Old Fashioned

by Rene Gutteridge

  He imagined the two of them as husband and wife. Cooking and fighting over how much salt to add. Hiking on a Sunday after they’d finished cleaning out the garage. Going to look for a good vehicle—a better, more reliable one.

  He saw himself standing next to a black minivan, last year’s model. And there she was, eyeing the red convertible.

  And then, awash in morning sunlight, waking up in his bed.

  He swallowed and chased the thoughts away.

  “Come on.” Amber looked at Trish, then at Carol. Trish was blowing up balloons. Carol tied ribbon. “I want your real thoughts. Be honest.”

  Carol looked as if she was trying to carefully consider it. “The two of you seem so different, that’s all.” She paused, the kind of pause that is less comma, more exclamation point. “He’s different.” She cast Amber a look that said, Please tell me you know that.

  “I know.”

  “You could do so much better, Amber. Truly,” Trish said.

  Amber thought about church the day before. She’d never felt more comfortable in her life. More safe. “He held my hand in church yesterday.” She glanced between the two of them. “It felt like home.”

  Trish let out an exasperated sigh so loud that it sounded like she’d let go of a balloon. “Amber. People get that kind of feeling from holding hands when they’re in fifth grade behind the gym. You know?”

  “Home, Trish. What’s better than that?”

  Carol kept snipping ribbon, but the snips got louder. And faster.

  Amber decided there was no use trying to persuade them. She knew what she knew. There was something special about this man, something that resonated beyond the typical chemistry she’d measured so many relationships by.

  “I’ve been debating,” Carol said. Her face was tight with concern. And she’d picked up a DVD case.

  “What?”

  She handed the DVD to Amber like a doctor might hand over bad test results.

  Trish peeked over Amber’s shoulder to look. “Cool! I’ve always wanted to be in one of those!”

  College Coeds X-Posed. On the cover of the DVD were scantily clad women in bikinis, holding up beer bottles and screaming at the camera. In stark contrast to that chaos was the background, a beautiful beach everyone seemed to be ignoring.

  “Why are you giving this to me?” Amber asked.

  “Check out the name of the producer,” Carol said somberly.

  Amber turned the case over. Her attention was instantly drawn to his name. Clay Walsh.

  “You should watch that sometime,” Carol said flatly, then started snipping ribbon again.

  Amber set it down on the counter. She didn’t even want to touch it. “I don’t need to. It doesn’t matter. The man who made this? He’s gone. Never even met him. And I never—”

  Suddenly the door chimed and Trish, gaping at whoever had come in, let go of the balloon she was blowing up. It shot up and around the room, forcing everyone to dodge it. Carol and Amber turned to see who Trish was gawking at.

  She stepped in front of both of them to get to the cash register. “What can we do to you? For you?”

  A man, casually dressed, his hair slicked back a little heavily with gel, walked to the counter. He flashed an appreciative smile at Trish.

  “She’s on medication,” Carol growled, heading into the back room. “She doesn’t know what she’s saying.”

  “I know exactly what I’m saying,” Trish purred.

  Amber watched the guy. Good-looking. Cocky. You could tell by the way he walked that he was a player. Within a couple of seconds, she knew, he had everything and everyone in the room sized up.

  “I just need to get some flowers.”

  Trish had seemingly lost her words. She just stood there grinning like a hyena.

  Amber cleared her throat. “Sure. What would you like?”

  “They’re for . . . an old friend.”

  Trish elbowed back in and Amber stepped out of her way. “We have a new selection of passionflowers. In the back. I could show you.” She leaned on the counter, squeezed her elbows in to create the ever-so-popular cleavage pose.

  Amber was about to turn away. She didn’t want to see this train wreck. But the guy looked at her and said, “I was thinking roses?”

  Trish was still gushing, so Amber nodded. “Sure. What color?”

  “Um . . . not sure.”

  She thought for a second. “White roses are always safe.”

  “Perfect.”

  “Give me five minutes.”

  Trish started the small talk, but Amber could feel the man watching her.

  “Take your time,” he called. She smiled politely, gathered what she needed, listened to Trish introduce herself.

  “Looks like you almost know what you’re doing,” he said, once again to Amber.

  “Thanks.” He was still watching her. “What?”

  Then the casual lean on the counter. The wide smile. The total disregard for Trish, inches away from him.

  Amber snipped the end of one of the roses. “I’m taken.”

  At that exact moment Trish popped a balloon, startling everyone. She tilted her head, running a finger along the edge of her bangs. “I’m not.”

  “Trish, can you get me that box of note cards?” Amber wondered if the girl could make any more of a fool out of herself, except maybe by jumping straight over the counter and into his arms. Someone had to save her from herself.

  “Sure.” Trish trudged out.

  Amber wrapped the bouquet and tied it carefully. “Trish is just getting the cards so you can write something—”

  “Doesn’t this say it all?” the guy asked.

  Amber offered a tight smile, looking him directly in the eye. “Guess it depends on the girl.” She handed him the flowers.

  He plunked two twenties on the counter. “Go buy yourself something special.” And out he walked.

  Trish rushed back in, looking for him, suddenly as deflated as the balloon resting on the counter. “What happened? Where’d he go?”

  “Trish, that’s not the kind of guy you want to mess around with.”

  “You’ve got Stiff as a Board. I’ve got Fluid as Water.”

  “He’s smooth—you’re right about that. Too smooth.”

  “There’s no such thing.”

  “He’s a player. Can’t you see that?”

  Trish turned to her. “You don’t think I see?”

  “I don’t know. You’re kind of throwing yourself all over this guy.”

  “I’m just trying to find some fun in life. Enjoy it.”

  Amber relented, let the argument go. If Trish wanted to live out a beer commercial, that was her decision. She pushed one of the twenties toward her and put the other in the cash register.

  “What’s this?”

  “He said to go buy yourself something special.”

  Trish squealed all the way to the back room.

  Carol returned, rolling her eyes at the absurdity. “I’ll give you this: you’re a bit more of a straight thinker than Betty Boop back there.”

  Amber smiled. “I understand her. The attention—it’s sometimes . . . intoxicating.”

  “Just remember. There’s always the hangover.” Carol started counting the money in the cash register. “You seeing Straight Laced tonight?”

  “No. He’s got a bachelor party to go to.”

  Carol raised an eyebrow. “Straight Laced just got crooked?”

  “He has to go. It’s one of his best friends.”

  Carol bit her lip, closed the register, and walked over to where Amber was cleaning up stems. “Honey, you know that . . . um, bachelor parties are . . .”

  “I know what you’re going to say. Nothing good happens after eleven.”

  “Well, no, I would never say that. But generally, yes, that’s true—except it’s more like 1 a.m.”

  “I know him, Carol. Nothing’s going to happen. He’s a good guy.”

  “He’s still a man. Just remembe
r that.”

  “They’re still out there, you know—the good ones.”

  “If you say so.”

  Clay would be fine. He always was.

  David checked his watch. “Where is he?”

  Clay was observing the architecture of the hotel. “We probably don’t want to know.”

  “Dude. It’s my bachelor party. I mean, if there is one thing the guy is not going to be late to, surely it’s a bachelor party.”

  Just then they heard the squeal of tires, high and piercing like a pig being slaughtered. Racing around the corner was the familiar-looking yellow Mustang, a white, smoky curtain hanging behind it. Multiple Mardi Gras beads swung from the rearview mirror, but only one girl this time. Brad was in the passenger seat, throwing peace signs up as the car screeched to a halt. On the dashboard a bouquet of white roses slid to the right as the car stopped.

  David and Clay exchanged glances and David groaned. “White roses. Really. That’s an insult to white,” he whispered.

  Brad jumped out, dressed like the West Coaster he’d recently become.

  “About time,” Clay said. “We’ve got dinner reservations at 8:30.”

  “Clay,” Brad said, putting his arms around both guys’ shoulders as they walked into the hotel, “this is not that kind of night. This is the kind of night where you relax.”

  “Let’s not ask the impossible,” David laughed, winking at him. “Come on, the party’s started upstairs and I’m not even at it!”

  Brad had booked a suite at what he called the “hotel of many memories,” and it was already crowded with ten guys, some of whom Clay knew. Five of them had been good college buddies who had walked away, trashing his name as they went. But it had been nine years, and he supposed time healed some things.

  He managed his way through a few conversations, idle chatter mostly. Brad, thankfully, took up most of the attention. He was still the life of the party. Still knew how to get everyone going. Fifteen minutes in, it was loud and rowdy and everything a bachelor party usually was.

  Clay checked his watch. Ten more minutes and they could leave for the restaurant. That had been his job: to find a good restaurant. He already knew David’s favorite steakhouse. It wasn’t hard—red meat, beer, and some good-looking bartenders.

  Mostly, Clay thought about Amber. He couldn’t get her sweet smile out of his mind. He couldn’t shake the idea of her at his house . . . all the time. Reading. Drinking tea on the porch. Going crazy and trying for some cucumbers in the garden.

  Clay stood at the large window that overlooked the city, staring past his own reflection in the glass, when Brad passed by to the bathroom area.

  He leaned into the mirror, adjusting his vest, primping his hair. “So . . . when do I get to meet her?” he asked, watching Clay from the mirror.

  “You don’t.”

  “She have a name?”

  “Yeah. It’s whatserface.”

  Brad laughed, raised his beer to Clay. “She coming to the wedding?”

  “You about ready, pretty boy? Dinner’s at 8:30.”

  “Yeah, you already said that.”

  David stepped to the window. “Look, the limos are here.” He turned to Brad. “Aren’t you gorgeous enough yet? We’re hungry. Who wants some red meat?”

  The rest of the guys hollered in agreement and the rowdiness picked back up, until there was a loud knock at the door. Everyone quieted.

  “Hotel security. We’re getting complaints about the noise. Open the door.”

  Brad settled everyone down. “Just play it cool, okay?” He cracked open the door.

  A large, burly security guard walked in, eyeing everyone, followed by the hotel manager, who looked equally perturbed.

  “Which one of you is the registered guest?” she asked.

  Brad pointed to David. “He is.”

  “Oh no you don’t,” David said. “It’s under his name.”

  But the security guard walked up to David. “Sir. I need you to take a seat please.”

  David looked genuinely confused. They all did. Until suddenly the hotel manager took off her scarf. Then unbuttoned the sleeve on her white blouse.

  “David,” she purred, “sit down.”

  The security guard pulled a chair to the center of the room. An alarmed look passed over David’s face and right into Clay’s heart. Brad smiled and shrugged, and then the guys started chanting for David to sit down. Reluctantly he did.

  Clay caught David’s attention. “David, please. Don’t do this.”

  The woman circled the chair in five-inch heels. Clay looked at Brad, pointed at him. “Open that door.”

  The woman’s long red nails fingered the top button of her blouse.

  With a smirk and a glint of anger in his eyes, Brad dead-bolted the door. Then flipped the safety lock.

  The woman was untucking her shirt. Clay moved into David’s line of sight. “Think about Lisa. About Cosie. Cosie.”

  David swallowed hard, one minute glancing at all his cheering buddies, the next looking at Clay with a bead of sweat on his brow.

  Brad made his way into the center of the room, his face blistering. “This doesn’t hurt them. Grow up, Clay. What’s the big deal? This is what men do. What a man does. You’re pathetic, you know that?” He looked around the room and in a louder-than-necessary voice said, “Does anyone else have a problem with this?”

  Adamant nos. The woman had frozen, half her blouse undone, one leg hiked up on the corner of the chair, her eyes darting back and forth.

  Brad stomped to the door and unlocked it. He yanked it open, but his tone had cooled, just like his glare. “You want to go, Clay? You go. The rest of us are going to stay and enjoy the interrogation.”

  The room closed in on him. Everyone stared. Hard. David looked at the floor.

  Clay took a deep breath, steadied himself, and walked out the door. It slammed behind him.

  But he could still hear the boos.

  Amber tried music, but she wasn’t feeling it tonight. She finished unpacking the groceries and for a moment thought about breaking something. What was left? The thermostat maybe?

  On the counter rested the new Bible she’d picked up for herself. The translucent pages still fascinated her. She flipped through it. Where does one begin? she wondered.

  She wandered over to the bulletin board and stared for a long time at the rainbow tacked to the bottom. It had been a source of comfort to her for so long. A symbol of hope that there was some kind of treasure at the end of it for her, someday, somewhere.

  But she knew the truth—behind the rainbow was a lot of fantasy, a lot of myth that she’d bought into. She slowly untacked the drawing from the board, and the photograph that hid behind it fell to the ground, sliding across the floor with a hissing sound, coming to rest at the corner of the couch. She didn’t touch it but stood over it. Though she didn’t even need to see it because she knew it by heart.

  She’d never felt prettier before or since that photograph was taken.

  The wedding dress had been the find of the century, eighty dollars at a Goodwill store. The very idea of how she found her dress was like a sign that she should marry him. They had little money but were inseparable.

  The strapless gown had hand-beaded floral lace details, a break-front skirt, and a long train. She could still hear the sounds of the day: his little nieces and nephews running around and laughing at the reception, the helicopter that disrupted the ceremony briefly, the way he whispered in her ear that he loved her.

  She swiped the tears from her face before they dripped off her chin. Where her parents had failed, she’d always vowed to succeed. She believed in true love. She believed that love triumphed over all.

  Amber stooped to the ground, right over the photograph, tilting her head to look at it more clearly. With delicate fingers, she picked it up. Within a second, she’d ripped the photograph in two, right down the middle. She remained in the left half, still dazzling in that dress. She brushed the hair out
of her face, pinned herself back on the board, and put the rainbow over the photo. She tacked the leaf she’d saved from her “date” with Clay next to the rainbow, next to the bride who might never be again.

  The other half of the photograph went down the well-working garbage disposal.

  Then Amber went to her bed, lay down, clutched the edge of her pillow, and let the tears come.

  Clay stood in the street, clawing through his hair, his heart primitive and wild inside his chest. He heard footsteps behind him.

  He’d known Brad would come after him. He always did after they had a falling-out. But it was never pretty. And it was never to set things straight.

  “You owe me two hundred bucks!” Brad yelled.

  Clay stepped back to get better footing. He knew Brad well enough to know there was probably a fight coming.

  “What?” Brad said, anger dulling the flashy grin he wore like an accessory. “I didn’t realize I needed your permission, O holy one.”

  The two of them stood there on the darkened pavement, chests heaving. Then Clay turned. Started walking.

  “Taking your toys and going home, right on cue,” Brad yelled after him.

  Clay stopped. That old feeling—like a foot on his chest, like fire up his neck—returned instantly, as if it hadn’t been gone for nearly a decade. He swallowed, breathed, tried not to listen.

  “So noble,” Brad sneered. His tone dripped with the resentment of dozens and dozens of unspoken words. “So . . . superior. We bow before thee.”

  Clay finally turned, struggling to keep the emotion, both the anger and the hurt, from boiling over.

  Brad threw his hands up. “You’re an inspiration to us all. As always.” He laughed, the kind of laugh that Clay had heard a thousand times, usually reserved for the women left in Brad’s trail of indifference.

  He wanted to punch him. Just swing right into his face, right into that stupid mouth of his. But even as he balled up his fist, he realized he couldn’t.

  Brad really thought that what happened in that hotel room was harmless.

  He didn’t understand anything Clay believed in. To Brad, it probably seemed as if an alien had one day come down and abducted his friend and returned with an unknown being.