Woo Woo

by Joe Coccaro

  “So, you’re a player?”

  “Maybe. I guess. Seriously, thanks again for helping me.”

  “I got the flowers and card. Nice touch. Thanks.”

  “I’ve thought about you and our conversation—a lot. I’m not sure I’m cured of harboring guilt, but I’m definitely not thinking about it as much . . . So, where is Arnold? I want to see his hands.”

  “Arnold played golf with some friends today. I think he got a little too much sun and had a couple too many bourbons. Nice night, so I decided to grab his golf cart to see if I could find you.”

  “Thank God for golf carts,” Carter said. “Can I buy you a drink?”

  “No, but in the cooler of my golf cart I have a very nice, very expensive bottle of Oregon pinot noir, compliments of Uncle Sid. Interested?”

  ***

  Kate pulled the golf cart into the alleyway behind Carter’s house and parked in the backyard.

  “Safer here,” Carter said. “More discreet too. Not many secrets in a small town. You gotta keep your eyes open and windows closed. Neighbors here aren’t just nosy, they feel entitled to know each other’s business. It’s sort of a hobby. Come on in. I’ll show you the place.”

  “Okay, but I can only stay a bit. Arnold—remember?”

  Carter had done lots of work to the place—new kitchen countertops; remolded bathrooms up and down; plaster wall repairs; fresh paint throughout.

  Bringing the old house back to respectability had proven therapeutic. The house, like Carter, sagged from the weight of too many storms. He had patched and smoothed each plaster crack as if putting a salve on some tear in his skin. The divorce, nebulous jobs, and now unemployment pelted him like hail stones on the hood of a car. He felt pocked and fearful of encountering more of life’s bad weather. Meeting Rose had drawn him back into the weather, but he fought to keep his emotional investment in her at a minimum. If only you could buy accident insurance for relationships, he thought.

  Kate loved the house, especially its hardwood floors, archways, and built-in walnut bookcases. She scanned Carter’s small library while sipping her wine: Pat Conroy, Tobias Wolff, Jim Harrison, Ernest Hemingway, Mark Twain, Tom Wolfe, Pete Dexter, E.B. White, Gay Talese. Biographies on Muhammad Ali, William O. Douglas, Alan Greenspan, Thomas Jefferson, Albert Einstein . . .

  “Not many female writers here,” Kate said. “You have a problem with women authors? Maybe that’s why your wife left. You ignore the female voice.”

  “Ouch. Low blow. I’m gonna need months of therapy to heal that wound. Know any decent psychologists?”

  “Just one,” Kate said. She toasted herself with a raised glass.

  “Want to listen to some music?” Carter asked.

  “You have any female artists?”

  “I might have one or two CDs featuring girls. How about Alison Brown? Female banjo player. She does progressive stuff, kinda like jazz, but with a bluegrass and Irish folk flavor.”

  “Sounds like it’ll go nice with this pinot—both very snooty.”

  They sat on Carter’s brown leather sofa, close, but not too close. Kate kicked off her sandals, placed her feet on the coffee table, and pushed a National Geographic magazine out of the way with her heel.

  “Do you mind?” she said. She winked and tilted her head like a B-movie actress.

  “That’s fine, as long as you cleaned between your toes.” And what beautiful toes they are. Straight and lean, just like the rest of your limbs.

  “So, Carter, how do you like living here in Mayberry? You having fun?”

  “Good questions. I ask myself the same thing about every day. Some mornings I wake up and feel like I’m living the dream. I walk everywhere. No traffic. Quiet at night. Know all of my neighbors. Very peaceful. The post office is two blocks away, my bank three, beautiful sunsets, volleyball on the beach . . . it’s great. But some days I think, What in the hell am I doing here? This place is an outpost, a backwater. I’m going to morph into a monosyllabic townie. I guess I feel disconnected here, like a bystander to the real world.”

  “Carter, did it ever occur to you that maybe the real world may not be all that great or real to begin with? What is it that you miss? Strip malls and Ruby Tuesday? Traffic cameras at intersections? Jet noise? Sirens?”

  “I’d like to see a movie every once in a while or maybe take in a concert. I like being around interesting people.”

  “Then drive across the Bay and go see a movie or the symphony. It’s fifty minutes away. A lot of people spend way more time than that commuting to work each day.”

  “You’re right, Kate. I know that. But it’s more of the feeling of being far away and isolated than actual distance. The action is over there; the people are over there. That twenty miles of water between Cape Charles and Virginia Beach makes it feel much more like an outpost here on the Shore. Living here changes you. I feel like I’m losing my edge. I used to wear Florsheim wingtips and Windsor knots. Now its Keen sandals and tank tops. Does any of this make sense?”

  “I get it. Your world is small here so you’re afraid of becoming small too; you’re afraid of becoming a guber. But I think simple and mellow can add to your charm if you let them. Softer edges feel nice. Most people would kill to live in sandals and T-shirts. Just flow with the town’s current, Carter. Don’t fight it. See where it takes you.”

  “Good advice, doc. You should do this for a living.”

  The two sat silent for a bit, enjoying the CD and the vibe they felt from each other. It wasn’t an awkward silence or nervous anticipation, but more like a relaxed contentedness.

  “Do you mind?” Kate said as she swung her legs from the coffee table and over Carter’s lap.

  Carter set his wineglass on the table and reached for Kate’s feet.

  “Foot massage? I am, after all, competing with Arnold, aren’t I?”

  Just as Carter began kneading his knuckles into Kate’s heel, just as she moaned, a knock rattled the front door.

  Startled, Carter froze. He looked into Kate’s eyes like a Labrador retriever awaiting a command from its handler.

  “Well, I’d say you better answer it, and I probably should be going anyway. I’ll leave through the back door while you answer the front.”

  Kate retracted her legs, grabbed her sandals, and stepped softly through the kitchen toward the exit. She blew Carter a kiss and vanished into the black night.

  Was that even real? Carter thought.

  ***

  “Rose. What a surprise. Come in.” Carter forced a smile. “Wasn’t expecting to see you tonight.”

  “That’s what I gather. Two wineglasses and some pinot,” she said. She picked up the bottle from the coffee table and read the label. “Nice choice. Expensive. Special occasion or special guest?”

  “Special friend, yes. A doctor actually. My doctor!”

  “I heard. A tall, very pretty one. Where is she? Love to meet her. She upstairs, freshening up?”

  “Doctor Capps had to leave. She’s with her beau and just came by to check on me. It was a professional visit.”

  “A doctor who picks up patients at Gil Netters and makes house calls. I’ll have to find one of those. You know, Carter, there is a fine line between obfuscation and lying. It’s actually an art form. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. I’m horny. Let’s go to bed.”

  CHAPTER 17

  AFTER COFFEE AND morning conversation with Rose, Carter’s cell phone buzzed. He didn’t recognize the number, but the voice was unmistakable.

  “Carter, it’s Cyril, from the hardware store. Got your number from Hattie Savage. Can you swing by? Got somethin’ I think you’ll want to see.”

  “Who was that?” Rose asked. She tossed her hair over her shoulder and smirked. “Your pretty lady doctor checking in on you?”

  “Just Cyril, from the hardware store. Says he has something I should see. Wanna come?”

  “Sure.” Rose smiled and hiked her sleeping shorts to show her firm thighs.

  Carter
blushed.

  “You’re such a little boy. So cute.” Rose leaned forward and pinched Carter on the cheek.

  ***

  Cyril and Mac in their wicker rockers were perusing the morning newspaper and exchanging barbs over a sports story about a San Francisco 49ers quarterback kneeling on one knee during the national anthem. Apparently, the biracial quarterback was protesting because of a spate of African Americans shot recently by police.

  “The NFL oughta throw his sorry ass out. We’re talking about the national pastime here. If the guy wants to protest, fine,” Cyril piped. “But let him do it on his own time, when he’s not in uniform or on the gridiron. Kids were watching, for cryin’ out loud. What kind of example does this set for them? It’s a damn disgrace is what it is. People who hate this country need to get the hell out.”

  “Cyril, you sound just like Joe McCarthy in the 1950s. Anyone who speaks out is a commie. That’s the trouble with you right wingers: You hate anyone not like you, and anyone who disagrees should be locked up. You’re just like those crazy-ass ISIS people who chop people’s heads off. Maybe you should wear a turban.”

  “Here’s a napkin,” Cyril said and handed it to Mac. “Wipe off the drool on your chin, and then use it to plug the hole in your bleeding heart.”

  “Well, well. At it again I see. Mornin’, fellas,” Carter interrupted. “I see you’re both filled with compliments and compassion for each other on this wonderful morning. This is Rose Portman. I believe you’ve already met Mr. Cyril Brown, owner of this fine establishment.”

  “Hello again, ma’am,” Cyril said and tipped an imaginary hat. “Come on inside back to my office, and I’ll explain.”

  Cyril led the pair to the back of the store and sat behind his desk. He groaned from a sore back as he landed.

  “After being up in the store attic with you the other day, I decided to have it cleaned out; lots of old furniture, lawn chairs, bicycles, rugs . . . all kinds of junk. There’s a poor black family up the road from my house that maybe could use these old bedframes and end tables. One parent and four kids. What a shame. Nice kids too. Very polite. I see them go to church every Sunday. Their mother’s gussied up like a mother hen with her chicks in tow. Cute as cute could be. The rest of the stuff goes to my church for a fundraiser coming up. I figured we could sell some of it. One man’s trash is another’s treasure, as they say.

  “Anyway, I hired Hattie Savage’s nephew, Jed, and his friend, that quiet kid, Elroy. They was hauling stuff out, includin’ a bunch of old storage boxes and chests filled with files, papers, and old business records, just like those ledgers you looked at the other day,” Cyril said to Carter. “Some of the stuff goes back to the ’20s. A lot of it was old invoices and order forms, catalogs, brochures, stuff from the hardware store. Junk and trash, mostly. Been up there decades. A fire hazard is what it is. There had to be sixty or so boxes of old papers and ledgers.”

  Cyril pointed to a box by his feet. “The boys was gettin’ ready to toss this one to the dumpster out back when I walked by and just happened to lift the lid and look inside. I can’t say exactly why I opened this particular box, but something told me to, so I did. And here is what I found sitting right on top.”

  Cyril handed Carter a leather book. It was tattered and moldy from years of freezing temperatures and sweltering heat inhaled and exhaled with changing seasons. It was about the size of a catechism, the small ones Catholics hand out to third graders to study up on for confirmation. There was no lettering on the cover, and the glue binding it together had long lost its hold. Inside were a few loose letters, postcards, and a few dozen pages filled on both sides with writing.

  “Looks like some kind of scrapbook or journal, maybe both,” Rose said. She stood between Cyril and Carter as Carter thumbed carefully through the brittle pages. The ink on some of them was faded and barely visible. Other pages were stuck together.

  “The words look to be written in Spanish, maybe Italian,” Rose said. She leaned her face in for a closer look.

  “Looky here,” Cyril said. He flipped to the inside of the binder’s front cover and pointed to what appeared to be a smudge of ink. He reached into his desk drawer and handed Rose a magnifying glass with an ivory handle. “This ’ull help,” he said.

  Rose moved the magnifying glass in and out a few times and then stopped when the inky smudges revealed themselves: Luzia Rosa Douro. 1918.

  “It’s her! My great aunt! Can you believe this, Carter?”

  Rose gave Carter a kiss and Cyril a shoulder hug. “You’re a lucky man, son,” Cyril said and winked at Carter. “Lucky that I ain’t twenty-five years younger. You take this with you, young lady.” Cyril handed her the binder with a wink. “If this Luzia person is your great aunt, then this rightfully belongs to you anyway, as I see it. Family’s important. Always remember that.”

  Rose gave Cyril another hug on his shoulders, careful not to tempt the playful old bird by pressing her breast on him. Churchgoer and do-gooder or not, men will be boys when it comes to ladies.

  “Cyril, may I ask you something?”

  “Yes, my dear, what is it?

  “You said something made you look into that one box out of the dozens and dozens being hauled to the trash. Could you be more specific?”

  “Not sure what you’re getting at, Miss Rose.”

  “I mean, what prompted you at that very moment to flip open that box? It seems uncanny.”

  Cyril slumped slightly in his desk chair. He grimaced at first and then rubbed his tall forehead. “Mind if I pour myself a Scotch? It’s almost eleven. Would you care to join me?”

  “It’s a bit early for me,” Rose said, “but you go ahead.”

  “Me too,” chimed Carter. He leaned on an old wooden filing cabinet while Rose propped herself on the edge of Cyril’s desk.

  Cyril took a few sips of Scotch on ice, stared at the glass a few seconds as if focusing, and then peered deeply into Rose’s eyes, his baby-blues clear and fixed.

  “Miss Rose, not everything that happens in this town is easy to explain. I’ve lived here pretty much my entire life, ’cept for when I went to college, and I can tell you the oddities are just part of life here.”

  “Oddities? Interesting choice of words,” Rose said.

  “Things happen, some would say strange things, but not necessarily bad.”

  “Things?” Rose responded like a prosecutor beginning an assault on a sworn witness.

  “Look, I’m a religious man, a deacon at the First Episcopalian Church of Cape Charles. I believe Jesus died on the cross. I believe in the afterlife. Some people think I am a mean, heartless son of a bitch because of my politics. That may be so. I ain’t apologizing for believing in right and wrong. Problem with liberals is that many are godless. And without God as a moral compass, their thinking is wrong and destructive. They invent things to take the place of religion.”

  “We know which side of the political spectrum you sit. Hell, the whole town knows, Cyril,” Carter interjected. “You got Trump signs all over your store. You’re a church deacon. But what’s the connection here to what Rose is asking?”

  “Well, some things that I have experienced fall outside of the realm of my beliefs. I can’t explain them, but they exist. I try to ignore them, or at least not dwell on them. Which means I don’t discuss them—ever, with anyone.”

  “You’ve come too far to quit now,” Rose said. “What is it, Cyril? What was it that made you open that box?”

  “The lady,” Cyril said, almost in a whisper. “The one who passes through here sometimes. I’ve seen her in the store from time to time over the years, just wandering in the aisles. She’ll be there a few seconds, maybe a little longer, look at me, smile, and then vanish.”

  “A lady?” Rose asked.

  “Yes, a young woman best I can tell. Pretty too. Looks like she’s in a long dress and always carrying a bag of some sort. She wears her hair up.”

  “What happens when you see her?” Carter
asked.

  “Usually nothing. It happens so fast that sometimes I’m not sure it happened at all. The mind can play tricks on you, ’specially when you get to be my age and have had a few drinks.”

  “Any other manifestations?” Rose asked.

  “Official sounding word, Miss Rose. Glad I went to college.” Cyril grinned. The Scotch was starting to soothe him. “Sometimes, usually after we close and are cleaning up, items fall off the shelf, almost like someone bumped into them. Happens all the time during the day with regular customers. The aisles are narrow and we have stuff piled everywhere, as you can see. We’re kinda messy here. But sometimes stuff just flies from the shelves for no reason. Just last month, a tray of PVC pipe joints got knocked down and spread all over the floor. One morning when we opened up, we found key blanks by our key-making machine spread all over the counter. Another time, the hip waders we sell watermen were turned inside out . . . Lots of weird stuff like that. Been going on for decades.”

  “How do you know it’s not kids just playing tricks?” Carter asked.

  “We got surveillance cameras, that’s why. When we look at the recordings, we don’t see a damn thing. Now how in the hell do you explain that?” Cyril huffed.

  Rose and Carter exchanged glances and grins.

  “What about the box you opened?” Rose asked.

  Cyril downed the remainder of his Scotch and poured another. He walked to the office door and closed it slightly, peering out to make sure his employees and Mac were outside of earshot.

  “Now this is between us, okay. Goes no further.”

  “Agreed,” Rose said as Carter nodded. “Doctor-patient confidentiality.” She smiled.

  “Well, I wasn’t completely straight with you about the box. I was closing the store and heading back to the office to cut off the lights. Those boys, Jed and Elroy, had actually just left. I heard some noise, like boxes being dragged across the floor upstairs. I called to see if it was the boys. I grabbed a flashlight, went up top for a look around. Sometimes cats sneak up there. Even found a litter of strays up there one year. I looked around, didn’t see anything. Then I saw this goddamn box skid toward me.” Cyril kicked the box by his feet. “I looked up and there was the lady, just staring. I blinked my eyes and she was gone, just like that, just like always.”