Authors: G L Rockey
“I love the country,
the land, I think I'm a farmer at heart … when I get enough money I'm going to
retire and grow vegetables.”
Not only did she leave
out whole chapters, she interrupted like a Supreme Court judge, and she was a
damn good liar.
She tugged one of my
chest hairs. “Met John. Two lives in twenty-six years and this is the third,
maybe better.”
I said, “And you fell madly in love and lived
happily ever after.”
“How'd you know?”
“Give me a break with
this ninety-nine shades of Crayola crapola.”
I don't think she
liked that. The reason I don’t think she like that was because she stopped the
swing, stomped her feet to the porch, got up, sat on the top porch step, and
said, “Now I get it.”
“Glad one of us does.”
I don't think she
liked that either. The reason I don't think she liked that was, she stiffened,
gave me a large blank stare, then looked away.
I backed off and
offered, “So this is the third act, huh?”
“Shut up, Jack.”
After about five
minutes of shut up, she said, “I hope only three,” and came back and sat on the
swing. “How many for you?”
“I'm not sure, but I
think it's one of those Greek things, chorus and all.”
“Comedy or tragedy?”
“Farce.”
“And this is a farce?”
“Who knows?”
“Who knows,” she said
flatly.
I dragged Salem and
said, “Nice farm, how many acres?”
“Fifteen.”
Silence for a few
minutes, then she spoke, “Married?”
“Was.”
“What happened?”
“Long story?”
Sharp gig in my ribs,
she said, “Deliberate, isn't it?”
“What?”
She pointed to the
morning sun, streaking a few high cirrus clouds with brilliant crimson and
pink. “Saturday, look at it.”
I dragged the last puffs from Salem and
flipped the butt in the yard. “No guilt.”
“No guilt?”
“Nothing, forget it.”
She stood and looked
down at me. “John, you're going to have to get used to one thing around here.”
Looking up, I reached
for her hands but she withdrew. I said, “I am?”
“Yes.”
“What's that?”
“No ‘forget it’. Got
it?”
“Got it.”
“How about some more
coffee.” She stood.
I said, “A shot of Jack
Daniels would go good in that coffee.”
“No can do, nothing to
drink here.”
“You're kidding.”
“No.” She loosened her
hair, tossed it free, and took my mug. “You drink too much anyway.”
As she stepped to the
screen door, I thought, preachy. Then I thought, don't get too picky, maybe
you
just think it was preachy. Maybe you do drink too much.
She stepped inside and
pressed her nose against the screen. “Breakfast?”
I couldn't remember
the last time I had eaten breakfast. Think it was at Denny's, ten years ago.
“You can cook?”
She shot me a freeze
dried stare, said, “For special occasions,” and went into the kitchen.
My jerk mode thought,
I wondered how many special occasions she has here a week and immediately I
felt dumb for thinking that.
I lit another Salem
and tilted my head toward the screen door. Like in a time warp, orchestra
music, a clarinet, Goodman, came from inside and “Moonglow” filtered through
the screen. Amazing.
She returned with a
mug of steaming coffee and handed it to me. “Like the music?”
“When did you acquire
the taste in ancient music?”
“I'm going to make you
the best breakfast you ever had.”
“You sure you can
cook?”
Hand on her hip:
“That's twice.”
“What?”
“You said that.” She
went inside.
Listening to her bang
around in the kitchen, loud banging, Stravinsky's “Rite Of Spring” came to
mind.
She looked out the
screen door. “Be just a couple of minutes.”
“Don't rush, I like
the music.”
She disappeared.
Listening to the
banging and music, I thought how much I liked her quickness, her voice, her
movements, her eyes, her body, her hair, her feet, her banging. What don't you
like? Little scary. Maybe too much.
* * *
In around a few
minutes, the music now Britt Nicole's “Through The Eyes of Love”, Gillian backed
out the screen door carrying a red plastic serving tray. She turned and I
looked at the food—platter of fried bacon, four fried eggs, a mile of toast,
and a roll of paper towels.
I couldn't believe the
look on my face. I asked. “Who else is coming?”
Smiling, she set the
tray on the swing, wrapped a piece of toast around a strip of bacon, sat on the
steps, and said, “Eat.”
So, while Britt filled
the countryside, I ate.
* * *
Ten minutes later, the
music off, dishes taken inside, we sat on the swing, sipped coffee, and she
said, “Did you know you attack food?”
Far off, a train
whistle blew. Then closer, a rooster crowed.
“Whose rooster?” I
said.
“Next farm down the
road.”
“He's late.”
We watched Saturday
continue to crawl across the landscape.
That rooster crowed again.
The train whistle,
further off, blew again.
* * *
Cleaning up the
breakfast dishes, pots, pans, amid a discussion about roosters crowing, the sun
rising, which came first, Gillian, a little twang returned, said, “Reality is,
it's Saturday and some of us peons has to work … we're expecting a big crowd
tonight at Felix The Cat … or I should say,
were
expecting a big crowd,”
she raised an eyebrow, “as you all know, Ms. Moore vamoosed.”
I detected a forced
change in something … her vocabulary, different than that used at The Cat. I
said, “Don't look at me.”
After a moment of
thought, she said, “Anyway, I have to go to work … I'm already in trouble.”
“How so?”
Ignoring that, she
said, “I have an idea. I have until 8:00, let's go to Percy Priest Lake for the
afternoon, take a swim.”
I liked that idea,
knew a secluded spot.
* * *
In five minutes she
came from the bedroom (tan sandals in her right hand) barefoot. She wore white
tennis shorts and a pink T-shirt. The front of her shirt had printed:
Emily
Dickinson
,
Time & Eternity
below an oval likeness of the poet.
Under her left arm, she held two white towels and a lime-green blanket. I took
the blanket and said, “Nice T-shirt.”
She turned.
I stepped closer to
read, on the back, small print:
This world is not conclusion;
A sequel stands beyond,
Invisible, as music,
But positive, as sound.
It beckons and it baffles;
Philosophies don't know,
And through a riddle, at the last,
Sagacity must go.
To guess it puzzles scholars;
To gain it, men have shown
Contempt of generations,
And crucifixion known.
See what I mean, this
is not Kitten material.
She turned back to me,
“What’s the matter?”
“Just wondered where
your swimsuit was.”
She had it on, showed
me the top, amazing, rum brown color matched her eyes. She grabbed her purse,
offered to drive, me backseat on her bike … no no, and we were off in Winston
to my place to get a swimsuit.
* * *
She loved Winston and,
arrived, adoring the quaint ambience of my apartment, she said, “Your phone
machine’s blinking.”
“Probably a wrong
number,” I said.
She pressed play and
we heard a muffled ‘bastard’ followed by a loud click.
She looked through me
to Honolulu.
I put on my tan boxer
swim trunks, my favorite blue Eddie Bauer polo and got out my Igloo ice chest.
“What’s that for?”
“Guess.”
We put Igloo in
Winston's boot and headed for Percy Priest Lake. Driving northeast, shifting
through Winston's gears, I looked at the brilliant blue of the sky and
somewhere in the moment I was struck by the time we two were in. Aside from an
assault rifle, Smith and Wesson, and straight razor, the time had futures
written all over it, at least for me.
* * *
I stopped at a BP for
petrol and, a twelve pack of Corona in mind; at Gillian’s “ah hum” request, got
two six packs of Snapple (cactus tea and raspberry peach, her brands) and a bag
of ice. She helped and we mixed everything in the Igloo cooler. I wondered
about reconsidering the twelve pack of Corona. She said it wouldn't fit.
Top down, Winston
purring along, fresh air buffeting the cockpit, heading east on I-40, I
couldn't believe it. Believe it.
I heard her moving.
Beautiful sound, her moving. I glanced. Holding her legs together, she swung
her bare feet over my right arm, onto my lap, and rested her head back on the
door. Her hair flowed in the wind.
I paused, thinking,
maybe this is too easy but, her legs brushing against me, I didn't care and
wondered if this could last forever. At least a few days.
She was saying
something but with the wind in the cockpit, I said, “Can't hear you.”
“What are you
thinking?” She called.
“Nothing.”
“Loud.”
I glanced at her,
“Don't fall out.”
After a few more
miles, a lot of honesty or something, floating around in the swirling air, I
asked, “What are you thinking?”
After a moment she sat
up and said, “I was thinking of you, wanting to be with you and wondering why
you, and now. Wondering if you knew how easy I could read you. Wondering if my résumé
would make a difference to you.”
Lot of wind and
philosophy in there. I had to ask, “What résumé?”
“Later.”
* * *
Around some time
later, at my secluded special site on the south shore of Percy Priest Lake I
paused to take it all in—leafy trees, grassy slope down to the lapping water.
Gillian got out of
Winston first and, while I retrieved the ice chest from the boot, she spread
the lime-green blanket on the grass. As I walked to the blanket she peeled off
her shorts. I dropped the ice chest, “Ouch.”
Next off came her T-shirt
revealing a two piece bathing suit—breathtaking.
I put the ice chest
next to the blanket and laid down. She joined me.
We moved together.
Eyes open, our lips hung lips-to-lips like warm silly putty.
I don't believe
this
, I thought.
But it's true
, her eyes said to me.
Our lips parted and
there was an instant there when I thought I had it all figured out. The ringing
inside my head had stopped and I wondered if this was that you-can-be-plain-you
time Jay Speaker sought. Our lips welded together again then parted.
She said, “I like the
way you do that.”
“What?”
“Breathe.”
“I don't believe
this,” I said
“What don't you
believe?”
“You, who are you?”
I noticed a blank
stare, as if she had gone away. I had seen that look in her earlier, at her
place, also at Felix The Cat. I didn't understand any of this and turned away.
She touched my chin.
“Let's go for a swim.”
* * *
Standing neck-deep in
the water, I watched her swim around me like a Ms. Flipper. After a couple
circles she stood in front of me. Water at her swimsuit top, tiny waves licking
at my chin, she said, “Why don't you swim?”
“I like to soak.”
She hung her arms over
my shoulders, I put mine around her waist.
She said, “So, Mr.
Carr, tell me about guilt and Saturdays.”
I thought about
saying, So, Ms. Phoenix, tell me about your slash and shoot ‘em up hardware
but, the water so close to my nose, I thought better and said, “You don't
forget much, do you?”