Touchstone

by Sharon Sala

  “And the salsa,” he said, setting it on the table near Kenny’s plate.

  Kenny gave his eggs a liberal dose of the chunky red sauce and then took a big bite.

  “Mmm,” he groaned appreciatively. “Manna, Texas style.”

  Houston grinned. “Man, you must be hungry to appreciate my cooking. Now, if it had been Rachel’s—”

  He stopped as if he’d just been punched in the gut. “Damn,” he muttered, and took a drink of coffee instead of finishing what he’d started to say.

  Kenny paused in the act of taking a bite, staring thoughtfully at the man across the table.

  “She really did a number on you, didn’t she?” he asked.

  Houston stared at his plate. It still hurt to think of her, but something was different. The pain wasn’t as sharp. And it didn’t last nearly as long. He picked up his fork. Hell. He would never get over her, but maybe—just maybe—he was getting past the loss.

  “It wasn’t her fault,” Houston said, and as soon as he said it aloud he knew he truly believed it. “She was having a real tough time. Everything fell in on her, and I didn’t know how to save her from herself.”

  Kenny frowned. “I don’t understand.” And then he held up his hand. “Sorry. None of my business.” A slight grin tilted the corner of his mouth. “Besides, there are plenty of other women out there, my man. Just think what a time you’ll have looking for them.”

  Houston’s stare never wavered. “I don’t want another woman.”

  Kenny grinned. “You say that now, but just wait a while. You’ll change your mind.”

  “If you had known her, you wouldn’t be saying that,” Houston said.

  Kenny was pushing, but he sensed Houston’s need to talk. “I’ll be the judge of that,” he teased. “Do you have a picture of this fly-by-night Wonder Woman?”

  Houston leaned forward. “Are you a betting man?”

  Surprise etched itself across Kenny’s face. “I play the horses now and then. Other than that, no.”

  Houston got up from the table. “Well, I’ll bet you five dollars that I can wipe that smile off your face without touching you.”

  “How so?”

  “Wait here,” Houston said.

  Kenny shrugged, spooned some more salsa on his eggs, and took another big bite. His plate was empty and he was eyeing the food on Houston’s plate when Houston came back.

  Kenny looked up. “Good thing you got back when you did. Your eggs were starting to look pretty good.”

  Houston handed Kenny a handful of snapshots and then stood back, waiting for his first reaction.

  The first image of her had been snapped outdoors beside a corral. She was wearing old, faded Levi’s that accentuated the length of her legs, and the shirt she had on was open enough to reveal the swell of her breasts. She stood with her feet slightly apart and her hands on her hips, and there was a half smile on her face that made Kenny ache.

  “Sweet Jesus,” Kenny muttered. He shuffled through the other pictures as well, and when he was finished he started all over again, unable to tear himself away. It didn’t make sense for a one-dimensional image to be so alive, but just looking at those pictures, he felt as if he’d been kicked in the gut.

  “What’s her name?”

  “Rachel Austin.”

  Kenny’s eyes narrowed as he stared at her face. Then he reached for his wallet and pulled out a twenty.

  “I was wrong. Keep the change.”

  In a strange way, Houston felt vindicated. The scent of roasting turkey was beginning to waft through the kitchen as he stuffed the twenty in his pocket and finished his eggs.

  Houston stood at the kitchen window, nursing a cup of coffee and watching the snow. Although the fall wasn’t heavy, it had yet to let up. The carcass of a half-eaten turkey still sat on the countertop behind him. For all intents and purposes, Christmas had come and gone, but Kenny Monday was still here. A sudden roar came from the living room, along with Kenny’s loud groan. Houston smiled to himself. The football game was still going strong, but from the sound of it, Kenny’s team was not winning.

  A few moments later Kenny wandered into the kitchen. Houston heard him coming and turned.

  “Still snowing,” he said as Kenny headed for the turkey.

  Kenny nodded. “Yeah.” He glanced at Houston. “Sorry about barging in on you like this.”

  Houston shrugged. “It’s not your fault Herman Ackers blew a head gasket in his tow truck.” He smiled as Kenny took a knife to what was left of the turkey. “Besides, if you hadn’t stayed, I would have eaten by myself.” He didn’t bother to add that it would have been peanut butter and jelly, not turkey, that would have graced his Christmas table.

  “Do you mind if I use your phone again?” Kenny asked.

  Houston shook his head. “Help yourself. I’m damn sure not expecting any calls.” And the moment he said it, he knew he was lying.

  Rachel loved Christmas. And Rachel used to love him. This day had always been special for them. Even though she was gone, somewhere in the back of his mind he’d been expecting her to call.

  Kenny stuffed a last piece of turkey in his mouth and reached for the phone. Houston walked out of the kitchen, leaving Kenny some privacy to make his calls.

  Kenny was on the phone to his boss at Juco Petroleum, assuring him that he’d be on his way as soon as possible, when call waiting beeped in.

  “Look,” Kenny said, “there’s another call on this line. I’m sure it’s for my host, so I’d better get off the line.”

  His boss said goodbye, and Kenny depressed the receiver button to answer the call. “Hello?”

  On the other end of the line there was a quick catch of breath and then silence.

  “Hello? Is anyone there?”

  Rachel took a deep breath. The unfamiliar voice startled her, and she went into a panic. Even though she’d been the one to leave, there had been a part of her that had taken comfort in knowing where he was. But the stranger’s voice sent her thoughts into a new set of worries. What if Houston was gone? What if he’d sold his land? What if he’d left as suddenly and secretively as she had? She would never be able to find him again. And with that thought came something she’d never realized until now. She hadn’t planned on staying away forever. But what if it was too late?

  “I’m sorry,” she said softly. “I must have dialed the wrong number.”

  “No, wait!” Kenny cried. “I’m sorry. I’m just a visitor here. I should have identified this as the Bookout residence. Do you want to speak to Houston?”

  She went weak with relief and sank down on the bed. “If he’ll talk to me,” she said softly.

  Suddenly Kenny knew who this was. The husky drawl somehow fit the woman in the picture.

  “Is this Rachel?” he asked.

  She was silent.

  “Don’t hang up,” Kenny begged. “I’m going to get him now.”

  Still not a word.

  “Rachel, are you there?” Kenny asked.

  Finally she answered. “Yes.”

  For Kenny it was enough. “Do you promise not to hang up?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  Again the slow drawl stripped his mind of rational thought. He laid down the phone and bolted for the living room, yelling as he ran.

  “Telephone! Houston, there’s a phone call for you.” Kenny burst into the living room, slightly out of breath. “Hurry! It’s Rachel.”

  Houston was out of the room within seconds. Kenny sank down onto the couch and picked up the remote, aiming it at the television and turning up the volume. It was the only way he knew how to give Houston Bookout the privacy he was going to need.

  Four

  Houston’s hands were shaking as he picked up the phone, but the need to hear her voice overwhelmed any hesitancy he might have had.

  “Rachel?”

  “Houston, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

  Houston went weak. Without care for where he was sitting, he shoved the pl
atter of turkey aside and leaned against the counter. Tears came without warning, and it was all he could do to talk.

  “I guess I knew that,” he said.

  “I never meant to hurt you. I was just . . . I couldn’t...”

  “Are you all right?” he asked.

  “Yes. Are you?” Rachel countered.

  “It’s getting better.”

  “I’m glad,” she said.

  This mindless banter was driving Houston nuts. He wanted to touch her. To see her face. He could hear the tears in her voice, and he needed to know for certain that she was really all right. But he couldn’t do that. Anger came swiftly. How could she be so calm when he was dying inside?

  “So you’re glad?” he snapped. “Well, I guess I can understand that. This way you won’t have to feel guilty that I didn’t hang myself in the barn, right?”

  He heard her quiet gasp. Hadn’t she expected him to be angry? She’d walked away from the only thing he had to offer her—himself.

  “Damn.” Houston said, and made himself take a deep breath. “I’m sorry,” he said shortly. “That came out of nowhere.”

  “No. It came from the truth,” Rachel said. “And it’s no more than I deserve. Anyway, I didn’t call to hurt you any more than I already have. I just wanted to wish you a merry Christmas.” Her voice caught on a sob. “On the face of things, it was a pretty selfish thing to do. But what else is new?”

  Houston could feel her slipping away. He gripped the phone a little tighter, wishing he could turn back time and change what he’d said.

  “Rachel.”

  “What?”

  “Where are you, baby?”

  “I’m fine. I have a job and an apartment and the people here are good to me.”

  His head was spinning and his heart was starting to pound.

  “Please, Rachel. I won’t bother you. I just need to know where you are.”

  “I wish you a happier new year than the one you just had,” she said.

  Houston was almost shouting. “Damn it, Cherokee, quit playing games. Either tell me where the hell

  you are, or hang up the phone.”

  The line went dead in his ear.

  He stared at the receiver for over a minute, unable to believe what she’d done—what he’d done. Then he slammed it down and headed for the door, grabbing his coat and hat on the way out.

  New Year’s Eve at the Crystal Room was nothing short of chaos. Bartalow and Sons had reserved the entire restaurant for the evening. Maury had hired extra staff just for the night so the prestigious ad agency and its invited guests could ring in the new year without any hitches. Rachel thought it was a whole lot of hoopla just to ring in a new year. The uniforms that the waiters and waitresses usually wore were set aside for the night, and they were now in the process of being outfitted by a uniform rental company with what amounted to costumes.

  Rachel stared in disbelief as someone handed her a tiny black dress with a knife-pleated skirt. The accompanying apron and hair band were stark white and starched to perfection.

  She thrust the uniform back under the rental agent’s nose.

  “I think you gave me the wrong size,” she said.

  He flipped a dangling tag and squinted. “Size six?”

  “Yes, but—”

  He gave her a noncommittal stare as he showed her the tag. “Size six. Move along, lady. I don’t have all day.”

  “Good Lord,” she muttered, and held it up to her front.

  The décolletage was too low. The hem was too high. There was no way in hell she was going to wear this in public. She began looking around the room for Joe Clouse, the assistant manager. Finally she saw him talking to a man who was dispensing matching shoes.

  “Joe, may I speak with you?”

  Joe turned and then looked up. A short chunk of a man, he relished his position of power. When he saw who it was, he frowned. His tastes didn’t run to women, and he especially didn’t like them tall.

  “What size shoe do you wear?” he snapped.

  “An eight,” Rachel said. “But that’s not—”

  “Here,” he said, handing Rachel a pair of black high heels. “Try these on.”

  She did as she was told, still trying to explain about the uniform mix-up.

  “They fit,” she said, then tried to show him the uniform. “They gave me the wrong size. Look at it. It’s too short.”

  Joe glared. It still galled him that she had virtually walked in off the street and been given a job without benefit of any sort of résumé. That she was living in the boss’s quarters upstairs was the icing on his cake of discontent.

  “They’re supposed to look like that,” he snapped. “Now get dressed. I have too much to do to quibble with you about hemlines.”

  Rachel turned away in dismay, but not before she heard him mumbling something about provincial peasants with no social graces.

  She should have let it go, but her nerves were still raw from her phone call to Houston a few days ago. She spun around, her eyes flashing angrily.

  “I may not know everything there is to know about city living,” she snapped. “But where I come from, rudeness is not an accepted form of communication.”

  She pivoted sharply and headed for the employee lounge to put on her uniform, but it was overflowing with other women who had the same idea. She frowned and turned away. They had at least an hour before the restaurant would open for the party. Although she never flaunted the fact that she lived on the premises, this time she thought it prudent to use the apartment to change. She just had time to go up there, get into the uniform, and fix her hair.

  A couple of the women who worked the same shift as she did were coming into the lounge as she started out. Their hands were full of uniforms and shoes, their faces still red from the cold outside.

  “Why, Abby, I thought you were off tonight,” Rachel said.

  Abby DeCaprio’s eyes were shimmering with angry tears as she glanced around to see who might be listening.

  “Yeah, so did I. My boyfriend is so angry with me for coming in to work that he went to the party without me. But you know how it is. You refuse a request, and the next time you break a dish you’re fired.”

  Rachel’s sympathy went out to her. The other woman with her, Nedra Murphy, was just as upset, but taking it in another direction.

  “Wow, what a madhouse.” She held up her outfit. “Do you believe this? Then she pointed to the dipping neckline. “Wait until old Clousie gets a look at me in this. He’ll send me home for sure.”

  Rachel grinned. Nedra was more than buxom— and she was right. It didn’t seem possible that her overample bosom was going to stay put in that skimpy little dress.

  “Guess we better hustle,” Rachel said, and started out the door.

  “Where are you going?” Nedra asked.

  Rachel paused, then turned, eyeing the two women. “To get ready.”

  Still upset about the fight she’d had with her boyfriend, Abby missed the implication of where Rachel was going. She waved toward the crowd in the lounge as a tear slid down her cheek.

  “Where? Just look at this mess. Even if we manage to find the privacy to dress, we’ll never get to the bathroom to fix our hair.”

  “I know a place. Come with me,” Rachel said.

  Both women followed. Thinking Rachel was taking them to some obscure storage room where they could dress undisturbed, they were startled when she stopped at the old elevator off the kitchen. They began to fidget nervously. While they wanted to get dressed in private, neither one of them wanted to lose her job over it.

  “Where are you going?” Nedra whispered.

  “To my apartment,” Rachel said.

  “You live in this building?”

  She nodded.

  Their chatter ceased as they got inside. When they exited into the spacious apartment three floors above the Crystal Room, they gasped in disbelief.

  “Oh my gosh! I didn’t know this was here,” Abby cried.
>
  “Neither did I,” Nedra echoed.

  Rachel bit her lip, hoping this wasn’t going to cause a rift between her and these women. They had become her only friends, however casual.

  “The spare bedroom is through there,” Rachel said, pointing to the left. “And the bathroom is down the hall.”

  But neither woman moved. They kept staring at the elegant but old-fashioned furniture, and then back at Rachel.

  “You live here?” Nedra finally muttered.

  Rachel nodded.

  Both women frowned. They knew what Rachel made in wages and tips because their paychecks were similar. And since there was no way they could ever have afforded such luxury, their curiosity about her circumstances increased.

  “Are you rich or something?” Abby asked.

  Rachel laughed. It was a throw-back-your-head kind of laugh, and it made both women grin with embarrassment. They didn’t get the joke yet, but somehow they knew it was on them.

  “Not in this lifetime,” Rachel said. “I grew up dirt poor in a little town in west Texas. My daddy was a rodeo bum, my mother waited tables in the town’s only café.”

  Abby kept staring at the rooms and the space. Rarely did New York City apartments have space like this, and never for the working-class pocket.

  Rachel sighed. The truth hurt, but sometimes it was best. “My parents are dead. My mother died about six months ago. The bank took our ranch.” She thought of Houston. “Even then, leaving Texas was the hardest thing I’ve ever done.” She tossed her uniform on the back of the sofa and started unbuttoning her shirt. “Laugh if you want, but I came to New York to try to be a model. I’ve already been turned away at the doors of the best, so I guess you can say I’m still trying.”

  Their stares became judgmental as Rachel stepped out of her jeans. In their opinion, her slender, well-toned figure coupled with her height and pretty face pushed up the possibility of her success.

  “So you’re waiting tables until you become famous,” Nedra drawled, eyeing Rachel with new consideration. “In the meantime, are you sleeping with Maury?”

  “Nedra!” Abby gasped. “How rude!”