The drive into town from the two-lane state highway that ran north and south through Jubilant was deceptive. A former interurban line was now a well-groomed bike path that ran along the west side of the highway, as you entered Jubilant Falls.
It was filled with families on Rollerblades, or groups of students from the local church college on bicycles. At the north edge of Jubilant Falls, a renovated caboose sat on a siding where the owner rented skates and bicycles and sold ice cream.
From there, the two-lane highway turned into Detroit Street and curved past older well-kept, middle-class houses, former homes converted into insurance agencies or dental offices and the occasional Victorian relic that lived on as a funeral home.
In the center of town, at the crossroads of Main and Detroit Streets, stood an enormous brown, limestone courthouse, its clock tower chiming on the half-hour and counting out the hour like it was announcing the death of a monarch. City hall and county offices to the north and east flanked the courthouse. Small, greasy spoon restaurants and stores of various types, including a fading department store, followed each other like beggared children down West Main and South Detroit.
Heading south on Detroit, the houses and their residents got a little grubbier and a lot poorer. Jubilant Falls' Chamber of Commerce’s image began to falter here; it was no accident the bike path didn’t run through these neighborhoods on its way into the next county. It was from here that the Literacy Center drew its clients.
The
Journal-Gazette
was on South Detroit Street, in an old building that had once been a hotel in stagecoach days. The paper itself was a rarity, family-owned in the world of corporate journalism. When I first came to the
Journal-Gazette
, we sometimes dodged stories for the sake of keeping an advertiser, but with Traeburn’s slow death, there weren’t many advertisers to piss off, and the staff, that is, everyone except me, was taking on more sacred cows and more big stories in an effort to show readers we were truly worth appearing on their evening doorstep.
I just covered the fluff, the goddamn, worthless fluff of debutante balls at the Jubilant Country Club. What were they so jubilant about? That anyone whose skin happened to be a little darker could only hope to enter as a waitress or janitor, or whose name ended in -berg or -stein could never hope to play golf, except as a guest? Not that there were any Jews in Jubilant; the population was overwhelmingly white here, although some of the larger farmers had begun transporting Mexican migrant workers from Texas for the planting and harvest seasons.
God, I hated this town. I hated every empty Traeburn smoke stack, every hungry face, and every dirty child. If you weren’t one of the Swedish or Scot or Irish immigrants who originally populated Plummer County, you came up from the poverty of Appalachia with the hopes that Traeburn would give you the false security of a job on the line.
Then, division after division, Traeburn had cut production. The combine division went first, then the small lawn tractors, all slowly disappearing, until every convenience store clerk and janitor had a story to tell about how life was when they were making $20 an hour welding the rear transaxle on some agricultural behemoth.
Jubilant Falls' unemployment doubled from the national average, and the county's infant mortality rate skyrocketed. Ironically, it seemed only the farmers and the folks who worked at Symington had any economic security.
I thought of a woman who was widowed when McNair Machine Tool fired her husband three weeks before his retirement. She had come home to find him hanging in the garage. She settled out of court, according to police reporter John Porter who did the story, but scuttlebutt in the newsroom was that someone had gotten to her, pushing her to take a measly settlement.
I hated my beat most of all, only because it glorified the small island of wealthy families who controlled Jubilant Falls. Living on the north side of town in what Jess scornfully called McMansions, ensconced in their country-club dances and their flashy cars, they held poetry readings and debutante balls while hunger and unemployment ran rampant through the town.
Through an accident of birth, Kay was part of that.
She had tried to escape it, throwing herself into causes of one kind or another. Apartheid was big for a while; after her divorce, it was battered women, abortion rights, then protesting American intervention in South American banana republics. She never stuck with them long enough to see them through. She had her mother's money to fall back on, although the relationship between the two women was far from cordial.
Kay and I still dated sporadically, after she turned down my proposal. I knew she was stringing me along until someone better came along, but I couldn't let her go.
Then came the day when she waltzed into the newsroom, saying that she met a pilot with the call sign of Bear, stationed with the test wing at Symington.
"He's such a big man, he says he can hardly fit into the cockpit, and that's why they call him that," she had gushed, the wild blue shining in her eyes.
"Huh?"
"Marcus, he's just so wonderful. A real hunk," she had babbled. "His name is Paul Armstrong."
"Sounds wonderful. Good-looking, courageous, tall, everything I’m not…and a frigging all-American hero to boot."
"Stop it."
Two weeks later, the phone rang. It was Kay.
"What are you doing Friday night?" she asked, trying to sound nonchalant. I could hear her fingers drumming on the kitchen counter in the background. Scarlett was never happy, unless she had a beau nearby.
"Anything you want, my dear."
"Dinner? Movie? What sounds good?" Her agitation increased.
"Either one—you can choose."
"Fine. You can pick me up at eight o'clock."
"So the pilot never called back, huh?"
She slammed the phone down, disconnecting us with a loud click. She was right; she couldn't live with anyone more sarcastic than she was.
She stayed all night. It was so good to hold her. I whispered, "I love you," into her red hair all night long. Kay held me tightly, but was silent.
In the morning, I woke before she did. I had converted the apartment’s other bedroom to a study and bought myself an old Underwood typewriter. I still held grand delusions then, forcing myself to spit out three pages a day on a novel that would later go up in smoke one drunk and sodden night. Like everything else in my life, it, too, would fail. But I didn't know that at the time. Dreaming of greatness and Papa Hemingway, I persisted.
Before long, Kay entered, that morning’s Journal-Gazette under her arm and a cup of coffee in her hands. I was too involved with my characters to do more than look up and smile. We sat silently, as the room filled with the typewriter's metallic clamor.
"Do you want some coffee?" she asked, after a while.
"Sure." Without looking up, I handed her my mug.
I don't know how long she was gone. My story had gotten away from me and a bad case of writer's euphoria was setting in, that wonderful high that must have prompted Thomas Wolfe to march down the street one evening, chanting ‘I wrote ten thousand words today, I wrote ten thousand words.’ I remember hearing Kay swear as the coffee pot shattered into the sink. The back door slammed, and, before I could catch her, she was gone.
For two weeks, I tried to call, but she was too busy to talk at work, or her answering machine was always on at home. I knocked on the door, but she never answered. What the hell happened?
When I finally nailed her down at work, I could see the wild, blue yonder in her eyes. She had fallen in love. Every sentence was Bear does this and Paul says that.
I said something about hairy backs and palms.
She showed me to the door.
It was six months before I saw her again, accidentally meeting her on the street.
"So, how are you and the colonel doing?" I asked.
"He's not a colonel, he's a captain," she laughed, but there was an edge to her voice. I pushed a little harder.
"I'm sorry," I drawled sarcastically. "How are you and Steve Canyon getting on?"
"Stop it."
I changed the subject. A few sentences later, we said goodbye. I walked away feeling as though my intestines were falling out onto the sidewalk.
In another few months, I received an engraved wedding invitation. No personal note, no phone calls the night they set the date. I thought I meant more to her than that. I declined to attend, on the grounds that I refused to play the old boyfriend at weddings. I spent the afternoon of the ceremony with my head cradled in my arms atop the Underwood. I had really lost her.
Now, seven years later, she was back. I wouldn't lose her this time.
* * *
Jess ran the story on Monday. When Kay's secretary put me right through to her office, I knew she liked it.
"Marcus, I loved it! You haven't lost your touch."
"Thank you. How about lunch at the Colonial Café? We can celebrate my journalistic expertise and your new job." I bounced my pencil nervously against my desk blotter calendar.
The Colonial was the basement restaurant in Jubilant Falls' only department store, Hawk's, on North Detroit Street. It was shadowy and overpriced, like most of the legal community who dined there daily, mainly because of its proximity to the courthouse across the street.
"Oh, today is pretty full, but I think tomorrow is open," Kay hesitated, and then rushed on. "Let me check my schedule and see. I'll have Barbara call you."
"Don't do that. This is friendship, not business."
"You're right. Tomorrow, then?"
"Yes. See you then."
The following day was filled with rain, a hard, driving downpour that brought the hot, July temperatures within tolerable limits. Kay was waiting behind the literacy center's heavy glass doors as I pulled up. I sheltered her with my umbrella, and together we ran for the car.
At the Colonial, we slipped into a discreet corner table. Kay surveyed the other diners from behind her menu.
"This town is too damn small," she whispered. "It figures that the first time I go out, I run into someone I rather not know."
"Who?"
"My mother's best friend, Lovey McNair. If we're lucky, she won't come over and ruin our lunch." Kay waved politely, a tense smile pasted on her face.
In the shadowy darkness, I could barely see the scar on her cheek. While time had given her the beginnings of crow's feet at the corners of her eyes, it had mercifully lightened that memento from her first marriage.
Kay searched absently through her purse. "One of these days, I'm going to have to clean this thing out."
"What's that?" I pointed to an airmail envelope sticking out of the corner.
"A letter from Paul that I got today."
"And you're not going to read it?"
"No."
"Why not?"
She gave me a look that told me I was prying.
"Okay."
Abruptly, she stuffed the letter deeper into her bag. "Look, here comes the waitress. What do you think you're going to order? Is the cream of broccoli soup as good as it used to be?"
"Are you okay? Is everything okay with the major?"
"He's fine. Tell the waitress what you want for lunch, and then you can tell me what you've been doing with yourself these last few years." Kay gave the menu a cursory glance and slapped it shut. "I'll have the cream of broccoli soup and a salad please, with iced tea." Her smile was forced.
"Chef salad and tea. Kay, what's going on?"
"You know, it feels so strange to be back in my hometown again. It seems to change and not change. You know what I mean?" I let her steer me away from the letter into neutral territory. When our food came, the smile on her face became less strained, more genuine. The major, however, remained conspicuous, even in absentia.
"We'll have to do this again," Kay said. The waitress came to clear our plates, and we stood to leave. More at ease now, Kay slipped her arm through mine as we headed for the stairs.
"Yes, we will."
"Most everyone I grew up with doesn't live here anymore. They've all moved on to greener pastures. You're about the last person left that I know in town, besides Mother and her country club cronies." Kay made a face.
We reached the top of the stairs to the outside exit. I took her hands in mine and chastely kissed her cheek. "Then we'll have to get together even more frequently. You're still very special to me, Kay."
"Oh, Marcus."
There was a plodding of heavy feet on the stairs behind us. A woman cleared her throat.
"Kay Armstrong, however are you, my dear!" A heavy woman with fat feet spilling over the tops of her too-tight shoes lumbered to the top of the stairs. Her face was red from exertion. The deep blue, ostrich plume on her hat waved haphazardly in front of her, a wispy flag atop an overdressed and overweight battleship.
Kay jumped back a foot, scrambling for composure. "Lovey, so good to see you. I like you to meet my friend, Marcus Henning. Marcus, this is Mother's friend, and my landlady, Lovey McNair. Mr. McNair owns McNair Machine Tool."
I remembered the widow's story, and acid curdled in my stomach.
The battleship sized me up, over her half-glasses. "Pleased to meet you, Mr. Henning. You write for the paper, don't you? We do so enjoy your little stories about our tête-à-têtes at the country club." Her voice was icy, with perfect pear-shaped tones, resonant with privilege and superiority.
"Why thank you," I said. "Is McNair Machine still in the business of fleecing widows, or have you moved on to orphans now?"
"Marcus!" Kay was aghast.
The battleship took the hit broadside, her heavily made-up eyes blinking in shock. "Mr. Henning, I'm sure I don't know what you mean."
"But Mrs. McNair, I'm sure you do."
"Mr. Henning, I assure you the accounts of that poor man's suicide were completely fabricated by your compatriots for the sole purpose of making my husband's firm look bad! She received a generous settlement, simply to quiet the whole thing down." The USS McNair drew herself up to her full square height.