The River In Spring

by Leslie Pike

  “Is that who raised you?”

  “Yes.”

  I examine the foot and its ability to rotate. Only his clenched teeth give him away.

  “That hurt? Right?”

  “Just a little. Think I just need to rest it tonight. It’ll be fine tomorrow. Thank you, Dove.”

  “Yeah. I don’t think you’re completely out of commission. Just temporarily hobbled. Nice feet, by the way.”

  The surprised expression on his face turns to embarrassment. But it doesn’t stop the man from getting sassy.

  “Well thank you. I hadn’t planned on showing you my naked foot for at least another month.”

  I rarely feel shy. But this is how it feels. Shy and happy at the same time.

  “Listen,” he says, sitting up straighter. “It would be great if you would join me for lunch, out on the patio. I’d like to at least thank you with a meal before you get back to wrestling a bear or whatever you have planned for the rest of the day.”

  It takes one point two seconds to consider the offer. My wide smile answers.

  “I’d enjoy that. But let me help you up.”

  “Hand me that walking stick by the fireplace. The parents brought it back for me from one of their trips.”

  I retrieve the tall carved stick and help him upright.

  “Do you like lasagna? I made some last night.”

  This guy is a constant surprise. What else is he good at?

  * * *

  A half hour later, we are under the Montana sky, enjoying a feast. A big romaine salad made with tomatoes from his garden pairs perfectly with the pasta. He added avocado, dried cranberries, and candied walnuts to top it off. Who is this guy that uses candied walnuts? The men I’m used to have been more the order out types. Musicians have their art on the mind almost all the time. You’re lucky to get a plate and a paper towel napkin.

  Leaning back in his chair he looks at me and smiles. “I bet you’re the kind of girl who sees dragons in the clouds.”

  “I am that girl.”

  “Tell me Dove, what are some of the things you like?”

  I could think of a hundred right off the top of my head. But let’s make this interesting.

  “I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours.”

  “Done.”

  “Old books.”

  “New books.” He smiles.

  “Breakfast for dinner.”

  “Yeah, me too.”

  “Sunrise.”

  “Sunset. But both can be beautiful with the right person.”

  “Songs that get me.”

  He thinks for a moment. “People that get me. This is fun.”

  “Clean fresh sheets.”

  “God, yes.”

  “Here’s a good one,” I say, leaning in. “Change.”

  He doesn’t skip a beat. “Stability. The familiar.”

  We pause to soak in the revealing information about the other. I look around us at the colorful landscape.

  “Flowers of all kind.”

  He pauses for effect. “Sycamore trees.”

  “Sycamore trees,” I say in agreement.

  “Let’s have a toast,” he proposes, raising a glass of lemonade.

  “What shall we drink to?”

  “How about weak tree branches?” A gorgeous smile accompanies the words. Talk about feeling weak. That would be my knees.

  The clinking of crystal seals our agreement. Sometimes the oddest detail in a day is the signpost on a new path.

  3

  Nobel

  “I would have given my left nut to see that!” Aargon says between forkfuls of chocolate cake with chocolate frosting.

  “Falling out of the tree wasn’t part of the plan, but I don’t regret it.”

  My father gives me a thumbs up. A big blue-sky afternoon has the birds singing, in our parents’ backyard patio. A hummingbird dive bombs my head then flies off to the feeder. It’s a good place for the family to enjoy my brother’s forty-sixth birthday. The menagerie of dogs running around the giant Oak reminds me of past celebrations and other dogs loved.

  Somehow we lucked out with pets. The Lyons won the even-tempered dog lotto. Even though when they are together, the dog cousins’ energies change. Like kids do whenever they gather. It’s a squad. They become their wild thing.

  If it was just Scarlett’s dog, that would be another story. Boo and Maudie are buds, and both have quieter dispositions. The Beagle/Whippet plays well with the Hound. But in this instance, leaving my dog at home was the right decision. Quiet time is more important than attending a dog rave.

  We sit around the long wooden table, where we have gathered a thousand times before. Feeding our faces and making each other laugh are favorite pastimes of the Lyons. But for the last two years memories of our collective heartache always take their place beside us. Fresh wounds still bleed on a regular basis. Maybe someday far into the future it will be easier to bear Kristen’s death. I hope so.

  For now, we try to be strong for each other. That’s the secret of surviving tragedy, I think. We have had to pretend for Sam’s sake most of all. Part of the pretense involves some sense of normalcy.

  We didn’t drop the ball this year. Aargon’s cake is a masterpiece. The Lyon kids’ tradition started when Aargon and I decided to make a cake for Van’s tenth birthday. That first one was epic. The best part was my mother was all for it. She actually thanked us for helping. Until she saw it that is.

  Unveiling it at his party was an important part of the joke. The little shit was always pissing us off and getting away with it, so we decided to send him a message. We baked a lopsided cake and wrote across it, Happy Birthday! You Are Ten and Have A Small Penis. He went crazy and cried. But in a twist, he proved us wrong a few years later during a pissing contest. His old friends still bring it up every so often.

  Besides getting punished for our creative outlet, it started a lifelong game where we try to up the last birthday cake. All the siblings confer and then decide on the perfect message. It has kind of morphed to include things my parents said to us as kids. The funny stuff. Kristen was the best at coming up with old memories. But together we dig deep.

  Today’s offering sits half-eaten, but the message is indelibly etched in our minds. When Van carried it out everyone busted up. It was something we heard my mother say one million times as we’d drive to school. And it was Aargon specific. At least at the beginning it was. He may have started it, but Van and I, Kristen and Scarlett picked up the ball and ran it into the ground. I can still see the frustration in my mother’s eyes in the rearview mirror. Whoever is singing the theme from Jaws is going to get slapped!

  Remnants of lunch and unwrapped presents crowd the table. Alongside Aargon’s plate, blue tissue paper, held down by a glass of champagne, bleeds onto a napkin. Being able to revisit your childhood home is something us kids love. Referring to yourself and your middle-aged siblings as kids is stretching believability. I have a feeling we will be “the kids” forever. None of us want our parents to ever move from here, and we’ve told them as much. We have even vowed revolt should they get the urge to sell and travel the world. Van promised to tie them to the Oak like he used to do for fun when he was six. Think he was only half-kidding.

  Aargon looks pleased with himself. It’s pretty rare to see him so chipper. His dry sense of humor is one of his best traits. I’ve never known an adult so glad to be having a birthday. Our mother did an excellent job of making us believe it was a special occasion for the world. I’m thinking it will be the same when he’s ninety. If he ever remarries, she better get onboard the birthday train.

  My falling out of a tree while spying on a woman has everyone surprised. That I told it shocks me more than them. It’s the story of the day, which gets me the title and a corner piece. The fact it does not sound like me makes the telling more interesting, especially to my siblings. And they don’t even know the good part. Naked details were conveniently left out.

  “You’re lucky she di
dn’t call the cops. What were you thinking?” my sister says, pointing to her head and laughing.

  “Pretty sure he was thinking with the other head, Scarlett,” Van says with an eye to Teddy and Sam, his sixteen-year-old teenage nephews.

  They both laugh at their favorite uncle. Think a little Coke snorted out Teddy’s nose. I remember how that burning sensation felt. The comment does not upset the women. Not an iota. When you are a household of three brothers and a father who says whatever comes to mind, nothing shocks.

  My father pushes his plate away and signals for more coffee as my mother circles the table pouring.

  “Magnifique! You did the right thing, son. A woman is attracted to a real man!” He lifts a tightened fist. “One who is bold. Am I right, Aurora?”

  My parents are odd. They actually like each other and have stayed in love for decades. It’s a high bar to reach. Aargon had it with Katie. Forget Van. He’d rather fuck every available woman who agrees to the suggestion. He will be a bachelor forever. Maybe into the next life. Only Scarlett has achieved the goal with Parish, and their relationship is relatively new. I haven’t even tried. The shallow end of the pool has been fine. Lust, infatuation, friendship, but never love. Not as I saw it in our home. Not as it still resides there. What’s the rush?

  “Gaston, I couldn’t have said it better. Be bold, children. Look what it did for your father and I.” She ends with a kiss to dad’s head as the coffee is poured. He answers with a spank to her ass.

  “Oh!” She chuckles. He probably has spanked that ass a million times over the course of their relationship. But she still acts surprised, and he likes the reaction.

  It starts a whole conversation about how they met in France, when my mother was traveling through as a young woman. Boldness factored greatly into their beginning. On both sides. We all have heard the stories of my grandparents’ pushback when they learned their brilliant daughter, with a chemical engineering degree, had fallen for a poor French artist without a pot to piss in. My God, Aurora! I can hear my grandmother’s plea to the heavens as she retold the story.

  Then when they saw the new boyfriend, how their fears multiplied. His hair was halfway down his back and wild. According to my mother he was sexier than a bohemian Oliver Reed. I had to be shown a picture to know who the hell that was. Then I got it. The grandparents were no match for that kind of smoldering energy. Us kids could repeat every story of their meeting word for word. But it doesn’t mean we don’t enjoy hearing it again.

  “So tell us about the lucky girl at the river,” my biased mother says. “Was she touching her hair when you were talking?”

  Sam and Teddy look confused. I explain.

  “Body language. It’s like a “tell” in poker,” I say. “No. I didn’t notice her doing that.”

  “What does she look like?” Van asks.

  “Blonde long hair, brown eyes. She’s about 5’ 3”, but her confidence is 6’4.”

  “Nice. Does she have a sister?”

  Van is always on the lookout for new contestants in his game of Anything But Love. He chooses women like himself. Neither party interested in the long-term. He currently is in between women, but that won’t last. Not just because the ladies like whatever he’s got, but because he can’t go without female companionship for long. His dick would fall off.

  “I don’t think she has siblings. Her grandparents raised her. I don’t know the entire story yet.”

  The table takes a pause in conversation.

  “Yet?” my mother says.

  There’s trouble keeping my interest hidden. No one here is fooled by my attempt at coolness, least of all me. I’ve kept details of any relationship I’ve ever had mostly to myself. Why did I just think “relationship”?

  “We’re going out tomorrow night,” I say, hoping it’s the end of conversation on the subject.

  That starts a whole thing. I just sit back and watch as each person digests the news. My membership in The Loner Club is in danger of being revoked. Rarely, if ever, do I talk about a woman I’m dating. It’s been like pulling teeth for a family that thrives on conversation. To the person, they love sticking their noses in each other’s business.

  “You asked her out after falling from a tree spying?” Aargon says. “And she said yes?”

  “She wants some of that.” Van chuckles.

  “That’s about as bold as a man can get!” My father looks proud. “It’s in our DNA, boys,” he says, aiming his comment to his grandchildren.

  “We came back to the house and had lunch out on the deck.”

  I knew that one was going to hit the mark, but I couldn’t help myself. Dropping bombs can be fun. Stunned faces look at me like I’ve become an alien. My mother’s hand on my shoulder says more than words.

  “Don’t get excited, Mom.”

  A wave of her hand dismisses my comeback and quells further comment.

  “You took her to the house?” Van says. There’s a hint of doubt in his voice, as if such an unbelievable fact has to be challenged.

  “Are we being punked?” Scarlett asks.

  “Where are you going to take her? Fletcher’s Steak House? Mangione’s?”

  I let everyone get it out of their systems before I answer.

  “She’s a singer/songwriter in a band. There’s a performance tonight, so we’ll grab something afterwards.”

  This new information gets them excited. Again. Shit. Here come the questions.

  “How awesome! Where are they playing?”

  “What’s her name? How about the band? What are they called?”

  “Her name is Dove, and I swear to God, if any of you figure out where and show up, it will piss me off.”

  I’m interrupted by my sister’s squeal. “Oh my God, Nobel! We know her! She’s the lead singer with Montana! How many people have that name?”

  Scarlett punches her fiancé in the arm for emphasis. “Can you believe this?” she asks him.

  “I’m as surprised as the rest of you. But good for you, Nobel,” Parish says.

  I’m the one surprised.

  “How do you know her?”

  “Your sister may be exaggerating a little. We don’t actually know her.”

  “We had a conversation after one of her shows last month,” Scarlett says. “She is so talented. You’ll see. Ha! This is really cool! You make a great looking couple!”

  Van gets the bad boy look on his face. “Have her sing to you.”

  When all eyes look to him, he adds, “What? I went out with a girl that could sing.”

  My chair scrapes the ground as I rise. “It’s been great, but I’m headed out.”

  “No! Stay a little longer. We will stop the questioning,” Dad says.

  That’s impossible for the Lyons. Not my father nor anyone here are able to deliver on that one.

  “Thanks for the meal, Mom. Happy birthday, brother. Are you old yet?”

  It’s the question I’ve asked Aargon every birthday. Being two years younger meant more back in the day. I figured my big brother would tell me when he was grown up. Then I’d only have two years to wait. Now it’s turned poignant as we get closer to leaving youth behind permanently. It’s stretching the truth to say it hasn’t already happened.

  “Almost. Maybe by next year,” he answers, not skipping a beat.

  My relationship with my siblings has always been either, ‘I’ll help you hide the body’, or ‘don’t even breath in my direction’.

  Their protests and promises fade behind me as I leave their company. Did I say too much? Yeah, I did.

  * * *

  I should have called, but I didn’t want to give her the opportunity to cancel. Now, as I approach McCandy’s, it’s real. The billboard shows her smiling broadly as four band members surround her. Montana. That’s a good name for a band. All younger than me by at least fifteen years. The guy with his hand on her shoulder is good looking. I hate him already.

  People are waiting to get inside. There doesn’t seem
to be a certain type. I see young bucks and seniors. Couples and singles. A few cowboy hats. Maybe they’re a country band. The cold is not a deterrent. Passing the entry, I take my place at the end of the line. Shit. I thought I’d just walk in. Hope I left myself enough time.

  Vapor rises from the mouths of people talking. A spring cold front has descended. Girls wrap their arms through the arms of their companions, and more than one person is rubbing hands together for warmth. The two girls in front of me turn.

  “Have you seen them before?” the redhead with a green knit cap asks.

  “No. This will be a first.” I smile.

  “See! I told you,” her young companion says.

  My confused expression prompts the redhead to explain.

  “We were playing this game we do every week. We try to put a story to the people in line. You know, just to pass the time. We saw you coming.”

  “What’s mine?”

  “First clue is you’re alone. My friend here thinks it’s because you’re a talent scout, or an agent, and you want to see what all the buzz is about.”

  “What was your guess?” I ask the friend.

  A crooked grin preceeds the answer. “I think you just like to look at the singer. Right?”

  The line moves up.

  Just as I’m about to answer, the burly bouncer I passed at the entry walks up.

  “Are you Mr. Lyon?”

  It surprises. “Yes?”

  “Can I see your identification?”

  “What’s this about?”

  “There’s a table waiting.”

  The girls in front of me are listening to the conversation. The redhead elbows her friend and presses her lips together trying to squash a comment.

  “Yeah. Okay. Here.” I take out my license and show it to the Hulk.

  “Follow me,” he says, heading for the entry.

  It would not be wise to make eye contact with any of the people in line. It would piss me off too if it were me being cut ahead. Just one female voice is protesting. The bouncer and I ignore the angry words. He says something in the ear of the woman at the front desk, and she motions over the din for me to follow.