the hell was Candy calling me? And did I even want to talk to her? Time seemed to slow as I considered my potential responses, most of them rude.
There was the standard "fuck off," the sly "wrong number," the bitchy "Candace who?," or the dumbfounded "what's up?" I settled on a version of "why not?". If Candy wanted to talk to me, I may as well hear what she had to say now and get it the hell over with. Otherwise I'd stew about it and imagine all kinds of shit and get wrapped around the axle thinking about it.
"This is Jess." I sat on the arm of my couch, trying nonchalant body language to mask my skyrocketing blood pressure.
"Hi Jess. This is Jay's wife, Candy." The woman paused, waiting for my acknowledgement.
"How can I help you Mrs. Green?" There was southern politeness for you, I thought, smirking to myself.
"Spare the sarcasm, please. This conversation is going to be short and to the point. I want you to stay away from my husband." Candy's words were clearly annunciated and remarkably calm.
Skipping any response to her directive regarding my sarcasm which would get us exactly nowhere, I quickly threw the ball back into her court. "I think you should be talking to Jay instead of me, Candy."
"I have talked to Jay. In fact, he knows I'm calling you right now. I'm telling you the same thing I told him. I want you out of our lives." Her voice sounded angry now. Petulant. A little girl who wanted what she wanted when she wanted it and barely hanging onto her temper.
The woman had nerve. No question. But I wasn't easily shooed away by tough girl talk. Wanting something didn't magically make it happen — for Candy or anyone else. The term soap opera fluttered through my brain. On the one hand, the situation felt inanely ridiculous, something right out of daytime TV, on the other, Candy's phone call was perhaps predictable. Pretty Candy had always been the one to step out on Jay first; it had never been the other way around. Now the shoe was on the other foot and she wanted Jay to herself again. Despite everything I knew, I suddenly felt sorry for the woman. Not that it changed my feelings about Jay one bit. But it made me sadly realize his situation was more sticky and complicated than I'd been wanting to see — which meant the possibility he'd leave her less likely even if I asked no matter how much he cared about me. Because Jay would always want to do the right thing for his family, regardless of the personal cost.
Swallowing the ache building in my throat, I wanted to slam the phone down. I didn't owe Candy anything. But meeting her anger with my own or spewing words I'd regret wouldn't help the situation. As I considered what I really wanted to say to Jay's wife, what came to mind was honesty and coolness for some reason. I didn't want Candace Green to think her call bothered me. I also didn't want to snap back with something defensive or bitchy that she could gossip about later with her girlfriends. Pettiness aside, this was a real woman, who for all her faults, meant something to a man I loved deeply and considered one of my best friends.
Taking a deep breath, I kept my own voice low and calm. "Well, I don't know about that, Candy. I don't think it's up to me. Again, I think that's something you and Jay should really be discussing between the two of you. But I want to thank you for calling and telling me how you feel."
There, I'd said exactly what I meant to say as kindly as I could say it. It probably didn't matter to anyone except me, but that was the point: I had to live with it.
"I'm telling you to stay out of my life, Jess." Candy's sweet voice was harsh now.
"Thanks for the call," I smiled into the receiver waiting for her to hang up on me, which she promptly did. I set the phone on the counter next to my sandwich.
My hands were still shaking five minutes later when I filled the tea kettle.
Shitfire. Sometimes truth really was stranger than fiction.
Chapter Ten
On Valentine's Day the following Tuesday I received two flower deliveries at the shop office. Earl Wyse studied the cut crystal vases on the Service Department counter, his long nose twitching as if he were about to sneeze.
"Two, Jess?" He frowned as if it were some type of sacrilege to receive two Valentine bouquets.
"What's it to ya, Earl?" I smiled.
"Who they from?" he asked, his gruff voice pitched like a teasing dad, then he snatched the card off the deep red roses and read the signature for himself. "Gotta be Kevin Mac," he guessed at the sloppy KM scribbled in black marker.
I raised my eyebrows and neither confirmed nor denied Earl's guess.
Without waiting for an invitation, he turned over the card beside the vase of gorgeous white calla lilies. "Now who the hell sends a girl flowers and then forgets to sign the card? A secret admirer?" The bearded man peered at me perplexed, then tapping his temple, he smiled. "Unless the girl sends flowers to herself."
I winked without bothering to correct him. Pleased as punch to have solved the office girl's two-bouquet mystery, Earl laughed his way through the swinging doors out into the shop.
At 6:00 pm, I wrapped up what I was working on and set the completed invoices on my desk to proof the following morning. I'd taken a "sick" day on Monday to study for my midterm and finish the Social Psych paper. Now th
at the deadlines were behind me, I felt I owed it to Earl to hold up my end of the table and crawl my way back to current on the billing. Keeping things current made Earl's numbers look good and he was a man who reveled in good numbers. On more than one occasion he'd made it clear I was substantially more proficient than the last "office girl" he'd hired — which was a fine arrangement for Earl and everyone else, including me.
The other quite deliberate reason I stayed late was to talk to Jay, who usually closed the shop every night. Although we typically went to dinner on Fridays, I thought I should at least thank him for the calla lilies (my favorite, sorry Kev...) and just maybe mention Sunday's conversation with Candy.
I'd told Rita about my unexpected phone call earlier over a meatloaf sandwich at Sal's Deli. As I expected, she'd flipped her perpetually-curly lid.
"Stay out of my life? As if little blonde Candy could snap her pretty fingers and everything would change just because she wants it to? Or else what? What's she gonna do, track you down at Olivetti's and shoot you?" Rita huffed and stuck a handful of potato chips in her month, then crunched them to smithereens, as if she were chewing pebbles.
"Not funny, Reets," I mumbled around a mouthful of sandwich.
"Well, for shit sakes. The bitch got what was coming to her. All those years she fucked around on Jay while he's IN the service. Then after he comes BACK, alive and whole and healthy, she takes up with some other soldier. Not to mention the entire hoo-ha with Dave. Which still may be going on, mind you. I can't believe her nerve." Rita furiously yanked her turquoise sweater into shape, exposing significantly more cleavage and the edges of a lacy black brassiere.
"What do you mean took up with someone after Jay was back? I thought they reconciled." Perplexed at Rita's version of Jay's history, I studied my friend's frown.
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