Old Fashioned

by Rene Gutteridge

  “O-h . . .”

  “. . . i-o.”

  Clay played with the edges of his workbook. “It’s kind of personal.”

  “Honey, when you get to the place where you can’t laugh without peeing yourself, there’s not too much that’s off the board anymore. Know what I mean?”

  “Not yet, but okay,” Clay laughed. “I wondered . . . why you’re not married.”

  Betty blinked. The question took her by surprise, he could tell.

  “I mean, isn’t it okay to be alone? What’s wrong with that? People think you’re crazy, but there’s some benefit to it, isn’t there?”

  “I suppose there is. I can go do what I want. Go buy what I want. Don’t have to answer to nobody but myself.”

  “Do you get lonely?”

  “Sure. But heck, trust me when I say I seen plenty of loneliness in the eyes of people who aren’t alone, sittin’ right by each other, close enough to touch, but might as well be the Grand Canyon between ’em. You can eat every meal of every day together and be lonely.”

  “My thoughts exactly. Is that why you never married?”

  Her old, rugged face turned plaintive for a moment. Her thoughts drifted between them like silent sailboats through dark waters.

  “What makes you think I never got married?”

  “I . . . I just assumed. I mean, you’re here every single day. You never wore a wedding ring.”

  “I was married.”

  “Really?”

  “Yep. His name was Earl.”

  “Tell me,” Clay said, leaning forward.

  “Well, we got married when we was seventeen years old. He died at twenty-five in the war.”

  Clay leaned back. That wasn’t what he expected. “Gosh, Betty. I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be sorry. It was the best eight years of my life.”

  “But . . . you’ve lived all this time, never remarried?”

  “Why would I do that? He was the one and only for me. There would never be nobody else.” Betty looked at her hand. “Never even had a wedding band. Couldn’t afford it when we got married. Planned on getting one, when we had some money.” She chuckled at a memory. “Our first anniversary we was so poor that we could only buy us a candy bar. We split it right in half and ate it by the fire. Every January 20, I go get me a candy bar in honor of Earl. Eat half of it.” She grinned and patted her belly. “Then I eat the other half for good measure. No need lettin’ a candy bar go to waste.”

  Clay touched her hand. “It sounds like an amazing love story.”

  “The question is, why don’t you got yourself a pretty lady by your side? Heaven knows you had enough of them linin’ up to get your attention.”

  Clay’s face warmed. “Well, I’m working on it.”

  Betty glanced down at his workbook. “Like homework or something?”

  “Something like that.”

  “You’re gonna need a bigger book than that to understand a woman, Clay Walsh.”

  “Maybe I’m trying to figure out me.”

  “What’s there to figure out? Earl and I knew each other three weeks when we got hitched.”

  Clay laughed. “I’m going to need more than three weeks. She kind of . . . terrifies me.”

  Betty gave a knowing smile. “I see. It’s that kind of thing.”

  “Yeah. Guess it is.”

  “You know, marriage is kind of like a tea bag. You don’t know how strong it really is till you get it in some boiling water.”

  “A tea bag, huh?” He thought of all the tea Aunt Zella had sent him over the years.

  “And the water don’t boil till you’re over the heat, and the heat don’t come till you say, ‘I do.’”

  “I just want to make sure she’s right for me, and . . . well, maybe I want to make more sure I’m right for her.”

  Betty nodded gently. “You know, Clay, I always knew it about you.”

  “Knew what?”

  “Knew you were a better man than the one that came to this diner at all hours of the night. I said a prayer for you once.”

  “You prayed for me?” Clay was deeply touched. He only thought of Betty as the lady who kept the food coming. He was astonished that she would do such a thing for him. Astonished that she would see something in him other than the jerk he was. “What did you pray?”

  “That you’d see you were worth more than you thought.” She slid out of the booth and stood up again with as much effort as when she sat down. “What can I get ya? Piece of pie? We got peach tonight.”

  “No thanks, Betty. Coffee’s fine.”

  “Coffee it is. I’ll bring it black because it looks like you’re going to need something strong enough to slap some sense into ya.”

  “I can always use a good slapping.”

  “Tease. All right, I’ll get you your fries and gravy too.”

  Betty walked off and Clay watched her go behind the counter. He smiled at the thought of her husband, that kind of love, the kind that carried on even after death. Then he took his paper place mat and flipped it over, pulled his pencil out of his book, and started writing.

  “‘WHAT PERCENTAGE of your annual income is appropriate to spend on a pet?’” Trish looked up and fanned herself. “I can see how he’s got you all worked up.”

  Amber only shrugged, assembling a floral arrangement for a woman’s eightieth birthday party. She thought it should be bright.

  “Let me see that,” Carol said, grabbing the workbook and flipping through it.

  “Not all the questions are like that,” Amber said.

  Carol slipped on her glasses to read. “‘Do you believe in the death penalty?’”

  Trish slipped into a low, sultry voice and moved her shoulders like a bad Marilyn Monroe impersonator. “Oh . . . yes . . . mmmm . . . death penalty.”

  Amber shot her a look.

  “Fine. I’ll stop. But no thanks. Truly. I gotta have a real man,” Trish said.

  “Clay is a real man.”

  “I’ve been around the block, ladies. I haven’t found one yet that does more for me than a good piece of chocolate.” Carol slid the workbook back to Amber. “But I’m still looking.”

  “He’s reliable. Handy.” Even as the words came out of her mouth, Amber winced.

  Trish nodded, unimpressed. “My vacuum is also very reliable.”

  “And I can give you the name of my handyman, Ronald,” Carol added, “if that’s what you’re looking for.”

  There was a pause and Amber just looked down. She hated the things they were saying about Clay, how they mocked him. How much of this had he endured over the last nine years?

  Carol said, “Trish, go get me another package of pins, would you?” Trish disappeared to the back and Carol scooted toward her. “Amber, sweetie. Don’t you think this might be a ploy? Like a ‘hard-to-get’ deal? This isn’t for real, is it?” She pointed to the workbook. “I mean, on a first date? A marriage counselor?”

  Amber sighed, looking away. “I know. He’s quirky.”

  “There’s quirky, and then above that there’s peculiar, then odd, then Clay.”

  “You don’t know him like I do.”

  “What do you really know about him, huh? He can fix things. So could Ted Bundy.” Carol looked at her, sighed. “You really like this guy?”

  “I . . . I don’t know yet. I’m getting there. I mean, so far what I’ve been looking for in men hasn’t worked out so well. It’s kind of refreshing to know a well-mannered guy.”

  Carol pushed her playfully. “What do I know, right? Shoot, I married Cupcake, so don’t listen to me!”

  “We’ve got another date this Saturday,” Amber said.

  Trish came back in. “Let me guess. To the DMV to test how well you parallel park?”

  Amber smiled. No . . . something a little more romantic than that.

  The week crawled by, but Saturday finally arrived. Clay was right on time at noon, as she expected him to be. She stood behind the screen door and watched him l
ook down at the shoe box sitting on the stoop.

  He picked it up and read what she had written on top. “‘Choose.’” He glanced at her. “Ultimatums already?”

  She laughed. “Inside the box, silly.”

  He lifted the lid and peeked inside. “Scraps of paper, folded in half. Mysterious. Or we’re doing crafts. I’m terrible with glitter.”

  “Pick just one.”

  “Okay.”

  He reached in, pulled one out, opened it, and raised his eyebrows. “The hardware store?”

  “Come on! No time to waste!”

  The hardware store was just around the corner from the antique store. It took them more time to park than it did to drive there. Clay kept glancing at her like he was dying to know what was going on.

  “Aisle three,” Amber said as they walked in.

  He obeyed, then stood with his hands in his pockets, surveying the aisle. “Axes?”

  “Well, you’re awfully hard to seduce, so I’m having to take extreme measures.”

  He gave her a smirk. She liked his smirks.

  “I knew you’d be the death of me,” he said.

  “Come on, pick something. Anything sharp.” She posed in front of them like Vanna White.

  “You’re truly scaring me,” he laughed.

  “I know. It’s kind of fun to watch.”

  An hour later, after a quick and mysterious stop at the grocery store, they were at Atwood Lake. She’d discovered this beautiful place the day after she arrived, when she was looking for interesting places and things to do. Clay carried two large logs from the truck. Amber pretended to search for twigs, but she wanted to watch him. He was a curious soul, but she thought if she could just observe for a while, in a different environment, maybe she’d find what made him tick.

  He dumped the logs by the rustic fire pit, grabbed his brand-spanking-new splitting maul, and started chopping. Amber forgot she was supposed to be pretending to get twigs. He caught her watching but she couldn’t even get herself to look away.

  Clay struck a mountain man pose, making her giggle.

  She started picking up twigs again, somehow making her way right next to him. “Why don’t you let me give that a try,” she said.

  He stopped midswing. “Seriously?”

  “What? You don’t think a girl can swing an ax?”

  “I don’t think a girl who has a cat and a penny jar and antihistamines on hand can swing an ax.”

  “Cash jar. And I bought those antihistamines just for you. Now, watch and learn.” She held the ax high overhead, for effect, and wobbled it a little, just to see what he would do. He looked on edge, braced himself. She laughed and decided she better cool it. He was already a bundle of nerves most of the time. She brought the ax down and split the log right in half.

  “Whoa!” Clay looked at her, wide-eyed.

  “Come with me,” she said. “I also make fire.”

  With a single piece of flint sparked against the steel rim of the fire pit, the flame caught.

  “Sparks are flying.” She smiled.

  “What’s in the bag?” he asked, pointing to the supersecret grocery sack she’d been teasing him with.

  She pulled out—with great flair and drama—a bag of marshmallows.

  “Perfect,” he said.

  Amber took a stick and stuck a marshmallow on the end, handing it to him. She did the same for her stick. Then held it to her mouth like a microphone. “Mr. Walsh, the world wants to know: when are you going to kiss her?”

  Like an eager reporter, she pushed the marshmallow into his face. He looked at the ground.

  She dipped the marshmallow into the pit and caught it on fire, glowing as orange as a pumpkin.

  “No comment?” she asked, the marshmallow now ablaze in front of his face.

  “You’re incorrigible.”

  “I know. And thank you. How do you like your marshmallows?”

  “Burned to a crisp. You?”

  “Melty and warm, smooshed together and enveloped in the arms of the chocolate, all under the safe covering of a graham cracker.” She grinned. “Yum.”

  He laughed, shook his head, and scorched the daylights out of his marshmallow.

  Two hours drifted by like fifteen minutes. They did less talking than she expected. But he was more playful than she thought. They swung on the monkey bars at the nearby playground. They walked along the lake, throwing stones. He pointed out all the native trees. They watched the kayakers.

  And he never once touched her.

  What she wouldn’t give for a . . . what? What exactly did she want from him?

  “Well,” she said after they’d returned to the fire pit and had their share of marshmallows, “we should go.”

  “Oh?” He looked surprised.

  “I’ve got plans for later. But first we have to go parking. No lake is without the perfect spot for making out in a car.” She pointed her finger at him. “And don’t tell me for a second you don’t know where it is.”

  He smiled but lost a bit of color in his cheeks.

  “I’m kidding. I’m actually taking you to an emotional self-defense class. I believe you’ll qualify right away as a black belt.” Amber winked and he chuckled, shaking his head at her, his messy hair falling over one eyebrow.

  Once in the truck, with the windows rolled down, he drove them north, around the east side of the lake. It was quiet once again. He wasn’t much for small talk, which she appreciated. She wasn’t either. But even with all the fun they’d managed to have, there was still this massive wall between them. It was like he was untouchable. Or she was. One of them definitely was. Communicable-disease untouchable.

  “May I?” She reached for the radio. He nodded.

  Amber scanned through the stations. Country? No. Hip-hop? No. A radio preacher?

  “‘. . . because by one sacrifice he has made perfect forever those who are being made holy.’” Loud and punctuated by a nice Southern accent.

  “What about this one? Huh?”

  Clay laughed. “Keep going.”

  She hit heavy metal, Latin, opera, classical, and then . . .

  “There is only one thing—and I’m talking only one thing—that, without fail, no red-blooded woman alive on this planet or any other can resist. Are you listening? Indifference.”

  Amber growled. “Lucky Chucky. Spare me.”

  Clay looked sideways at her. “I’m sorry. Did you say something?”

  She laughed. His sense of humor always caught her by surprise.

  “Who are you again?” he continued, eyes on the road once more but a hint of a smile breaking through.

  “Oh, you are so hot.” She playfully punched him in the arm.

  “Yes, I am.” He pointed to the radio. “By the way, that man knows what he’s talking about.”

  She groaned again. “Please.”

  “Zach from Collegedale, what can I do for you?”

  “Oh, Zach, please, for the love of all things good, hang up,” Amber begged.

  “Yeah, um, I’m turning twenty-one next week, and me and all my buds are going to be embarking upon a major bar crawl, so—”

  “Get to the point, Zach.”

  “Yeah, Zach,” Amber said, sticking her elbow out the window.

  “So if I walk up to some female standing in a group of other females at a club, what’s the most effective way to pick up the first female?”

  “Hit on her friends. Next caller.”

  Clay reached for the dial and shut the radio off. “Come on. It’s workbook time.”

  “You really like this book, don’t you?” Amber asked. They sat on the bottom stair, right below her apartment window.

  Clay didn’t know. Maybe he did; maybe he didn’t. But he knew that he liked to ask her questions. And he liked to watch her answer them. And maybe, when it came down to it, he could use help in learning how to talk to a woman in a real way. In the old days, he spoke the secret language with little effort—but he did not know the language now.<
br />
  This was . . . different. And admittedly, he was really bad at it. But he knew if this was going to turn out to be even close to what he hoped for, they were going to have to have some real conversation. He was going to have to broach some tough subjects.

  She was busy filling out her workbook when he blurted out, “I know him.”

  “Who?”

  “Lucky Chucky.”

  Amber laughed like it was a punch line. Clay bit his lip, hoping she would figure out it wasn’t. She did. Pretty fast too.

  “David does too.”

  She closed her workbook. “You and David are friends with Lucky Chucky?”

  “Brad is his real name.”

  “Not sure he deserves a real name, but okay.” She shook her head. “I’m honestly not making the connection.”

  “When I didn’t want to play frat boy anymore, he and David were the only ones that stuck around. Everybody else walked.”

  “I see. Loyalty is big to you.”

  “He’s a victim.”

  “Please.” Amber rolled her eyes.

  “Hear me out.”

  “All right,” she said, propping her chin up with her hand.

  Clay tried to think how to explain it. “It’s like this. He’s the kind of guy that has always gotten away with everything, but only because people let him. Is that his fault? He’s a product of the system.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “Just like I used to be.”

  “Before you ‘saw the light’?”

  “Became a ‘religioso.’”

  She laughed like it was all too absurd to imagine. “But you were never like that.”

  He could do nothing but try not to let the regret spill onto his lap.

  She looked him over. “No. You were never . . . Anyway. Lucky Chucky. If I have to say his name one more time, I’m going to gag.”

  “You’re the one that turned the radio on, not me.”

  She picked up her workbook and flipped the page. “‘Do you like each other’s friends?’ Definitely yellow light. And I’m being kind because I want to say red light.”

  Clay flipped to the page, trying to find where she was reading. She was always jumping all over the place.

  “Speaking of friends, you’re meeting my family tonight.”