Every Story is a Love Story

by John Moncure Wetterau

  Chapter 9

  Fifteen years later, on a November morning, two soccer teams faced each other across a lush green field. San Francisco Bay was distantly visible from the bleachers, blue shading to gray.

  “Go, Mustangs!” a dark haired woman in her prime said to a friend joining her. “Hi, Willow.”

  “Morning, Cree.” Willow set down a canvas tote bag and the two exchanged hugs. “Brrrr.”

  “I know.” Cree pointed at the boys who were running together as a whistle blew. “They get to keep warm.”

  “We do, too. Coffee.” Willow pulled a thermos from the bag. “Cocoa. Scones.”

  “Scones! Willow, you are too much.”

  “I am the mother of a Mustang,” Willow said. “God!”

  “We are wild; we conquer,” Cree said. “But this team is supposed to be tough. “Go, Bart!” she yelled.

  “I'm not supposed to cheer,” Willow said. “What do you think? Start with coffee?” She poured two cups. “I couldn't believe it when I saw you at the school.”

  “It's so weird,” Cree said. “It seems like yesterday we were sitting around in Woodstock. And then, in another way, it seems like forever.”

  “I brought you something.” Willow handed a sheet of paper to Cree. “Patrick got in touch with Gino last year, and Gino sent this to him. I copied it for you.”

  Aesthetic

  Muses too are easily bored

  and sometimes prefer a tickle

  to a grand assault.

  You have filled the cathedral with flowers;

  organist and choirmaster poised

  you stand there expectant

  dressed in your best suit.

  You may find that

  yawning, somnolent with incense,

  she has slipped away

  around the corner to a restaurant

  where a painter

  having sketched the

  waiter on a paper napkin

  uses it to blot the marinara sauce

  from his blue silk tie.

  Cree read and wrinkled her nose. “That's Gino, all right. I think he's happy in the Maine woods. His relationship is good. He doesn't make any money, but what else is new?” She shook her head. “Well, we got Bart made, anyway.”

  “Go, Bart!” Willow said. “So, how's your business?”

  “Every time I think it's going to die, it surprises me and comes back to life.”

  “Must be fun going to Italy on buying trips.”

  “It is fun sometimes. And deductible. How does Patrick like it at the university?”

  “He enjoys it,” Willow said. “He likes the research best, but he doesn't mind the teaching. The kids love him.”

  “Of course they do,” Cree said. “Now, I'm trying to remember—weren't you into music?”

  “I was. I mean, I am. I love it, but I don't perform or anything.”

  “Bart is pretty good on the piano. I'm thinking of changing to a better teacher.”

  “I grew up on lessons,” Willow said. “I think I had too many. When I was in Woodstock, I used to go up to AhnRee's and play his piano, try to write songs. I found that I couldn't. It was a great disappointment. It was like I was too grooved in the classical; I couldn't get loose, couldn't get away from it. I guess if I were really talented I would have blown it off and done my own thing.” She paused. “I wouldn't push it too hard. Nudge, maybe. Scone?”

  Cree's face lit up as she bit into the scone. “Mighty fine,” she said.

  “That's what I do best,” Willow said. “It's a wonder I can still see my feet. I'm starting a cafe in January.”

  “Spectacular! I'll be there. You look terrific. I'm the blimp. I'll think about the music lessons. Thanks, Willow.” They watched the Mustangs struggle. The other team was doing most of the attacking. “What's your little one like? ...Dylan?”

  “Right. After Bob,” Willow said. “He's more even tempered than Martin, but he's pretty intense. Quiet. He's got a thing for cats, which I take to be a good sign.” The attackers lined up for a corner kick. “What ever happened to Joe Burke?”

  “Oh, Joe.” Cree smiled. “He was something. He and Sally went to Hawaii to live, then they broke up. He's in Maine. They had a daughter. He's remarried, I think.”

  “He was interesting,” Willow said.

  “Yeah. If the situation had been a little different…” She raised one eyebrow. “I don't think he ever found a place where he fit in. The good old days,” Cree said. “When you showed up in Woodstock, you had a friend.”

  “Amber,” Willow said.

  “Wasn't she from the Bay Area?”

  “Yep—she's in Vancouver, Washington, now. She's a pediatrician. She married a developer with pots of money. They have two spoiled kids.”

  “She was gorgeous,” Cree said.

  “She's hanging in there,” Willow said. “A line of men was following her around in the mall the last time I saw her.”

  “Men.” Cree shook her head. “They come in handy at a picnic—as my mother used to say. You got the last good one. Patrick is a sweetie.”

  “As long as you put the pliers back. Jesus.” Willow said. There was a great commotion from the attackers as they ran back towards their own goal holding their arms in the air. Mustangs down, one-zip. “Oh, dear.”

  “We will conquer,” Cree said.

  “Martin's going to be upset. He's planning to be a World Cup goalie.”

  “He carries himself like Patrick. Where did the name come from?”

  “My father's name is Martin, and also…You've got to keep this to yourself.” Cree moved closer. “Do you remember Martin Merrill in Woodstock—lived on the Byrdcliffe Road, played banjo and fiddle?”

  “Sure,” Cree said. “He was around a lot. He had a glamorous mother, right?”

  “Right.” Willow sipped coffee. “One night, Patrick and I were in the Depresso—about a week before we left town. We'd decided to get married and move to Tallahassee so Patrick could go back to school. We were celebrating. Martin came in, and we told him our plans. He was happy about it and said he had a wedding present for us.

  “Patrick said to him, `Wedding present? All right! We don't even have a date.'

  “`Soon,' I said.

  “`Nobody knows,' Patrick said.

  “`My parents already fear the worst,' I said.

  “`I've got to call my father,' Patrick said.

  “Well, when Patrick said that, Martin leaned across the table. `You mean our father, don't you?' I thought Patrick was going to fall off his chair; his mouth opened and nothing came out. `Take it easy,' Martin said. `It's no big deal.'

  “`The hell it isn't,' Patrick finally got out.

  “`It is and it isn't,' Martin said.

  “`How did you know?' Patrick asked.

  “`After my dad died—my other dad—I heard my mom talking. She and her best friend were drinking. They thought I was asleep. She'd never said anything. I guess she was worried that the family would throw her out or disown her or something.' Martin looked sad. `You remember things like that. When you showed up, I knew right away.'

  “`I thought there was something similar about you two,' I said. Patrick held his hands across the table, extending his fingers.

  “`Same hands,' he said. Martin spread his fingers to compare, and then they clasped hands for a moment.

  “`I figured you knew,' Martin said, `because of the way you kept watching me.'”

  “I'll be damned,” Cree said. Willow finished her coffee.

  “So, they talked and decided not to rock the boat.”

  “You never know, do you?” Cree said.

  “The next morning, we got up and there was Martin's car in the driveway with a ribbon tied around the hood ornament. He'd come in silently in the middle of the night and left it. There was a note on the seat that said congratulations and that he used Pennzoil in it. The registration was signed over to Patrick. I mean, we didn't even have a car! The next week, away we went, rocking down th
e coast to a new life.”

  “Nice, that was nice,” Cree said.

  “Patrick was fanatic about the car. He changed the oil about once a month. Jesus. It was a great old car though; we used it all through graduate school. It was still running when we came out to the west coast. Patrick's father loved it. We left it with him.”

  There was a second burst of shrill cries; arms held high moving in the other direction. Mustangs even, 1-1.

  “See,” Cree said. “Are you in touch with Martin?”

  “We talk on the phone every once in a while. He still lives in Woodstock; he's got a recording business. We try to visit every couple of years, but you know how it is. Time keeps flying by.”

  “Scary,” Cree said.

  “Remember that guy, Wendell? He was a hunk.”

  “He was.”

  “Did he ever show up again?”

  “Not while I was there,” Cree said. “He nearly killed Sam; he had to disappear. He just did get away.”

  “Was it the FBI or the CIA that Sam was working for?”

  “Not sure.”

  “The bad old, good old days,” Willow said.

  “Remember Parker?”

  “Yeah, Patrick's boss.”

  “He took off. Left Hildy and the kids for another woman. Sooner or later, just about everyone split up. What's your secret?”

  “The dotted line painted down the middle of the house,” Willow said. “Patrick needs a visa to enter the kitchen.”

  The Mustangs were pushed into their end of the field. A fine drizzle began to fall. The two watched, cheeks glowing, as their sons fought back.

  “We were talking about Woodstock last night, actually,” Willow said. “Patrick's landlady left him a treasure chest when she died. She didn't really leave it to him; she didn't want her family to get it. Patrick says it was her last wish. We've kept it with us ever since. He won't open it.”

  “Isn't it driving you crazy?”

  “I'm dying to know what's in it. He won't open it, though. He says it's ours to respect and to keep private. He says he knows what's in it anyway.”

  “What?”

  “True love.”

  Cree's eyes went back to the struggle on the field. “Hang on to it, Baby,” she said.

  ####

  Thank you for reading for reading Every Story is a Love Story.

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