Falling for June: A Novel (15 page)

21

W
E WERE HALFWAY
down the path when he fell. I didn’t even see it happen. I was strolling along ahead of him like a mindless idiot, using the closed umbrella as a walking stick, and if he shouted or made any sound at all I didn’t hear that either. All I remember is sensing that he was no longer following behind me and turning back to see him lying on the path. I dropped the umbrella and rushed to his side.

“Mr. Hadley, are you okay? What happened?”

He was lying facedown, and it looked as if he was struggling to breathe. I got my hands beneath him and turned him over, gripping his shoulders and helping to sit him upright. He was surprisingly light, and I noticed that he was actually wearing several layers of clothing, including the thick sweater, which made him appear much bigger than he actually was.

“Are you okay? You’re having trouble breathing.”

“I’m fine,” he said, gripping my forearm.

He sounded anything but fine. His voice was raspy and strained, his breathing labored and shallow. The contents of his sweater pockets had fallen out onto the path when he took his spill, and I used my free hand to gather up his things and put them back: notebook and reading glasses, a pen, a small bottle of pills, replacement hearing-aid batteries, several wrapped peppermints, and an old photo.

“Is this June?” I asked, looking at the photo.

He reached out and pulled my hand closer so he could see the photo, even though there were no other photos in his pockets and I knew he didn’t need to identify it. I think he just wanted to see her, the old romantic, sitting right there on that dirt path, disheveled and muddied like some old rugby player refusing to quit the game. He took several deep, calming breaths and seemed to feel better after looking at her image.

“That’s my June,” he said. “Isn’t she beautiful?”

“She is striking. I see what you mean about her eyes. They’re smiling right off the photo. But why is she wearing a matador costume, and why is there blood on both your hands? I can’t see her killing bulls.”

“Oh no,” he said. “That’s fake blood. Dye, actually. She’d never kill an animal for sport. Although we did eat bull stew at our reception. No, this was what June wore for our wedding. I joked that if she was going to keep that bloody matador costume on for the ceremony, I’d dress up as the bull. We were married right there by the
jefe de la policía
who had arrested us just twenty-four hours before.”

I was glad he seemed to be feeling better, but my legs were getting tired squatting beside him in the path.

“Well, let’s get you back and you can tell me all about it,” I said. “Here, let me help you up. You must be freezing. These old corduroys are soaked through.”

“I can’t promise that that’s rainwater either,” he said. “I’m sorry to be such a burden. I really am. I’m sure this isn’t how you envisioned spending your birthday.”

“I’ll hear none of that. Lean on me. Or do you want your cane?”

“Who needs a cane when I fall so gracefully?” he asked, grinning. “But what about the umbrella?”

“It’s not raining now.”

“I won that in a radio contest, you know.”

“I’ll come back for it.”

The sun had set by the time we made it back to the house, and he was shivering in my arms. I got him inside and sat him in his chair. Then I lit the wood stove.

“You usually build this thing up yourself?” I asked. “How do you get the wood inside? Maybe you should have a heat pump installed.”

I realized my mistake the moment I said it. Here I was on a pre-foreclosure house call to evict the old man from his property, the property where his wife was buried, and I was dumb enough to be suggesting improvements to his heating system. Fortunately, when I looked up to apologize, he was already asleep in his chair.

Once I had the stove going good, I slipped out and went back up the trail for his umbrella. It was quickly getting dark and I had a hard time locating it. I might not have if it hadn’t been so damn big. As I made my way back toward the house on the dusky path, the sound of the murmuring creek was carried to me on a soft breeze. I took in long breaths of cool pine-scented air, smelling the sap and the rain, and reflected on my life for the first time in a long time. Was it visiting June’s grave that had me reflecting? Maybe it was Mr. Hadley’s stories. It could even have been that it was my birthday, I don’t know. Maybe it was an early midlife crisis. Is there a one-third life crisis that happens to people?

I stopped just on the other side of the creek and looked at the house. White smoke was rising from the chimney into the slate-colored sky, and the lamplight made the living room look warm and cozy. I could just make out Mr. Hadley sleeping in the chair where I had left him, and I wondered how many nights these last few years he had sat there alone, looking out at this creek, thinking about his wife. I wondered what their
life had been like here before she died. Mostly, I wondered how in the hell I could even go through with trying to get him to leave.

The teapot atop the wood stove was whistling when I entered the house. I ran to take it off before it woke Mr. Hadley, but he was already awake. He looked around the room, as if wondering how he had gotten there, and then he looked at me where I stood in front of him holding the steaming teapot.

“Who are you?” he asked.

“I’m Elliot Champ, sir.”

He patted his breast pockets, as if searching for something, perhaps his notebook. But then he seemed to remember, letting his hands drop into his lap.

“Oh yes. I’m afraid I’ve taken a nap. That happens sometimes. Why am I all wet?”

“You fell, sir. On the path.”

He either didn’t hear me or he ignored my comment.

“I took a nap once down at Clancy’s, and Lisa tried to tell me I’d passed out. She said people don’t nap at coffee counters. I don’t go there anymore. Not because of Lisa or anything, though. I had to give up driving. Was I dreaming, or did we visit Echo Glen?”

“Yes, you took me up there,” I said. “You fell on the way down, don’t you remember?”

“That explains why I’m all wet,” he replied. “At least I hope it does. Hand me my cane there, will you, young man? I’d like to go freshen up.”

I set the teapot down and retrieved his cane for him.

“How about I make us some tea,” I suggested. “And then, if you’re feeling up to it, maybe you can continue your story.”

“Okay,” he said. “There’s Smooth Move in the kitchen cupboard, just left of the stove. Maybe you could cut us up an apple too. I need to take my medication.”

When he came out again he was wearing furry slippers and a bright-red paisley-patterned robe. Without all those layers of clothing, he looked much thinner than he had before, but he appeared to have recovered from whatever had been causing his coughing fits.

“I didn’t know I was being hosted by Hugh Hefner.”

“Hugh who?” he asked. Then he looked down at his robe and laughed. “Oh, this old thing. June ordered me this robe from a catalog. She claimed it was supposed to be blue, but then decided to keep it because she said my face matched the fabric I blushed so much the first time I put it on.”

“I put your tea on the table there next to your chair.”

“Thank you.” He lowered himself into the chair. “That stove heats the place pretty well, doesn’t it?”

“It reminds me of the one we had in our house growing up. Well, it was more of a trailer than a house, but it had a nice stove. Once a week my dad would borrow the company truck and bring home mill scraps for us to burn. Sometimes, if it was really cold, he’d order a real cord of wood and pay me a couple bucks to split it.”

“That’s good work,” he said, “splitting wood is. Makes a young man strong. But it’s a skill you won’t be needing in Miami, I’m afraid.”

Uh-oh, I thought. Not this debate again. But I refused the bait, smiling and shaking my head instead of responding.

“Listen, Elliot,” he said. “You’ve been patient enough with me, listening to my story and spending your whole day here. Let me cut to the chase and make my proposition so you can go home and think it over.” He reached into his robe pocket and took out his notebook. “Let’s see, you said you needed twenty thousand dollars to get that condo, is that right?”

He was right, but I didn’t answer him. I wasn’t in the mood to hear his proposal just then. I knew I’d probably have to turn
him down on ethical grounds, whatever his pitch was, and that would be hard for me to do. Also, I feared once I did tell him no I wouldn’t get a chance to hear the rest of his story, and I was really curious about what eventually happened to June.

“You know what,” I said, “why don’t we wait on the proposal part for a bit. I’d rather not leave now anyway. I’ll just hit traffic going into the city. Maybe you can tell me the rest of your story first. You know, how you saved Echo Glen and how you proposed to June. You need to explain being arrested in Spain and that matador costume.”

“Oh you’ve been too kind already,” he said. “I wouldn’t feel right keeping you.”

“No, I mean it. I want to hear the story. You wouldn’t turn down a request from a man on his birthday, would you?”

“You really want to hear it?” he asked.

I nodded. “Yes, I really do.”

He smiled. “June would have liked you. Have I told you that already? I have. Sometimes I repeat myself. You’re a good egg, Elliot Champ. You know that?”

I felt myself blush. “My dad used to call me a good egg.”

“Well, your dad was right,” he said. Then he returned the notebook to his robe pocket and pulled out an old newspaper clipping. He held the paper out for me. “Since you want to hear more, you might as well read this. It’s an anonymous letter to the editor I wrote about my stunt camp experience.”

I took the letter and read it.

Dear Editor:

Who knew impersonating a newspaper reporter could be so life changing and so fun? I have hung from the rafters of an old barn dressed as Peter Pan, flown a glider through moonlit skies, and jumped a burning car. I have fought an angry ostrich and lost; I have fought my own fear and won.
You see, just an hour and a half northeast from Seattle, in the Center of the Universe, is a place called Echo Glen. This animal sanctuary/Hollywood stunt camp saves the lives of desperate animals while changing the lives of courageous men and women desiring a career in stunt acting. Here you can get an adrenaline rush and a thousand-watt jolt of feel-good juice at the same time, because the profits from the stunt camp go to the worthy cause of caring for animals in need of a safe and healing place. And that’s just what they’ll find at Echo Glen. I know because I needed the same thing and I found it there too.

Your paper was invited to attend stunt camp, or at least write an article on it, but no one ever showed. This was good news for me, as it created an opening, but terrible news for your readers, who have been denied learning about this magical place. Please consider writing a story about Echo Glen, or at least asking your readers to donate to this worthy cause.

To donate or make inquiries, please reach out to June McLeod or Sebastian Villarreal at Echo Glen Animal Sanctuary/Echo Glen Hollywood Stunt School, at 772½ Whispering Willow Lane, Darrington, WA 98241.

Sincerely,

Peter Pan

(If Peter Pan ever grew up and became an accountant.)

“It’s a good letter,” I said, once I had finished reading.

“Thanks. I sent it to the
Times
first, and then to the
Post-Intelligencer
, in case they wanted to print it and embarrass their competition. I thought it might drum up some publicity for the camp and for Echo Glen. Plus, I was trying to impress June. I’m not ashamed to admit it either.”

He took the letter back, refolded it, and slipped it into his robe pocket.

“Well, if you’re serious about wanting to suffer through more storytelling you had better get yourself some tea. And I should get a bite to eat so I can take my medication.”

“Oh, I forgot your apple. I already cut it up.”

I didn’t tell him I had even squeezed lemon juice on the slices so they wouldn’t brown, just like I’d seen him do. I went into the kitchen and retrieved the plate of apple slices from the refrigerator and brought them back in to him.

“Did you get something?” he asked. “You can have a MoonPie if you want.”

“Oh, I’m fine. I had some water. Thanks.”

He ate a slice of apple before fishing the pill bottle from his robe pocket and washing one down with a sip of tea. Then he leaned back in his chair with the plate of apples in his lap.

“Okay, well, where was I? I think I had just told you about June taking me up to Echo Glen. Yes, that’s right. I had listed my home and offered her the money.”

“But she refused to accept the gift,” I said. “Didn’t she?”

“Yes, she did. And I believe she would have refused it again if I had let her. But I had other tricks up my sleeve . . .”

22

D
AVID’S REALTOR CALLED
him at his office that Wednesday to say she had received two offers already on the house. He had been willing to let it go when he listed it but had never considered that the parting might come so soon.

The offers were similar, except he thought he recognized the last name on one of them.

“Van Buren,” he said. “As in Gloria Van Buren, the nice woman who taught science and math at the middle school?”

“I’m not sure,” the Realtor said. “But Bill is a teacher, and so were his mother and grandmother.”

David could not believe that the grandchild of one of his teachers was in a position to buy his childhood home. By what dark magic do days turn into years? He shrugged off the thought and told the Realtor to accept the Van Buren offer, agreeing to drive up after work to sign it.

On his way back from Bellingham that evening, he almost took the exit that would have led him toward Echo Glen. But he didn’t. It was all he could do to keep his hands from turning the wheel as he passed. He knew if he saw June he would be unable to contain the news, and he knew if he told her he had sold his family home she would only restate her refusal to accept his gift.

Staying away from Echo Glen and from June proved to be one of the most difficult things David had ever had to do. The home sale took forty-five days to close, and every hour of it crawled by at a pace that was painfully slow. His mother had always been fond of saying that a watched pot never boils, and he assumed this sage wisdom applied to home sales as well, so to pass the time he threw himself into his work, climbing to the top of the billable-hour bonus board for the first time in his history with the firm. It was all smiles passing his desk now.

He took to the stairs again too, jogging up them every day after work and pausing at the top step to look at the locked door and smile. He smiled because of how far he had come from that hopeless man he had been, and he smiled because it was there on that roof that he had first met June. He knew now what he only guessed then, and he was determined to somehow win her heart. And although he suspected paying off her mortgage was not the greatest of strategies, he felt he needed to get it out of the way before he could pursue her romantically, with motives she could no longer question.

Despite the painful waiting to see June, it was the nicest summer David could remember in Seattle. He never once turned on the TV. Instead, he opened the windows and sat in his living room long into the warm August nights, sipping iced tea and listening to the neighborhood kids break dancing on the corner to ghetto blasters pumping out electric beats. And all the while he thought about June.

He could have picked up the phone and called her, or even gotten in his car and driven out to Echo Glen. But he did neither, choosing instead to relive in his thoughts the one night they had shared in that barn, recalling a thousand times her smiling eyes when she woke in his arms. Maybe he chose the fantasy because he was afraid that if he pursued her she would deny him, shattering the illusion that had him soaring through
the summer. For it was this illusion that lifted his spirits ever higher, day by day, until he had nearly convinced himself that she would be sitting at Echo Glen, just waiting to receive him and the news of his chivalrous generosity like some damsel in distress waits for her knight to gallop in on his white horse.

When it finally came down to closing day, David arrived in Bellingham early, driving a rented truck. He planned to load up the few remaining things he had asked his Realtor not to let the estate salesperson take, the most cherished of which was his father’s carousel rooster. It proved too heavy for him to lift by himself, however, and none of the neighbors were home, so he drove to the local hardware store and picked up a day laborer and offered him twenty bucks to help him load it.

It was a strange feeling seeing it tied down in the truck bed, just as it had been when he and his father had left Leavenworth to take it home all those years before. But although seeing it made him miss his father all the more, it no longer brought up any guilt. He dropped the laborer off with a thank-you and an extra twenty just because, and then drove to the escrow company to sign his final paperwork.

“Now, you’re sure you want the proceeds used to pay off this loan at Seafirst Bank,” the closing agent asked him for a third time. “Because that loan’s in a different name and once the funds are sent you won’t be able to retrieve them.”

“Yes, I’m sure,” David said.

“And you’re aware that there might be a gift tax?”

“It’s well within my lifetime exemption,” David said. “I am an accountant after all, you know. The little that’s left over you can anonymously donate to Echo Glen Animal Sanctuary. I wrote the address there on your form.”

He left the escrow office with an envelope of paperwork two inches thick and a smile just as wide. Ever since his mother had gotten too sick to live alone and he had moved her nearer
to him, he had often wondered how he could ever part with his childhood home and the memories it held. He thought he’d never be able to sell it, despite his mother’s pleas for him to do so, since he was footing much of her bills. But all he had needed to let it go was a worthy cause that wasn’t his own.

Before leaving town he stopped by to pay his respects to his mother and father, where they rested together beneath the green grass of Lake View Cemetery.

“I miss you both very much,” he said, choking back tears. “But I’m glad you’re together again.”

It was strange, but even though he had visited his father’s grave every weekend growing up, and had buried his mother just several months prior, now that the family home was gone this felt more like closure than any other time before.

“I’d like to thank you for raising me to believe in love. For a while I didn’t think it was out there, but now I see it was right under my nose the entire time. It was in our house. I hope to someday be as lucky as you two were.”

The sun had dropped behind the hills by the time he arrived at Echo Glen. He parked in front of the house in the pink twilight. He was knocking on the door when he heard someone call his name. Sebastian was standing in the stable door with a shovel in his hand and muck boots up to his knees.

“You’re just in time to help me shovel shit, comrade.”

David came down from the porch and walked toward him. “I thought maybe you’d gone back to Los Angeles,” he said.

Sebastian looked away for a moment and shrugged.

“June isn’t here,” he finally said.

“Do you know when she’ll be back?”

Sebastian leaned the shovel against the stable door and put his arm around David’s shoulder. “Let’s go sit down together and have a chat, comrade.”

He took David up the stairs to his hayloft apartment. It
was David’s first time seeing inside, and it was nothing like he would have imagined: a simple cot, a beanbag, the hi-fi system that woke the stunt camp each morning, and an enormous poster of Steve McQueen.

“Is that McQueen’s signature?” David asked.

Sebastian nodded. “The King of Cool. I apprenticed on
The Great Escape
. He did so much of his own driving I hardly had a chance to work. Read what he wrote.”

David read it aloud: “ ‘All the courage in the world in a man, and that man my friend.’ ”

Sebastian smiled. It was clear that he was very proud of this inscription. He pulled the beanbag over near the bed and patted it, indicating that David should sit. Then he opened a small refrigerator and produced a large jar of sangria. He filled two small glasses and handed one to David. Then he sat on the bed and toasted their good fortune.

“Salud y amor y tiempo para disfrutarlo.”

David was not certain of the translation, but he drank to it anyway. The sangria was good. Not too sweet, not too strong.

“So do you know when June will be back?” David asked.

Sebastian lit a cigarette but didn’t answer. He blew out a lungful of smoke. “We read your letter in the newspaper,” he said. “It was very nice. Unfortunately someone sent it to friends of ours in Hollywood and now I’ve been found out.”

“Found out? What exactly are you running from?”

Sebastian stood from the bed and walked over to the Steve McQueen poster and looked at it. David didn’t know what to do so he sipped his sangria. Eventually, Sebastian turned around. He looked to David to be ashamed.

“I am a coward,” he said.

“No you’re not,” David replied. “You’re the bravest man I know, and I’ve seen you take on a dinosaur bird to prove it.”

Sebastian dropped his head. “You don’t know me, comrade.
I came here because I was running away. June was kind enough to take me in, as she does with all things that are weak and helpless.”

“But you’re no charity case. What about stunt camp?”

He paced the room now, waving his cigarette as he spoke. “The stunt camp was my idea. I pitched it to June when I learned of her money troubles. But my real motivation was fear. I wanted a reason to stay. You see, comrade, I am hiding from the truth. There is someone I love very much in Los Angeles but I am too afraid to make this love public. I was given an ultimatum and I ran. I ran because I am a coward.”

He flopped onto the edge of the bed and hung his head. He had a burning cigarette in one hand, his glass of sangria in the other, and he looked to David to be the very picture of defeat. Especially beneath the proud face of Steve McQueen.

“You can tell me,” David said. “I won’t judge you.”

“You won’t?” he asked, raising his head.

“No. I don’t have any problem with anyone being gay. And I doubt Hollywood would care much either.”

Sebastian shook his head. “No, comrade. I am not gay. That would be easier to explain. My lover is a young woman. An amazing woman. The only woman for me. But, you see, she is Jewish. She has made me the ultimatum to marry her or end our affair, and I ran like a coward.”

“But why run? What’s the problem? Who cares if she’s Jewish? Didn’t Jewish immigrants found Hollywood?”

“It’s not Hollywood I’m worried about,” he said.

“Then what are you worried about?”

He sighed. “My mother.”

“Your mother. How old are you?”

“I am forty-two. Why?”

“Because that seems a little old to be worried about what your mother thinks.”

“You don’t understand how it is, comrade. We are a very Catholic family. It would ruin her.”

David thought this sounded somewhat melodramatic, but he didn’t say so. Instead he got up and retrieved the sangria and refilled their glasses. Sebastian thanked him and lit another cigarette, scooting back on the bed to lean against the wall.

“You’ll do the right thing,” David said.

Sebastian nodded. “I hope so.”

They sat quietly for a while, drinking their sangria. Sebastian blew smoke rings. After a time, he said, “I did not bring you up here purely to confess for my own relief. I brought you because it is you who needs to find his courage now, my friend.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that June needs you. She is not one to ask for help, but she really needs you.”

“I know she does,” David said. “That’s why I’m here. My home sale closed today and I used the proceeds to pay off her mortgage. She at least has some breathing room now to make a fresh start with Echo Glen.”

Sebastian nodded gently. The look on his face appeared to David to contain a mix of admiration and something that might have been pity.

“That is a very nice gesture, comrade. But I’m afraid it’s not financial help right now that she needs.”

“What is it then? How can I help? I’m here.”

“You’re here, yes. But June is not.”

“Well, where is she?”

Sebastian didn’t answer right away. He downed his sangria. Then he held out his glass and said, “You had better fill us up again, comrade. Then I’ll tell you all I know.”