by J J Hebert
Your friend,
Mr. Lonesome
I fold the letter, smiling. I look around. It is only Mitch and me. He watches as I open the mailbox and insert the sheet.
* * *
“No peeking,” I say, hands on Leigh’s hips, walking beside her, guiding the way.
“Where are you taking me, James?” she asks, giggling, her hands covering her eyes. “My arms are getting tired,” she says.
My hands leave her hips. I excavate the keys from a coat pocket. “Don’t you look, Leigh,” I say. “Don’t you look . . .” I unlock the door, return my hands to her hips, and prod her inside the cottage, away from the brisk air, to the living room, before the fireplace. “Open,” I say.
Facing the fireplace, she lowers her hands. “What is this place?” she asks.
“I know it’s not perfect,” I say, cracking a smile, “but it’s our house.”
She quickly examines the derelict living room, then her attention reverts to me. “Our house? But when?—how?—I mean—”
She silences as I drop to one knee, my heart throbbing. I pull the jewelry box from another pocket, hand tremulous. I gaze up at her, open the box, and hold it upward, arms wobbly. “Leigh, will you marry me?”
She ogles the glimmering ring, its small but beautiful diamond, and her eyes dampen. After ten seconds, she says yes, crying and smiling at once.
I stand, relieved. She holds out her hand. I take the ring from its box, and slip the rock—or pebble, as some would say—on her finger. “I love you,” I say.
Her face lights up. “I love you too.”
We kiss, my arms locked around her and hers around me, the walls of our future sanctuary, this home, surrounding us. I let go after a minute, step back, tell her I have another gift to give.
She smiles. “There’s more?” Amazement dwells in her voice.
I nod. “Wait here. I’ll be right back.” I leave the room, return thirty seconds later with a cardboard box, three quarter-sized holes on the lid.
“What’s in there?” she asks, smiling.
I place the box at her feet. We stare at it, and it begins to wobble. She starts to laugh, gets down on her knees, removes the lid, looks into the shaking box. Her smile deepens, and she begins to cry. “You remembered . . .” She looks back at me, grinning, damp-eyed.
“What will you name it?” I ask.
Smiling, she lifts the black and white cat from the box, holds it in her arms, and stands. “This is Hope,” she says softly, her hand brushing over its back. “This is our cat Hope.”
* * *
We elope the following month to Wailea Beach, South Maui. It sounds glamorous, and quite frankly, it is. But it’s still unconventional, that’s for sure. Plus, I figure we’ll save a significant amount of money by omitting a guest list. A traditional wedding equals about $25,000. A guestless wedding on a tropical beach equals about $7,000. Hmmm . . . tough decision, right? The wedding takes place on a grassy knoll fifty yards from the ocean, tropical fauna all around, palm tree thickets ringing the powder-white gazebo from which we give our vows at sunset. After the ceremony, as one flesh, we have pictures taken, holding one another, before the ocean, a pond, a waterfall, and a tree.
We dine at the resort’s five star restaurant, just the two of us, she in her gown, I in my tuxedo. We eat, smile, talk, laugh, flirt, Hawaiian music playing in the background, a lone candle lit at the center of the white-clothed table, and I think: Maybe good things can fall into your lap . . . you just need to be in the right seat. I stare into her eyes, my elbows on the armrests of the seat I’ve chosen. I tell her that I love her, and that I’m a lucky man. A very, very lucky man. With a smile, she tells me she’s a lucky woman. A very, very lucky woman.
* * *
Our honeymoon. We enter our room on the beach, smiling. I close the door, take her into my arms. I kiss her at the door, at the dresser, at the window with a backdrop of the ocean reflecting a three-quarter moon. I whisper into her ear, “This is the beginning of eternity together.” Tears roll from her eyes, worrying me. But then she smiles and I know that they are tears of joy.
I lie her on the bed, kiss her cheeks, her lips, her neck, and slowly, with her assistance, remove her gown. I gaze at her body covered sparingly with lingerie. She smiles. I smile. She, with my help, removes my James Bond tuxedo, revealing a pale, skinny chest above plaid boxer shorts. Not quite 007. She tells me that I look great, that she loves my arms, my chest, my skin, everything. She kisses my chest, my arms, my skinny, skinny arms. I kiss her belly, her flat belly, tell her that she looks amazing, that I love her belly, everything. She smiles, and says, “I’ve been looking forward to this my whole life.” I smile in return and say, “I’m a lucky man. A very, very lucky man.”
The next morning, I wake up next to her and tell her I love her. We go down to the beach before breakfast. She wears a tight, revealing bikini. I wear trunks below a shirtless torso. We lie on a blanket, soaking in the rays. We stroll the length of the shore. We laugh, the sun warm against my bare back, the sun kissing her perfect body. We wade in the water, even though I’m fearful of water.
And we do all of this, of course, without her parents tagging along.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
One year later, on a chilly and blustery fall day, I’m driving in my Camry. I see a car (an Accord, perhaps?) broken down on the side of the road and the backside of a man looking inside the open hood. I turn around, stop, climb out of my vehicle, and walk toward the man, the lifted hood blocking his face from my view.
“Need some help?” I walk past the rear.
“Battery’s dead,” says a familiar voice.
I come to the front, and the man’s appearance leaps out at me—it’s Brad, not in my mind but in flesh, with his hair combed to one side, not spiked. He aged a bit since school, especially around the eyes, and he now wears a well-groomed goatee without a nasty grin.
“I remember you. Frost, right?” He speaks with a shocking amount of gentleness in his voice.
I nod. “Brad, isn’t it?”
His head bobs. “Do you have jumper cables, by any chance?”
“Yeah, I think so. Lemme look . . .” I go back to my Camry and find the cables in my trunk, chuckling at the situation. A couple minutes later, I pull my car up to his and park so that my front is parallel with his hood. I pop my hood, leave the Camry, and stand next to Brad again, cables in hand.
“So what do you do these days?” Brad asks as I give him the clamps.
I smile, perfectly white teeth visible, the result of countless visits to the dentist. “I’m a son, a brother, a husband, a child of God . . .” I pause. “And what do I do for work? Is that what you’re asking?”
He’s connecting the cables. “Yeah.”
“I play pretend on paper for a living.”
Brad’s focus is on his battery. “How does that work?” he asks curiously.
“I’m a published author.”
“Wow.” Brad sounds genuinely impressed. “You’ve done well . . .” He steps away from his gleaming Honda and hands me the cables. I attach them to the Camry, thinking: What happened to the malicious Brad from Langwood High? Brad turns the ignition on his car. It starts immediately. We get out of our cars and meet beside them.
“Do you live around here?” I ask.
“Yeah . . . over on Mercy Lane.”
Silence. I chuckle inside. Mercy Lane. Is that next to Forgiveness Street?
Finally, I speak. “So, umm, what do you do? I mean, who are you nowadays?”
More troubling silence, then he smiles. “Who am I?” He puts his hand into a pocket, pulls out his wallet, and opens it to the photograph sleeves. “I’d say this about sums it up.” He points to a picture of a blue-eyed, blonde bombshell and grins—but in a way that isn’t wicked at all. “This is Alexandra,” he says tenderly, eyes brightening. “We got married a couple years ago. She’s wonderful . . .” Then he taps on a photo of two children, and his smile expands.
“Frankie and Katherine. Our prides and joy.”
“You have a beautiful family, and you’ve done well for yourself, too,” I say, reaching into my pocket.
“Thanks.” He beams, closes the wallet, and returns it to his pants.
I take out my wallet and, over the course of about two minutes, show him photos of Leigh, saying all sorts of great things about her. At the end of Show and Tell, I put my leather money-trap away. Brad stares into my eyes, and I can’t help but stare back. We don’t move, caught in this connection. I start to chuckle, then blurt, “So, I guess you should be okay, huh? Your battery’s probably juiced up just fine by now . . .”
He laughs, then agrees that yes, his car is most likely ready to go. We remove the cables and shut the hoods.
“Thanks, James.” He holds out his hand.
I take his hand, pump twice, and let go. “You’re welcome, Brad. Maybe I’ll see you around.”
He smiles. “Maybe.”
“Take care of yourself . . . and the family.” I start toward the Camry.
“Hey, James . . .”
I turn back to him. “Yeah?”
He’s still standing by his Accord. He inhales and exhales loudly, like he’s about to have an Asthma attack or something. “I was young and stupid in school,” he says, “and I want you to know that, well—I guess what I’m trying to say is—I’m sorry.” He begins to breathe normally again.
His statement catches me off guard. Did the bully really apologize? I thought this only happened in movies. I reply to his apology with a smile, then: “It was good seeing you again, Brad.”
His head bobbles like one of those sports figurines. “Same here.”
We enter our cars and drive in opposite directions. I’m glad I could help Brad, and it’s good to know that he’s happy and that he isn’t suffering or moaning or sitting in a pit, and this makes me smile.
I arrive home. Leigh greets me at the door, Hope brushing up against her leg, purring. Leigh’s belly is plump beneath a baggy shirt. She hands me a paintbrush. “Let’s go, Dad,” she says, winking. We enter the baby’s room, Hope following, and continue working on the mural of clouds and the sun, flocks of birds, trees, grassland, and bushes. As Leigh strokes the wall with her brush, she says, “I decided where I’d like the café to be.”
“Oh yeah?” I add detail to a tree.
“Laguna Beach,” she says.
“With umbrella tables?”
She smiles. “With umbrella tables outdoors and bright orange and yellow walls inside. People will sit beneath the umbrellas, reading, and sipping our finest iced coffee.”
“I’ll make some calls.” I grin.
After almost an hour of painting, we part ways and I go to a book signing. People line up before me. A fan steps to the table, The Forsaken World in his hand, and he asks me how I did it, how I became a successful author. I tell him I finally realized that I deserved something good in my life, finally admitted to myself that I was worthy of success. “And I can’t forget God and his helping hands,” I continue. “I can only imagine where I’d be without them.” He thanks me for my answer, hands the book my way. I open it, flip to the dedications—To Arthur A. Pennington, who lives within these pages; and Meranda Erickson, who died among them—and I smile at the text. I turn the page, autograph below my printed name, give the kid one last pointer: “Adopt unconventionality. It’ll bring you places.”
Over fifty autographs later, hand aching, I return home. Leigh is taking her daily nap. I go into the den/office to write, receive an e-mail from my editor, open it and read:
James, Have you figured out what you’re going to write next?
I ponder the text. For weeks, I’ve tried to answer that question. I thought of devising a sequel to The Forsaken World, but couldn’t see how that would work. I thought of writing a story about time travel, but I kept thinking Back to the Future. I even considered jumping outside the fantasy realm to delve into a comedy piece, but I’m not a comedian.
Today, I’m determined to find inspiration. I open a new Word document and stare into the blank screen, allowing my eyes to go out of focus and my mind to wander where it pleases. Nothing transpires from the daze, not a single word typed on the page. I look on the wall above the laptop, eye the hanging Robert Frost letter, and see Robert’s visage nod in my direction. I think of the online writer’s program that I plan to launch next month. I’ll make sure it’s free to all registrants. I flash on Mitch and me at Robert’s house, then at the diner when he gave me the letter. I think of Arthur and I think of Meranda. Then, in the back of my mind, I hear Mitch’s voice, and what to write next becomes clear.
I laugh, heart fluttering. I can’t believe I didn’t think of this sooner. Smiling, I lean in toward the laptop and start typing:
The greatest and most inspiring achievements are not produced by those who conform to society’s idea of normal, but by those who courageously adopt the unconventional.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
J. J. Hebert is a writer. Surprising, huh? He has written fifty-two novels, including the immensely successful, award-winning Willard’s Heart. J. J.’s also an archaeologist, and he recently unearthed an ancient religious scroll in Jerusalem that, in time, will prove absolutely nothing about anything important. He presently resides in Yemen, where he enjoys being the richest man in the land.
Of course, the aforementioned isn’t true (except for the “J. J. Hebert is a writer” part), but you found it entertaining, right? Perhaps just a little funny?
Honestly: Unconventional is J. J. Hebert’s debut. Currently, he lives alone in New England, home to some of the greatest sports teams in the world (for now), where he’s at work on his next novel.
You can visit J. J. on his Web sites: www.jjhebert.net and www.jjhebertblog.com.
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45