Argosy Junction

by Chautona Havig

  You believe in the Creator God and so do I. From your words, I surmise that you believe that He is all loving, powerful, and knowing. He created this earth and everything in it. What was the purpose? What did He do once He created us? Was it anything like the Genesis account of creation and how do we know we were created? I was taught in school that we are nothing more than mutating cells always changing into something better. Why isn’t that what happened?

  I have a paper due for my class, so I should go. I can’t wait to hear about your Branson success. I am sure it will be one. I’ve written my sonnet that you told me to write, and I am working on a ballad for you. “The Ballad of Exmoor.” Blackmore would be proud. *cough*

  Standing on common ground hand held outstretched—

  Matt

  ~*~*~*~

  Lane snapped the laptop shut. The airport terminal buzzed with activity. Tad’s surprised expression irritated her and she snapped, “What? You’ve never read an email and been provoked?”

  “What did Matt say this time?”

  “What makes you think it was Matt? He’s not the only person that I correspond with you know.”

  “Yes, but you don’t get that angry at Dad, Kyle, and Patience.” Tad’s expression told her she wouldn’t win.

  “I made the mistake of mentioning God last time so he’s on the hopeful road to help me out of the lake of doubt and into the highway of holiness once more.”

  Rolling his eyes at the weak illusions to Pilgrim’s Progress, Tad jabbed a finger at her laptop. “And it is that very trait that first attracted you to him. You liked that he wasn’t intimidated by your challenges. Don’t punish him for being exactly who you wanted him to be just because the topic isn’t one you like.”

  Denial rose in her throat, but she immediately realized that it was no good. She could pretend all she wanted, but Tad was right. She was just like a wife who after five years of marriage complains about the very things that attracted her to her husband. She just didn’t expect them to manifest in any way that was irritating!

  Relief washed over her as their flight was called. She slipped her laptop in the case and swung it casually over her shoulder. “Ready, brother mine?” she quipped as she grabbed the handle to her rolling suitcase and moved to the boarding line.

  ~*~*~*~

  To: mattrushby@letterbox.com

  From: lanesywoolsey@letterbox.com

  Subject: Home

  Dear Matt,

  It is so good to be home. There are days, like today, where I almost tell Tad to forget it and tell Jude to stop working on the website. He’s trying to learn how to build one while creating ours. Fortunately, he is a perfectionist about stuff like this so we don’t have to worry about making him feel badly. He’d never put up anything we hated because we never get to see the bad things more than once.

  Jude messed up though. Branson is this coming weekend so we leave in three days. This is exactly the kind of thing that makes me want to forget all of this. I didn’t want to be gone all the time. However, we’re taking Patience with us this time. I couldn’t stand to think of us being at Silver Dollar City and not have her there too. She’s never been to an amusement park!

  I’m skirting two issues. I bet you realized that already. You know me too well for my own comfort, but on the other hand, it is nice to know that someone does understand you so well. I guess that’s called being “a woman.” The never-ending contradiction that is self.

  So, I’m going to do something absolutely astounding and come right out and talk about these things.

  First, the letters in your drawer. May I have them? Am I arrogant to assume that they are addressed to me? I know how private those letters are, and I will understand if you say no, but I had to ask. I really love to see that part of you that you are so reluctant to show. Is it unfair of me to ask? I wonder.

  Second, I owe you answers about God. You asked, you weren’t pushy, and I have to have somewhere to vent about all of this or I’ll go mad!

  You asked if I’ve ever read the Gospels without my “Brethren filters “on. That is a good question. I confess I was annoyed when I read it. I don’t want to read the Bible. It angers me every time I try. However, I have to admit that no, I’ve never read any of the Bible without seeing it as it was lived before my eyes.

  You also asked why God made the earth and those of us who now inhabit it. (I assume that’s what you meant) The only answer I know is that I don’t know. Why does anyone create something? Why does an artist paint? Part of it, I think, is because that is who the artist is. They can’t NOT paint. Do you see what I mean? The other part, I think, is because it shows whom the artist is. You can get a glimpse of the heart and soul of an artist by what he paints. I assume that may be why God created everything. It is a reflection of who and what He is.

  What did He do once He created us? I don’t know. If it was like Genesis, then He put us in the Garden and gave us the chance for success and failure. I wonder why He did that knowing, as He would have to BE God, that we would fail? I think it was probably a lot like Genesis. Then again, it could have been nothing like it. I don’t believe, however, that there was a bunch of nothing that exploded (with nothing as the accelerant so to speak) and became something, which then became something else and so forth. That is why I give some credence to Genesis. All that “after its kind” stuff. It makes sense. Dogs always give birth to dog-like creatures. They don’t give birth to monkey like creatures.

  I still don’t know of course. I’ll be honest too. I won’t guarantee that I’ll read any more. I am not sure I want to. There are times, however, that I want so badly for us to be ok that I’m willing to try anything to make it happen. Is it wrong of me to admit that? I promised myself I wouldn’t ever allow myself to meddle with your heart. Mine isn’t so cooperative sometimes.

  Packing again,

  Lane

  Twenty

  Matt glanced at the clock. There was time. The plane wouldn’t arrive for another hour. Tad had said they’d leave the secure areas and go eat at the steakhouse next to the airport. A five-hour layover was too long to sit in the terminal.

  He grabbed fresh clothes and raced for the shower. Minutes later, he towel dried his hair and ran a comb through it grumbling about his laziness in getting it cut. It looked ridiculous. He ran his hand over his jaw thinking quickly. It’d take another five minutes to shave and he might miss them. What if they decided to try somewhere else for dinner?

  At the front door, he froze. An inward battle raged. Did he dare share the letters Lane had requested? Would they anger her further? He didn’t have time to find the ones that were the most angst riddled.

  With a groan, he rushed back to his nightstand and grabbed the stack of rubber band encircled letters. Stuffing them in his jacket, Matt raced out the door, down the steps, and around the back of the building where his father’s car sat. The back tire was flat.

  Matt kicked the tire with a force that could only mean pain for him. The subway didn’t run all the way to the airport from his line and he didn’t have time to switch trains. He also didn’t have enough cash for a taxi, but Matt risked the angst of a driver and raced for the subway station. If he made it, he’d save a bundle by riding to the end of the line and take a taxi from there.

  An hour later, he stood at the gate watching as passengers rolled their suitcases through the connecting tube. Patience saw him first. Almost knocking over a small woman in her eagerness, she raced down the passageway and into Matt’s arms. Lane watched with a pang. She hadn’t expected to see him, but she’d have given anything to rush to Matt like that.

  “You told him.” Her words to Tad were ground through a pasted on smile.

  “You need to see him, and you know it. Patience needed to see him. I needed to see him.”

  “We’re a very needy family,” she hissed before she turned and smiled at Matt. “Hey! I didn’t know you would be here!”

  Matt glanced awkwardly at Tad. “I thought—”
>
  Lane laced an arm through his and tugged him toward the doors. “Who cares? I’m famished. Let’s go eat!”

  “No luggage?”

  Tad hailed a cab as he explained, “We checked it all. We didn’t want to have to wheel it around everywhere for five hours. We only carried on a backpack for munchkin here and Lane’s laptop.”

  The steakhouse was loud. Country music blasted from huge speakers on all sides of the room. Popcorn and peanut shells littered the floors. Waitresses wearing shorts that barely covered granny’s underwear and sleeveless western shirts buttoned low enough to give an excellent view of the peaks and valleys of the girls’ topography, competed with waiters wearing jeans and shirts tucked in, but not buttoned.

  Patience seemed oblivious to the sensual attire around her, but Tad, Matt, and Lane found it difficult to ignore the blatant sexual behavior of the wait staff. While the music thundered in their ears, making it impossible to talk without shouting, Patience bounced eagerly in tune with a song about one more night of sin before “little miss goody two shoes” wins.

  Halfway through the meal, Lane excused herself. Her head pounded from the loud music and the constant shouting. She bounced off a waiter carrying glasses murmuring profuse apologies and then blushing furiously at the lecherous look he gave her. At the sight of the waiter raking his eyes over Lane’s retreating form, Matt excused himself, grabbed his jacket, and followed.

  Matt tried to pretend that he accidentally-on-purpose bumped into said waiter causing the drinks he carried to soak the waiters shirt. He also tried to pretend that his profuse apology for his clumsiness was genuine, but the truth was too obvious to ignore. The fact is, Matt saw an opportunity and took it. He bumped the waiter’s arm at just the right angle to ensure two margaritas ended up soaking his chest and the front of his jeans. At the sight of a large wet spot surrounding the man’s zipper, Matt grinned.

  “That should help cool your heels. And other things…”

  Outside, Lane sat shivering on one of the benches provided for those waiting for a table. Few sat there in the chilly October air. He slipped his jacket over Lane’s shoulders and sat next to her. “I’m sorry. I would have told Tad to steer clear if I had known.”

  “I know. I’m just tired, and I have a headache, and that awful music—”

  “If it makes you feel any better, the waiter is covered in strawberry margaritas and not only reeks of alcohol, but looks like he didn’t quite make it to the bathroom in time.”

  “You didn’t!” She studied his face carefully. “Oh, my goodness! You did! I love you!”

  Lane clapped her hand over her mouth. She’d have said the same thing to a stranger at that particular moment, but somehow it felt like she’d slapped Matt in the face. Matt leaned and whispered into her ear, “I’m glad to hear it. I hope that never changes.”

  “Oh, Matt—” She buried her face into his chest and sighed. It wasn’t fair. She knew she was being inconsiderate of him, his feelings, and their situation, but she didn’t move.

  His arm twitched in the chilly air making Lane feel selfish. “Oh, it’s too cold to be out here without a jacket. Let’s go in—” Matt glanced around for somewhere that they could talk without his teeth running away from him. “Come on.”

  Around the back of the restaurant, an entryway to the storage rooms blocked the brisk breezes that sent shivers over both of them. Matt glanced at his watch. They couldn’t stay outside forever. It’d get colder by the minute, and it was rude to leave Tad and Patience waiting for them.

  He pulled Lane against his chest and slipped his arms into the arms of his jacket that was currently settled over Lane’s shoulders. They stood leaning against the brick enclosure for several minutes alternately talking and then reveling in the silence. Lane looked up at him as she started to speak, but the words wouldn’t come. “I—”

  “I know.” Matt didn’t have anything to say to help either one of them.

  Unpremeditatedly, they kissed. Both of them knew it was foolish, but neither cared. In that kiss were all the words that neither could speak and both needed to say. For Matt, the kiss, much too short and yet seemingly never ending, was the first real hope that perhaps their relationship could resurrect. Lane, aware that she would both regret and cherish these moments, clung to the hope that it wouldn’t be their last.

  “I’m sor—”

  Matt hushed her with a brush of his finger against her lips. “Don’t be. Please. I couldn’t take it. I’m not.”

  “You’re not?” Lane’s voice was laced with relief.

  Matt’s finger entwined itself around her hair. “How could I be?”

  They shivered for a moment before they both said, “We should go in—”

  Matt chuckled. “Great minds and all of that. I have something for you.”

  He slipped his arm from the jacket sleeve and pulled the letters from the pocket. “You asked for them. I almost didn’t bring them I—”

  “Oh! Matt thank you—”

  Matt shook his head. “Don’t. Not yet. You haven’t read them. I said in these letters everything that I wanted or needed to say to you, but couldn’t for whatever reason. If I was hurt, it is in there. If I was angry, you’ll see it. I just hope you can filter those things with the rest of my heart.”

  “So don’t read them when Patience is around?”

  He swept her hair from her face tucking it behind her ear. “I wouldn’t advise it.”

  “Would you slip them into the zipper of my laptop case before we get on the plane? I don’t want her to see them. She’ll expect to read them and—”

  He pulled her from their protected box into the frosty air. “Let’s go. I’ll take care of it.”

  ~*~*~*~

  They spent two hours playing hide and seek in the airport terminal. Whoever was “it” had to hide or count with Patience, whichever she chose, for each round. They wandered in and out of gift shops, restaurants, behind baggage claims, and in phone booths. The rules were simple. No bathrooms, no going outside, no leaving Patience’s side for any reason.

  Eventually, Tad found a Mrs. Pac-man game and challenged Patience to a competition. Lane and Matt wandered around the kiosks and shops, talking as though they hadn’t parted broken hearted over the death of a new relationship just three months earlier. This realization made their time together bittersweet. Lane would go through security in less than an hour and who knew when, if ever, they’d see each other again. At some point, one or both of them would have to admit that “just friends” would never work for them.

  Lane glanced at her watch. “I’ve got to give them warning so they don’t start a new game. We have to check in soon.”

  Matt stopped her. “Lane I—”

  “Not now Matt. This was so nice I don’t want to ruin it.”

  Matt shuffled his feet. “You know, you usually can read my mind and know exactly what I am going to say, but occasionally you’re as off as you can be. I just wanted to tell you how much it means to me that we could talk again.”

  “Oh.”

  He took her hand and turned back toward the arcade area. “If I had even a chance of some privacy—”

  “I bet one of those doors—”

  Matt jerked her toward the food court. “You’re shameless Laney! I love it, but you’re shameless!”

  ~*~*~*~

  Late that night, Lane tossed and turned in her bed. They’d arrived at midnight. It was two in the morning, and Patience snored gently next to her. Across the room, Tad snored, making sleep impossible.

  Lane slipped from the covers and dug through the zippered pocket on her laptop case, looking for the earplugs she sometimes used to sleep on planes. Her hands grabbed one plug and Matt’s letters simultaneously. She scrounged for another plug and then slid under the covers, the packet of letters under her pillow.

  The next morning, Lane sent Tad and Patience off to eat breakfast alone. Tad saw her curled in a ball and assumed an unwelcome visitor was making Lane cran
ky and crampy and offered to take Patience to the amusement park so she could rest.

  Lane smiled. “How about you bring me some donuts from the vending machine and a Coke? I’ll meet you at the entrance of the park at one o’clock, and we’ll have lunch. Sound fair?”

  Loaded with enough sugar to drive her insulin levels through the roof, Lane settled herself comfortably in bed and opened the first letter. The writing was sloppy. Matt’s previous letters hadn’t exactly been elegant, but they had been written neatly—legibly. This letter was scrawled quickly as though in a rush.

  Dear Lane,

  Can I call you that? Is it wrong? I don’t know. I don’t care. I almost chased you down today. I was half way to Rockland when I locked up the brakes and did a one-eighty. I think I snapped out of it when I got the ticket for speeding.

  If I am honest, I’ll admit that I’m angry. You won’t even give it a chance; you won’t listen. You’ve made up your mind based upon a false premise and you don’t care.

  That hurts, Lane-it hurts. You don’t care enough about me or us to even consider that you could be wrong.

  Remember when you accused me of being a Christian, and I said that by your definition I wasn’t? Well it is true. By your definition, I am not a Christian. Either this is true and you should at least discover what my definition is, or you think I’m a liar.

  Maybe that is why you can walk away. I know it hurt you too. I’m lashing out and angry and hurt and I want you to see that. I want my pain to matter to you as much as yours does to me. Do you care? I thought you did. I know you’re hurting, but why? Why are you hurting? Do you know why I’m hurting?

  So I sit here and write all the things I couldn’t say to you. I write them because I love you too much to hurt you with my own pain, and I write them because I don’t know how to love someone as I love you. I know how to love a teacher or a mother or a friend. I don’t know how to love a woman. That’s probably why this happened. This is probably my fault. I didn’t know how to love you and show it. I didn’t know how to demonstrate the love of the Lord to someone I feel so passionate about. My past rises to the surface and tries to pull you into it. I want what I can’t have, I don’t want what I know is wrong, but I desire it to be right more than I care to confess.