God, I hated this town. I hated every empty Traeburn smoke stack, every hungry face, and every dirty child. If you weren’t one of the Swedish or Scot or Irish immigrants who originally populated Plummer County, you came up from the poverty of Appalachia with the hopes that Traeburn would give you the false security of a job on the line.
Then, division after division, Traeburn had cut production. The combine division went first, then the small lawn tractors, all slowly disappearing, until every convenience store clerk and janitor had a story to tell about how life was when they were making $20 an hour welding the rear transaxle on some agricultural behemoth.
Jubilant Falls' unemployment doubled from the national average, and the county's infant mortality rate skyrocketed. Ironically, it seemed only the farmers and the folks who worked at Symington had any economic security.
I thought of a woman who was widowed when McNair Machine Tool fired her husband three weeks before his retirement. She had come home to find him hanging in the garage. She settled out of court, according to police reporter John Porter who did the story, but scuttlebutt in the newsroom was that someone had gotten to her, pushing her to take a measly settlement.
I hated my beat most of all, only because it glorified the small island of wealthy families who controlled Jubilant Falls. Living on the north side of town in what Jess scornfully called McMansions, ensconced in their country-club dances and their flashy cars, they held poetry readings and debutante balls while hunger and unemployment ran rampant through the town.
Through an accident of birth, Kay was part of that.
She had tried to escape it, throwing herself into causes of one kind or another. Apartheid was big for a while; after her divorce, it was battered women, abortion rights, then protesting American intervention in South American banana republics. She never stuck with them long enough to see them through. She had her mother's money to fall back on, although the relationship between the two women was far from cordial.
Kay and I still dated sporadically, after she turned down my proposal. I knew she was stringing me along until someone better came along, but I couldn't let her go.
Then came the day when she waltzed into the newsroom, saying that she met a pilot with the call sign of Bear, stationed with the test wing at Symington.
"He's such a big man, he says he can hardly fit into the cockpit, and that's why they call him that," she had gushed, the wild blue shining in her eyes.
"Huh?"
"Marcus, he's just so wonderful. A real hunk," she had babbled. "His name is Paul Armstrong."
"Sounds wonderful. Good-looking, courageous, tall, everything I’m not…and a frigging all-American hero to boot."
"Stop it."
Two weeks later, the phone rang. It was Kay.
"What are you doing Friday night?" she asked, trying to sound nonchalant. I could hear her fingers drumming on the kitchen counter in the background. Scarlett was never happy, unless she had a beau nearby.
"Anything you want, my dear."
"Dinner? Movie? What sounds good?" Her agitation increased.
"Either one—you can choose."
"Fine. You can pick me up at eight o'clock."
"So the pilot never called back, huh?"
She slammed the phone down, disconnecting us with a loud click. She was right; she couldn't live with anyone more sarcastic than she was.
She stayed all night. It was so good to hold her. I whispered, "I love you," into her red hair all night long. Kay held me tightly, but was silent.
In the morning, I woke before she did. I had converted the apartment’s other bedroom to a study and bought myself an old Underwood typewriter. I still held grand delusions then, forcing myself to spit out three pages a day on a novel that would later go up in smoke one drunk and sodden night. Like everything else in my life, it, too, would fail. But I didn't know that at the time. Dreaming of greatness and Papa Hemingway, I persisted.
Before long, Kay entered, that morning’s Journal-Gazette under her arm and a cup of coffee in her hands. I was too involved with my characters to do more than look up and smile. We sat silently, as the room filled with the typewriter's metallic clamor.
"Do you want some coffee?" she asked, after a while.
"Sure." Without looking up, I handed her my mug.
I don't know how long she was gone. My story had gotten away from me and a bad case of writer's euphoria was setting in, that wonderful high that must have prompted Thomas Wolfe to march down the street one evening, chanting ‘I wrote ten thousand words today, I wrote ten thousand words.’ I remember hearing Kay swear as the coffee pot shattered into the sink. The back door slammed, and, before I could catch her, she was gone.
For two weeks, I tried to call, but she was too busy to talk at work, or her answering machine was always on at home. I knocked on the door, but she never answered. What the hell happened?
When I finally nailed her down at work, I could see the wild, blue yonder in her eyes. She had fallen in love. Every sentence was Bear does this and Paul says that.
I said something about hairy backs and palms.
She showed me to the door.
It was six months before I saw her again, accidentally meeting her on the street.
"So, how are you and the colonel doing?" I asked.
"He's not a colonel, he's a captain," she laughed, but there was an edge to her voice. I pushed a little harder.
"I'm sorry," I drawled sarcastically. "How are you and Steve Canyon getting on?"
"Stop it."
I changed the subject. A few sentences later, we said goodbye. I walked away feeling as though my intestines were falling out onto the sidewalk.
In another few months, I received an engraved wedding invitation. No personal note, no phone calls the night they set the date. I thought I meant more to her than that. I declined to attend, on the grounds that I refused to play the old boyfriend at weddings. I spent the afternoon of the ceremony with my head cradled in my arms atop the Underwood. I had really lost her.
Now, seven years later, she was back. I wouldn't lose her this time.
* * *
Jess ran the story on Monday. When Kay's secretary put me right through to her office, I knew she liked it.
"Marcus, I loved it! You haven't lost your touch."
"Thank you. How about lunch at the Colonial Café? We can celebrate my journalistic expertise and your new job." I bounced my pencil nervously against my desk blotter calendar.
The Colonial was the basement restaurant in Jubilant Falls' only department store, Hawk's, on North Detroit Street. It was shadowy and overpriced, like most of the legal community who dined there daily, mainly because of its proximity to the courthouse across the street.
"Oh, today is pretty full, but I think tomorrow is open," Kay hesitated, and then rushed on. "Let me check my schedule and see. I'll have Barbara call you."
"Don't do that. This is friendship, not business."
"You're right. Tomorrow, then?"
"Yes. See you then."
The following day was filled with rain, a hard, driving downpour that brought the hot, July temperatures within tolerable limits. Kay was waiting behind the literacy center's heavy glass doors as I pulled up. I sheltered her with my umbrella, and together we ran for the car.
At the Colonial, we slipped into a discreet corner table. Kay surveyed the other diners from behind her menu.
"This town is too damn small," she whispered. "It figures that the first time I go out, I run into someone I rather not know."
"Who?"
"My mother's best friend, Lovey McNair. If we're lucky, she won't come over and ruin our lunch." Kay waved politely, a tense smile pasted on her face.
In the shadowy darkness, I could barely see the scar on her cheek. While time had given her the beginnings of crow's feet at the corners of her eyes, it had mercifully lightened that memento from her first marriage.
Kay sear
ched absently through her purse. "One of these days, I'm going to have to clean this thing out."
"What's that?" I pointed to an airmail envelope sticking out of the corner.
"A letter from Paul that I got today."
"And you're not going to read it?"
"No."
"Why not?"
She gave me a look that told me I was prying.
"Okay."
Abruptly, she stuffed the letter deeper into her bag. "Look, here comes the waitress. What do you think you're going to order? Is the cream of broccoli soup as good as it used to be?"
"Are you okay? Is everything okay with the major?"
"He's fine. Tell the waitress what you want for lunch, and then you can tell me what you've been doing with yourself these last few years." Kay gave the menu a cursory glance and slapped it shut. "I'll have the cream of broccoli soup and a salad please, with iced tea." Her smile was forced.
"Chef salad and tea. Kay, what's going on?"
"You know, it feels so strange to be back in my hometown again. It seems to change and not change. You know what I mean?" I let her steer me away from the letter into neutral territory. When our food came, the smile on her face became less strained, more genuine. The major, however, remained conspicuous, even in absentia.
"We'll have to do this again," Kay said. The waitress came to clear our plates, and we stood to leave. More at ease now, Kay slipped her arm through mine as we headed for the stairs.
"Yes, we will."
"Most everyone I grew up with doesn't live here anymore. They've all moved on to greener pastures. You're about the last person left that I know in town, besides Mother and her country club cronies." Kay made a face.
We reached the top of the stairs to the outside exit. I took her hands in mine and chastely kissed her cheek. "Then we'll have to get together even more frequently. You're still very special to me, Kay."
"Oh, Marcus."
There was a plodding of heavy feet on the stairs behind us. A woman cleared her throat.
"Kay Armstrong, however are you, my dear!" A heavy woman with fat feet spilling over the tops of her too-tight shoes lumbered to the top of the stairs. Her face was red from exertion. The deep blue, ostrich plume on her hat waved haphazardly in front of her, a wispy flag atop an overdressed and overweight battleship.
Kay jumped back a foot, scrambling for composure. "Lovey, so good to see you. I like you to meet my friend, Marcus Henning. Marcus, this is Mother's friend, and my landlady, Lovey McNair. Mr. McNair owns McNair Machine Tool."
I remembered the widow's story, and acid curdled in my stomach.
The battleship sized me up, over her half-glasses. "Pleased to meet you, Mr. Henning. You write for the paper, don't you? We do so enjoy your little stories about our tête-à-têtes at the country club." Her voice was icy, with perfect pear-shaped tones, resonant with privilege and superiority.
"Why thank you," I said. "Is McNair Machine still in the business of fleecing widows, or have you moved on to orphans now?"
"Marcus!" Kay was aghast.
The battleship took the hit broadside, her heavily made-up eyes blinking in shock. "Mr. Henning, I'm sure I don't know what you mean."
"But Mrs. McNair, I'm sure you do."
"Mr. Henning, I assure you the accounts of that poor man's suicide were completely fabricated by your compatriots for the sole purpose of making my husband's firm look bad! She received a generous settlement, simply to quiet the whole thing down." The USS McNair drew herself up to her full square height.
"Then all those shattered windows in that poor woman's house were from a Little League team run amok?"
"Lovey, I must apologize for all this," Kay broke in.
"No need, my dear. No need. I must say that I now understand why your dear mother was so relieved when you married Major Armstrong. It is so nice of you to remember your friends who have not been as fortunate as yourself in their climb up the ladder."
"You old bitch!" Kay snapped. Now it was Kay's turn to get angry. She opened her mouth to say more, but turned on her heel and ran out the door into the rain.
"Kay! Wait!" I ran after her, grabbing her elbow as I caught her at the corner.
"Take your hands off me! Don't you dare touch me!" She whirled around to slap my face. I deflected the blow with my arm. "I don't know what you're talking about, or what information you have, but you weren't on a story, Marcus. We were having lunch, plain and simple. Do you have to ruin everything?"
"Kay, I'm sorry, it's just that—" People on the street stopped to stare at us. I glared at them, until they averted their eyes and began walking again.
"Lovey's probably on the phone to my mother, right now." Kay ran her fingers through her red hair nervously. "By the time I get home tonight, Mother will have the whole story built up into some torrid affair! Do you realize what you've done?"
"I could live with an affair."
The force of her slap knocked me back a step. The rain on my face made it sting even more.
"Don't be so stupid, Marcus!"
"Jesus Christ, I was only kidding!"
"I wasn't! Get the hell away from me!" She turned sharply and began to run.
"Kay, please!"
Sensing I was close on her heels, she quickly hailed a taxi.
"Wait!"
The cab slid into traffic even before she had the door closed, the driver glaring at me as if to say, “Don’t try anything buddy.”
Thunder rolled overhead, sending the rain down in sheets. I pulled the collar of my raincoat close around my neck and walked miserably back to my car.
* * *
That night, I knocked on her door. The rain was still pouring. My head was drenched, and icy drops were running down my neck. I watched through the door as Kay tied a light seersucker robe around her as she came down the wide mahogany stairs. Her red hair was pulled back from her face with a brown plastic barrette. She recognized me in the cut glass of the heavy door and jerked the door open angrily.
"What do you want now, Marcus?"
"I wanted to apologize for the scene with Lovey McNair."
"You got me out of the tub." She ushered me in. "You could have called."
"I had to apologize to you in person."
The shell of The Perfect Hostess enveloped her. "I'm sorry. I'm not being very polite. I was pretty horrible, too. Give me your coat." She pointed toward two French doors to the right of the stairway. "The living room is right through there. Go on in and sit down. I'll hang this up where it can dry and make you an old-fashioned. That will warm you up."
"Sounds wonderful."
I made myself comfortable on the Federal blue couch, flanked on each end by antique butler tables and matching brass lamps. Two leather, wingback chairs sat squarely facing the couch from each side of a pale blue rug. In front of me, a polished Queen Anne table held a model jet fighter and an oversized book on Air Force history. Overhead, a large, restored crystal chandelier illuminated a black marble fireplace ornate with scrolls and swans.
The walls above and beside the mantel were filled with the major's achievements. Military medals were interspersed with photographs of his glory days on the Air Force Academy football team. Apparently the only thing the major needed to do was flash his perfect teeth and boyish good looks, and somebody at the Pentagon rewarded him for it. There were plaques from former squadrons and a photo of him shaking hands with Ronald Reagan, one gunslinger to another.
It was perfect, all too perfect, and as cold as the cover of a design magazine.
"My God," I said to myself.
"That's what Paul calls his ‘I love me’ wall. Impressive isn't it?" Kay padded across the living room and handed me my drink.
"I didn't come here to talk about Major Golden Boy."
"Paul. His name is Paul. He is not his rank." Kay curled into the opposite corner of the couch, playing with the maraschino cherry in her glass.
"
Yes, well, I came to apologize for what I said to you about having an affair. If you want me to apologize to McNair, I'll do that too."
Kay sipped her drink silently, shifting herself more comfortably into the blue corner.
"Would you like to try it again sometime?” I continued, desperately. “We'll do it right: dinner, not lunch, someplace out of town if you like. I'll make sure McNair is nowhere near the place, before we even walk in."
Kay's blue eyes softened. "Thank you. I accept the apology and the dinner invitation. Paul's letter had me a bit off center. I apologize for my behavior, too."
"Apology accepted. So what did the letter say, anyway?"
"I'm not ready to talk about that, just yet." Kay chased the cherry around the bottom of her drink, with her index finer. She wiggled her shoulders further back into the blue cushions, exposing the top of her bare thigh, and sucked the alcohol from her finger. My heart caught in my throat.
"Are things not well between you and the major?"
Kay ignored my question. "How's Jess?"
Once again, I let her lead me. "He's fine. He was surprised, when I told him that photo was you."
"I'm sure he was." Her voice low, Kay leaned forward and gently brushed my cheek with her lips.
I drew her to me and returned the kiss, once, twice, three times, savoring the taste of whiskey on her lips. When she didn't push away from me, I unfastened her barrette and buried my face in her hair, drinking in her sweet, clean perfume, exalted she would still want me.
"Hold me."
I couldn't believe it. Here was the dream I had waited for so long. I was holding my long-ago Kay James in my arms again. She tightened her hold around my neck, bringing her body completely against mine. We kissed once more.
"We shouldn't do this," she whispered into my neck.
"I know." I kissed her forehead, then her cheeks, her chin, and the hollow of her neck. Gently, the seersucker fabric parted, and my hand slipped tentatively over her warm breast. Beneath my fingers, I could feel her nipple harden as Kay inhaled in pleasure. Here she was, in my arms, and she obviously wanted me.
The Major's Wife (Jubilant Falls series Book 2) Page 2