Just One Thing (18 page)

Then his mom and Richard ran out the door of the chapel into a barrage of birdseed that flew from the guests’ hands. His mom’s ivory suit was covered. Bits of it clung to her hair. But his normally impeccable mother didn’t mind at all. She took Richard’s hand and got in the limo. Before it pulled away, she looked at Sam and mouthed the words,
I love you.

“My mom gained a husband that day, the kind of husband she’d always deserved, and I got a father. Wait until you meet him. I think you’ll agree that Richard was worth the wait.”

“Did he ever take you fishing?”

Sam laughed. “He’s not the fishing kind of guy. Richard’s about six inches shorter than my mom and . . . I guess I’d describe him as tweedy. When you read a book and there’s a character who’s an English professor, Richard is the guy you picture.”

“Is he an English professor?”

“History, actually.”

“I’d better check my tables.” Joanie got up from her stool and started the rounds in the quiet tables.

“He sounds wonderful, Sam.”

“You’ll see for yourself on Thanksgiving.”

I thought about tonight’s one-things as I walked home in the cold. For me, Guinness meant a quiet comfort after an upset. It meant companionship. Birdseed meant love to Sam. Maybe family. Oh, he hadn’t said either thing, but he didn’t need to.

I realized that each picture on my tapestry was like tonight’s one-things. Symbols that carried some memory or feeling. A doe and three fawns. A graduation cap. A woman being licked by a giant dog. The Corner Bar. Each was just a symbol. Each represented something in my life.

The tapestry as a whole represented my healing.

After my time alone in the cottage, I was ready to start living life again.

There were a few more things to share and then maybe I’d be ready to move on. No, not ready. I knew I was ready. Able. I needed to tell the last pieces of the story, in order to be able to truly move forward.

If you’d asked me even a few months ago, I’d have said no . . . I couldn’t recover this time. I’d found a way beyond my father’s death and Gracie’s, but this time I hadn’t been sure I had it in me.

I still wasn’t sure, but I felt hopeful.

It had been a long time since I’d felt hope.

It was like an old friend whom I’d missed.

And that was something.

I’d spent Tuesday and Wednesday working on a new tapestry block. A glass of Guinness surrounded by birdseed.

I wasn’t exactly sure anyone else would know it was birdseed. I’ll confess, it looked more like polka dots on a tablecloth under the beer. But I knew. And since this piece was all about me and for me, that’s what mattered.

For years, I’d worked to perfect my crafts. I could weave a basket. I could crochet an afghan. I could make a quilt. I could paint a decent picture. I could teach any and all, though none were my medium of choice. Pottery was. I hadn’t made anything in a very long time. After losing Gracie, I’d lost the urge to create.

When I was in the classroom I’d graded more about the passion a student had for a project than for his or her execution. The passion was the most important part of creating for me. I thought my passion for my craft was gone forever, but I felt that old familiar drive about my tapestry. When it was done, I thought I might rediscover my drive for my pottery.

Connie came in Wednesday night for Thanksgiving and slept at the cottage. I’d asked, so she brought the Grace Book with her. I thumbed through the pages, reliving the memories with Connie. We laughed at a few and cried at others.

Conner and Mom drove in together from Erie on Thursday and we all met at Sam’s.

The bar was bustling with people, many of whom I recognized. Joanie and Jerry, of course, but also the couple who frequently came in on Mondays and sat at one of the back tables. A few other guys who met at the bar before bowling.

I introduced Connie, Conner, and my mom around. Mom and Jerry went to work back in the kitchen. They were making pumpkin pies, each boasting that their pie recipe was the best. The kids started to set up tables. A little girl sat at one of the tables. “Hi, honey. Who are you?”

“Molly. My mom’s . . .” She pointed at Joanie, the waitress. “We’re gonna eat here today. Mr. Sam said I can have the drumstick.”

“Molly, you remind me of my girls when they were little.”

“I’m not little,” she insisted with all her five- or six-year-old might.

I nodded seriously. “Sorry. You’re right; you’re not little at all.”

I pitched in, setting up the tables so they lined up to form one long table. I covered each with mismatched tablecloths. Sam had a box filled with gourds and ornamental corn and I arranged some as a centerpiece.

Connie came up behind me and put an arm over my shoulder. “Lookin’ good, Mom.”

“You worked at it, too.”

“I’m not talking about the table. I’m talking about you. You look good. Better than you have in a long time. What’s changed?”

I knew she was asking a serious question, but today wasn’t about serious, it was about family—about giving thanks. So rather than answer, I hugged her. “A new haircut. You know what they say, a good one can make all the difference.”

She didn’t try to get more out of me; she just grinned and said, “Then next time I’m in town, make me an appointment at your salon.”

A while later, the door opened and a stranger walked into the room. Sam was still in the back cooking, so I went over to greet him. “Welcome.”

“Is Sam around?”

“He’s in the back. Let me go back and get him for you.”

I didn’t need to go back. Sam came out of the kitchen and the stranger hollered, “Romeo!”

“Grid?” I said, more to myself than to him.

But he heard me. “Do I know you?”

When Sam had talked about Grid, I’d pictured a huge man, someone straight from some military movie. Tall, buff, hard looking. Instead, Grid wasn’t much taller than my five feet, five inches. And he looked like a man who was quick to smile.

“No, but I know you. Thanks for everything you did for Sam.” I didn’t say anything more because the two men were hugging each other, in that guy way that involved a lot of backslapping, as if to prove they were manly, despite the display of affection.

“I brought someone along with me.” The door opened again and a stunning woman came in, followed by a short, squattish, very bald man.

“Mom, Richard,” Sam said. This time the hugging didn’t involve backslapping. “I want you all to meet everyone. Starting with Lexie. A good friend.”

Three sets of eyes studied me, as if weighing what precisely Sam meant by “good friend.” I didn’t know that I could have come up with a better definition myself.

People mixed and visited. My mother sat at a booth talking to Sam’s mom, while Richard and Jerry sat at the bar watching some football pregame on the television.

My kids were chatting with Joanie—Connie had Molly on her lap.

I stood in the corner, just watching everyone and feeling this warmth practically spill over me. Then Sam was standing next to me. “I’d say it was a pretty good party,” he said.

I looked up at him, my ‘good friend,’ and took his hand in mine. “The best.”

An hour and a half later, the long table was filled with friends, family, and Sam. I wasn’t sure exactly where he fit. He was more than a friend, but not quite family. He was . . . Sam. I decided that was enough of a definition.

“Before we start eating, I thought we’d all go around the table and name what we’re thankful for,” Sam said. “I’ll start. New friends. Old friends. Family.”

Friends and family was the theme as everyone went around. Molly switched things up a bit because she was thankful for pumpkin pie and drumsticks—in that order.

I was sitting next to Sam, who’d started at the opposite side, so I was last. “Like everyone else, I’m thankful for friends and family—those who are here with us and those who aren’t. And I’m thankful for one-thing.”

Sam turned and smiled at me. Jerry, across the way, smiled as well. Some of the regulars understood. Joanie did. But my family and Sam’s looked confused. None of us enlightened them. It was a private thing.

A bar thing.

A Monday thing.

When I looked around me, I realized just how much I had in my life, and I was very thankful for that.

It had been a long time—too long—since I’d considered that.

I stood on the back porch, a steaming cup of coffee in my hand. It was too early for Angus, who hadn’t budged when I got up.

It was so cold that it was like breathing in . . . Well, ice cubes sounded like the logical analogy, but ice melts and its ragged edges smooth over as it warms. There was no smoothing of the freezing air I inhaled. It scratched at my nose and lungs as I breathed. So, sand. It was so cold it was like breathing in grains of sand.

I stood there in the dark, cold morning and I was very aware of the fact that I was alone out here. Normally Angus was at my side, a bit of life to remind me there was something else out there, but now, it was just me. The nighttime animals had gone to bed, and the daytime ones hadn’t begun to really stir yet.

I hugged my sweater to me with my one free hand, and as I did so I realized I was wearing my wool Irish, cable-knit sweater.

I’d bought it at a small corner shop in Dublin. Memories of that trip flooded through me, like a slide show.

I remembered.

I realized I was crying. My tears felt frozen on my cheek. They bit and scratched more than the cold that rattled like so much sand in my lungs.

I remembered and I cried.

When I was too numb to do more of either, I went in with my cup of now-cold coffee, woke Angus, and headed to the workshop. I studied the tapestry on the loom, with its half-finished picture of Guinness on its dots. Normally, I felt driven to finish, but I couldn’t bring myself to work on it today. I couldn’t think of Ireland and everything that happened after. Not now. Not yet.

Today I needed something fresh. Something that wasn’t about the past. I’d spent the last year wallowing in it. I needed something that was about the here and now.

I braved the weekend after Thanksgiving shopping frenzy and went into town to buy some fresh clay.

It felt good to be back at the wheel. This was my true talent—my true art. I learned about and dabbled with other mediums, but pottery . . . I don’t know that I can describe it, but it’s home. There’s something so primal, so tactile about wedging the clay, a sort of kneading motion. Then shaping it into a ball and placing it in the center of the batt.