The Universe is a Very Big Place (9 page)

John walked towards his grandmother and gave her a long hug goodbye. She broke free and saluted him, assuming he was off to war because that was the only reason anyone ever left Samson. Generations of Samson men had died for the Red, White, and Blue and his grandmother lovingly sacrificed every one of them because that was the cost of freedom. John saluted her back and then he went to each family member and friend, shaking the hands of the men and hugging the women.

"Remember," said his grandfather. "Buy American, vote Democrat, and don’t wear colored bandanas or people will think you’re in a gang."

John nodded and grasped his grandfather’s hand firmly, feeling the heavy veins in the man’s thin arm. "I won’t forget."

John made it through the crowd, doing his best not to cry. Midwest men did not cry. When he had finished his goodbyes he made his way to his truck and watched as his mother turned away. She had said she couldn’t watch him leave. He waved once more and then drove, refusing to look back in case he changed his mind. It wasn’t until three hours later at a rest stop that he saw the card on the passenger seat.

Dear John,

You are a good boy. Losing you is like losing my arm. But if you really love something (or someone) set them free. And so I am. Follow your heart. I hope you find your adventure.

Mom.

It was a long, mind-numbing trek from Indiana to Arizona. Traveling as a grownup was not the exciting adventure he remembered from his childhood. His only other trip outside his home state, he had slept through the boring parts while his brother drove. And there were a lot of boring parts. Grain turned into dust, dust into hills, hills into dust again, and finally it all turned into dirt. Phoenix wasn’t Colorado, no matter what the job recruiter might have said.

"
You like Colorado? You’re gonna love Phoenix, Sport. Beautiful landscape. Friendly people. Mountains everywhere, as far as the eye can see.
 
Just don’t tell everyone. We like to keep this exclusive."

What a crock of shit.

First off, Phoenix was large, not a nestled little city tucked neatly into the mountain landscape. Phoenix was a sprawling metropolis that ended suddenly, fading into desert nothingness as quickly as it began. It was like something out of a science fiction movie––glistening metal buildings settled uncertainly on a desolate landscape. A lonely, reaching, place trying to make contact with the world, but failing miserably. If the soil were red he might have thought he had landed on Mars, one hundred years in the future.

The people were also strange to him. In Samson everyone looked the same. Jeans. Flannels. Baseball caps. Shorts in the summer. Heavy coats in the winter. Hair a drab yellow or muted brown or a dull red. Facial hair optional.
 

But here, everyone seemed to go out of their way to be noticed. Dark clothes. Baggy jeans. Short skirts. Piercings. Tattoos. He had counted at least four T-shirts screaming, “Be an Individual!” He shook his head and tried not to make eye contact with any of the strange inhabitants. He had seen enough TV to know that they most likely all carried guns or knives.

After a few hours of driving around––thank God at least the city was on a grid system––John found his apartment. It was a tall, brick structure built in the middle of the city. Probably not more than twenty years old, it had the feel of a building that had survived a couple of wars and prohibition. Another untruth by the job recruiter.
..And you’ll be living in luxury, a country club like setting on our dime...how many people can say that?

It felt less like a country club––not that John had ever been to one––and more like the dog kennel he had worked at as a teenager during his summer vacations.
 

John unloaded his recliner and his TV from the truck and picked up his keys from the office. The fat man at the desk explained that he did not accept rent after the fifth of each month and that the swimming pool was temporarily closed until the duck situation was under control. With that, John wandered down the empty hallways, searching for the door that would transport him to his new life. He was aware of the echo of his footsteps, his thin shadow cast from the dimly lit corridor, a baby crying behind one of the mystery doors. A wave of homesickness engulfed him and for a moment he wanted to turn and run, back towards his truck and then on to Samson. Screw adventure. That’s what books were for. But as he turned to make his escape he spotted the brass numbers of his new apartment: 354.

"Might as well check it out since I’m here," he said, pushing the key into the lock. With one small click and a turn of the knob he entered his new home and his fears subsided. The place was decent inside, if a bit small. Clean. Air conditioned. Newly carpeted. Walls with paint instead of wood paneling or wallpaper.
 
A few appliances he had never seen before, like the hole in the sink that ate things when you flipped on a switch. And a dishwasher. He had never had a dishwasher. Things might not be so bad after all.
 

He immediately turned on the air conditioner as high as it would go and let the cold air blast over his face. From his third story window he could see the swimming pool directly below, the water an uninviting, inky blue, teaming with birds who must have decided it was not worth the effort to fly north for the summer...not with an oasis such as this in the dessert. Beyond the gates of the pool, roads and buildings grew smaller in the distance until they resembled the world of a toy train set, each mostly undistinguishable from the next.
 

Among the many establishments, John saw a faint green light a few blocks away. It flickered and blinked enticingly, even in the daylight. The Paradise Pub. Though it certainly did not look like Paradise, it reminded him of the local bars back home. Perhaps his own oasis. The neighborhood was a bit scary to take a walk in that direction, but he wouldn’t mind a drive later on.
 

A knock on the door roused him from the thought. It was the fat man who took the rent.

"Is that your truck out there?" The man walked across the living room to an opposite window and pointed outside to the parking lot.
 

"...Because I think someone just jacked your rims."

Seven

Spring sat at the vanity in her bedroom, working a stubborn knot out of her hair. It was the first vanity she had ever owned, purchased by Sam as a gift when he was out antiquing one day. He was very proud of his purchase and had even rented a U-Haul to bring it back, along with the grandfather clock in the living room. The vanity was a bit ornate for her taste with its scrolled edge work but Sam insisted that all ladies owned such things and so she had acquiesced.

Her room was small, hardly big enough for their Queen Anne Bed, the Goodwill dresser which had been spray-painted white by its previous owner, and the vanity. Sam frequently complained of this, but Spring didn’t mind the size of the space. It was a bedroom. In a house. And she had never had a bedroom or a house before. Even if the home was a rental, it was the nicest place she had ever lived.

Spring turned slightly to watch Sam’s movements. He had his back to her, swinging his arms wildly like a goose in flight, as he mock-conducted Bach on the stereo. He clutched two dark dress socks in his hands which served as impotent wands, creating small tracers around him. She wasn’t allowed to talk during classical music hour, so she busied herself with biting her nails while waiting for the song to end. The problem with Bach, however, was that she wasn’t sure when one song ended and another began.

"Sam," she called finally, and he jumped, tossing the socks in opposite directions. He had probably forgotten that she was there. "You said you were going to talk to me. I really need you right now."

Sam lowered the volume on the stereo and opened his night stand, producing another pair of black socks bound together with a rubber band. He sat on the edge of the bed and removed the pair of socks he was wearing and replaced them with the new ones. Sam changed his socks at least three times a day and his underwear twice as often. God didn’t like germs.
 

"What were we going to talk about again? Remind me, Pooks."

"My clothes. Kimberly made me feel like I was a vagabond. I don’t see anything wrong with this." Spring pulled at the side of her skirt for Sam to inspect.

"I think you are making a big deal over nothing," Sam said, gathering up both pairs of loose socks. He tossed them into a hamper in the corner of the room. Three out of four of them missed. Sam sighed and retrieved them, dropping them gingerly inside. "It’s an old skirt."

"But it’s
my
skirt." Spring could feel the words twist in her throat and come slithering out in the form of a whine. "Can’t you be supportive? Ever?"

Sam paused a moment, rubbing the fingers of both hands methodically against his thumbs. "You’re a beautiful woman. You’re about to turn thirty and I think that pisses you off. Maybe it’s time to put your little girl days behind you."
 

Spring spun in his direction and he flinched.

"I didn’t mean you were old, Pookie. Or that you dressed like a kid. I only meant, well, that’s an ugly dress. Look at it. You’re two purple flowers shy of being your mother." Sam stopped, leaving room for Spring to speak. When she said nothing he continued. "A few nice suits. A pair of heels without wedges. Accessories that don’t turn your skin green. That’s what you need to be wearing."

Spring looked at her reflection again. A barrette dangled from the side of her head. She pulled it out and tossed it in a basket Sam had purchased for her hair accessories. Sam had baskets for everything, including smaller baskets. "I guess you are right."

"Enough of that for now." Sam posed, his back slightly hunched in the manner of a cartoon butler. "I have news. Very, very important news."

"Is everything okay?" When Sam didn’t reply, Spring bent over, placing her head between her knees like the stewardess had instructed her to do in case of a crash. "You’re sick. Oh God, you’re dying!" She glanced from side to side, feeling like she was suddenly caged in. "Cancer? That explains so much!"

Sam groaned. “No, not me. I have a confession, Pooks. I wasn’t really away on business. There’s no such thing as a Stock Compiling Convention." Sam turned his head and snickered into his hand and then turned back. "I was really visiting Grandma Rosary. She’s not doing well. She’s on her deathbed."

"No!" Spring looked up and her entire body quaked. Grandma Rosary had practically raised Sam when his own mother disappeared at the age of ten. She was a wonderful woman who had always seemed so healthy and vibrant. How could this be happening? "Oh, Sam. I’m so sorry. She isn’t even that old. Well, she’s old, but not old, old." Spring lifted her hands to count out the numbers on her fingers.

"Yes, yes, distressing news." Sam waved his free hand. "But that’s not all, Spring. She is leaving us an inheritance. A very large one."

Spring stared at him, trying to take in what he was saying, but the words tumbled around in her head like sheets in a dryer.

"Sweetie? Did you hear me?" Sam stood above her, knocking on her forehead with his knuckles. "Anyone home?"

"An inheritance? For us?"

"Yes…provided we get married. She’s a God-fearing woman and doesn’t want us living in sin." Sam kneeled down before her and looked her in the eyes. "She really, really hates sin."

"Married?" Spring had been living with Sam for a while now, but they had never talked seriously about marriage. Come to think of it they had never talked marriage at all.

"I got a call today," he continued, before she could settle on any one thought. "She loves you, Spring. Once the two of us are married we will get our inheritance and I will be the happiest man on Earth." Sam lifted her chin and pecked her on the lips. He squeezed both her hands in one of his and inhaled, letting it out slowly. "Spring Ryan, I have no ring for you right now, but I will get one. So, will you marry me?"