Authors: Villette Snowe
I walked up to the front door and knocked. A few seconds later, an elderly woman greeted me.
“Hello, ma’am. I’m Heath Kalman. I’m here to meet with Mr. Lanier.”
“Oh, the writer. He’s so excited.” She stepped back and allowed room for me to pass.
I walked inside, and she led me into a room that seemed to be half living room and half study. The pale wood desk on the back wall looked like the kind the teachers used when I was in grade school. The bookshelves that flanked it looked to have been handmade. They handled the loads of books well, no bowing. They put the store-bought shelves to shame. I’d always wanted a library with shelves like that, built into the wall, like in Elizabeth’s house.
There was an old man sitting in an armchair. He held on to his walker as he stood.
He was tall, even taller than me, and thin. His hands were gnarly from years of work and arthritis. He smiled at me—it was the smile of a teenager who’d just gotten his license.
“You must be Heath.” His voice was twangy with that film of age on top, but no waver of age. He held out his right hand.
“Yes, sir.” I shook his hand, still a firm grip, no matter his age or apparent physical condition. If I was him, men shaking my hand with a loose grip would piss me off.
His wife offered me something to drink, and Mr. Lanier motioned for me to take a seat on the sofa, one of those 1970s goldenrod things, still in excellent condition.
I opened my notebook and took out my pencil. “Thank you for seeing me,” I said. “I won’t take up too much of your time.”
“At my age,” Mr. Lanier said, “time is short but not easily spent. I can’t drive anymore, don’t much care for television, and there are only so many books a man can read in a day.”
I smiled. “Yes, sir. If you don’t mind my asking, what is your age?”
“Ninety-five in a few months.”
I made a note. I’d heard he was in his nineties, which was one of the reasons I wanted to write this piece.
“I’ve read your book of poetry,” I said.
“Not real fancy, but fun.”
“I enjoy your work. It was poignant, and yet coherent.”
He grinned. “Never was one for fancy words. The short ones still sound nice if you put them in the right order.”
“I agree. Though I don’t usually make mine rhyme.”
“Probably for the best.”
“Yes, sir,” I said. “So, I’m told you have all of your poetry memorized.”
Out of his mouth poured a poem, no hesitation, no pausing to think. It had to be about twenty lines. It sounded even better in his twangy voice than it read on the page.
As he finished, his wife came back in with a couple cups of coffee. She sat with us while I asked Mr. Lanier questions or, rather, while we talked. It wasn’t an interview so much as it was two writers getting acquainted.
He didn’t fancy himself much of a writer, just an old farm boy who put words together. He’d been doing it for a long time.
He told me about how he grew up, how he met his wife, about his children, the oldest of which was in her seventies. He had such a line of family after him that I got lost in the number of “greats” before grandfather.
“Why do you want to write an article about some old man, anyway?” he asked as I made some notes.
“Honestly,” I said as I looked up, “my initial interest was simply that someone of your maturity had that much set to memory. It’s inspiring to know that even when our bodies fail our minds don’t have to.”
“Your initial interest?”
I smiled. “Then I read your book.”
He sat a little straighter. “You like poetry.”
“I had to study some in college, but…no, not normally. A little too flowery.”
He nodded. “Ain’t nothing wrong with flowers. They just don’t always smell as good on the page.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You say that a lot. You must have been well-raised.”
I paused. “Yes, sir. I was.”
We talked a little more while I finished my cup of coffee. I liked Mr. Lanier. I liked the man he was and the way he lived his life. I realized I’d never met a man I could respect before—never a father figure or even a very close friend. The first person with whom I’d been close enough to use the term
best
was Cassie, never a man. I wasn’t sure what that meant for my psychoanalysis, but finally finding a man I could admire gave me…hope.
Chapter 47
Henry
I missed Elizabeth. I’d cut many people out of my life, but her wound was fresh. With Kimber, I had the benefit of her pushing me away, and with Penny, I had the benefit of anger.
My journal became my only way to have conversations. I was a rude asshole to everyone else—my neighbors, the checkout girl at the grocery store, everyone. It stopped them from asking me questions that I didn’t want to answer. Are you married? Do you have family around here? What’s your name?
I lost myself in my writing. I lived there more than I lived in my apartment.
I spent two days writing Mr. Lanier’s article, getting it exactly right, capturing the quiet magnitude of the man he was. The end result was fulfilling, and lucrative. I wanted to do more stories like that. Also, I started receiving responses from Estelle’s story. People were inspired. It gave me a rush, unlike what I’d ever felt before. I wanted to tell more stories, to explore the lives of these quiet people. I used to do stories about powerful or well-known people, maybe the occasional piece about an extraordinary event. Like everyone else, I didn’t see the people in the background, the ones who rightfully deserved the spotlight. I wanted to be the one to shine it.
Finding people like that wasn’t easy, of course, but I could take my time and lose myself in research. This time, I didn’t have a mortgage to pay or a wife to support. I had nothing but hours to kill and a long line of zeros on my bank statement.
My book was almost done. It was time for my main character to wake up in a psych ward and come to understand nothing he’d experienced was real. It was a shock at first, and then he realized it was a blessing. The woman who didn’t want him wasn’t real. He found hope that her rejection would stop hurting so much. That’s how I decided the story should end—with hope. It was a sad story and a shitty life, but maybe something could be salvaged from it. Maybe Henry, my main character, would find a way to help his fellow patients. Maybe he’d survive.
I really didn’t know, though. I couldn’t foresee it, let alone figure how to write it. Henry would just have to take it one day at a time, and when a day seemed like an eternity, he’d try for an hour, a minute, each second.
The story, I was pretty sure, was done. I set it down and picked up the notebook I used as a journal.
I wish you could read the rest of the story. You’re the only one to read any part of it, not even Elizabeth. But I suppose it’s for the best. He didn’t get the girl like you wanted. I know it was the right thing to do. She deserved more than Henry could give her, and he didn’t want to hurt her anymore.
One of my favorite times I spent with you was watching you read. You’re the person I most wanted to impress. Your liking my writing was my one shot. And then you read three chapters. That one small act made me happier than I’d been in a long time. I wish I could thank you.
I’d planned to thank you, to let you know what your friendship meant. I’d hoped to marry you. I see now how ludicrous that idea was. All that time I fought to stay away, not to fall for you, was a waste. I’d already fallen. I tried to push you out of my mind with other women, but I just ended up thinking about you while I was with them.
I wish I could find a way to tell you you’re my last. I haven’t been with a woman since you, and I’ve come to accept I never will.
All that time wasted fighting you—when I should’ve left the first day. I could have spared you pain. I’d hurt no matter, but I should’ve done more to protect you.
I’m sorry.
My one gift to you is to let you hate me. I won’t try to see you, or apologize. An enemy can only hurt you so much. A friend can destroy you. I won’t do that
.
Chapter 48
Asshole
“What do you want?” I said as I opened my door.
My gangly neighbor stuttered something incoherent.
I felt bad, but I kept my unpleasant expression.
“I, um,” he said, “I’m having a party tonight, and I thought maybe you might want to come.”
“Are you playing Dungeons and Dragons or video games?”
“I don’t know yet.” He pushed his glasses back up his nose.
I laughed at him.
He took a half step back. “Well, I…I never see you with anyone. I thought maybe you were new to the area.”
“No, thank you.” I closed my door.
Then I took a breath and exhaled heavily. I hated being a jerk—and yet it came so naturally. At least he wasn’t likely to come around again.
I decided it was time to go for a run. There were no groceries in the place, but I didn’t feel like going to the store, being around people. No one tried to talk to me when I ran. I was no one. The only recognition I’d tolerate was a byline.
The area was different than Baymeadows. To the north of Collins Road the area went downhill quickly, and to the south was a major shopping district, all down Blanding Boulevard, not the best area for running.
I ran up and down Collins a lot, which was mostly apartment complexes. Today, I decided to venture down Blanding. I needed a new pair of tennis shoes. Maybe I’d come across a shoe store.
My goofy neighbor was outside when I left. He and the other taller goofy guy to whom he was talking watched me as I started through the complex toward Collins. I didn’t say hello to them. I never did. He probably thought I was an asshole. I supposed I was.
Being that it was Saturday, Blanding was busy as hell. There was no sidewalk, only trampled weeds, and the exhaust fumes about choked me. Baymeadows traffic was never this bad, well, maybe during rush hour.
Under the 295 overpass, the sound of cars zooming across the concrete rumbled in my ears. Then I crossed Youngerman Circle.
There was a gas station and an Olive Garden and beyond that a large plaza, which included a store called Famous Footwear. It looked big. Maybe they’d have men’s shoes too.
Instead of running, I walked across the parking lot so I’d be cooled off by the time I made it to the store. I was freezing. When I was running, just a T-shirt was enough.
In the store, I ignored the greeting the girl at the counter gave me and walked past her toward the men’s section on the left of the store. Thankfully, the store was one of those self-serve places. Shoes were stacked on the shelves almost to the ceiling, and display models sat in front.
I walked down the row of tennis shoes until I found something that looked reasonably comfortable to run in, and didn’t look ridiculous, not red with spirally designs or some shit. It was a running shoe, not a goddamn fashion statement.
While I tried them on, I went ahead and laced them both up so I could find a bench outside once I paid and put them on. Then I’d find a trashcan and throw the old ones out.
“Did you find everything okay?” the checkout girl said.
I set the shoes on the counter.
She paused, obviously waiting for an answer. Her smile faded, and she scanned the barcode on the shoebox.
I handed her my card, signed the slip she set on the counter, and then walked out. She said nothing more to me, not even, “Have a nice day.”
Outside, I froze my ass off while I walked down the plaza to find a bench and a trashcan. I found no bench, only trash, so I sat on the curb and put on the new shoes. Several people stared as they walked or drove by. Whatever.
I tossed my old shoes and the box for the new ones in the trash and then started jogging down the plaza, toward Youngerman Circle. The cold air snapped across my face. I kept going. Dealing with a little pain was the only way to get warm.
Someone called across the parking lot. “Heath?”
I glanced over. Who in the hell around here knew my name?
Fuck
. It was Elizabeth. She waved at me frantically as she waited for cars to pass. “Heath.”
I turned and kept running.
She called my name again. The plaza was too busy for her to make it across the drive to the sidewalk, so she followed my path parallel through the lot toward Youngerman. I watched her peripherally, not sure how to get away. Once she caught up to me, I wasn’t sure if I could pull away. But I had to.
She was in good shape. She kept up with me pretty well, even while her heels clacked against the pavement.
Damn me for not moving farther away. I should’ve moved out of the state, across the country. I knew why I didn’t, though. I didn’t want to move that far away—I wouldn’t be able to watch over Kimber.
I’d have to move now. I couldn’t do this to Elizabeth again. I could hear how upset she was by how she kept calling my name, pleading with a shaking voice.
Maybe this experience would finally make her hate me.
I ran faster.
Youngerman Circle looked like a NASCAR track. I was ahead of Elizabeth now. I started across the road, barely dodging cars. Surely, she’d stop. Even if she eventually made it across, I’d be gone.
I made it across the four divided lanes and started through the parking lots on the other side. I’d hide behind one of the buildings or in one of the restaurants’ men’s rooms if I had to.
A horn blared.
Squealing tires. A thud and shattering glass.
I turned, and the world slowed down.
The car’s windshield was a mass of cracked glass, like spider webs.
All the cars slammed to a stop.
She flew forward and rolled across the pavement. Her favorite heels tumbled across the road.
Her body was limp.
Oh God.
“Elizabeth,” I roared.
Chapter 49
Dead
People stood from their cars. I pushed them out of the way and then fell to my knees next to Elizabeth. My hands hovered over her—I didn’t know what to do, how to help.