The Wishing Jar

by Penelope J. Stokes

  “Promise,” he repeated, gripping her shoulders until his fingers pressed painfully into the flesh. “Promise you’ll always love me. I couldn’t stand it if you left me.”

  “Mike, you’re hurting me!” Tears came, and she tried without success to wrestle out of his grasp.

  He released his hold on her. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I’d never hurt you—you know that, don’t you? I love you.”

  Neal rubbed at the bruises and bit her lip. “Yes, I know,” she said. “You didn’t mean it.”

  He stroked her cheek, wiping away the tears. “I’m sorry,” he repeated. “But you gotta understand. I love you. I love you so much that it just about makes me crazy when I can’t be with you all the time.”

  “It’s all right, Mike,” Neal had said. “I love you, too. And I won’t leave you. I promise.”

  As she recalled the events from last night, Neal felt that familiar vacillation of emotions. But she had to admit, it was exciting to have someone who loved her so much and wanted to be with her all the time.

  Well, that problem was about to be remedied—for one day, at least. Today Mike would have her all to himself.

  She stuffed a few necessities into her backpack, zipped it up, and headed down the stairs. She could hear Mom in the kitchen, talking to Granny Q.

  “Come have some breakfast before you go to school, honey,” Mom called out.

  Neal went into the kitchen and sat down at the table opposite Granny Q. Mom was at the stove flipping pancakes. Neal frowned and cut a questioning glance at her grandmother, who gave a one-sided shrug in response.

  “What’s the occasion?” Neal said. “You never make pancakes anymore.”

  Mom leaned across her and put a jug of syrup in the center of the table. “Can’t I do something nice for my family without everybody being suspicious?” She smiled and ran a hand through Neal’s punked hair. “Your new haircut looks great, honey. Very becoming.”

  Neal rolled her eyes and barely stopped herself from asking, “Where’s the pod, and what have you done with my real mother?” Instead, she forced a smile in return. “You seem cheerful this morning.”

  “Well, it’s a beautiful day.”

  “You remember I won’t be home for supper, right?” Neal said. “I’m going straight from school to the . . . uh, the movies. With T. J. We’ll grab a burger afterward.”

  “A burger? I thought you had become a vegetarian.”

  Neal felt herself flush. “Yeah, well, sometimes.”

  Her mother set the platter of pancakes on the table. “I remembered. As a matter of fact, I won’t be here either.”

  Neal forked up two pancakes and poured syrup on them. “Got a date with Chuck?”

  “Charles,” her mother corrected archly. “As a matter of fact, I do. He’s taking me to dinner, and then to the Flat Rock Playhouse.” She turned to Granny Q. “Mama, I’ve made supper for you. All you have to do is take it out of the fridge and microwave the plate for three minutes. Don’t forget to remove the aluminum foil.” She peered into Granny Q’s eyes. “You’ll be all right without us here?”

  “I’ll be fine,” Granny Q slurred. “Don’t worry about me.”

  Neal looked across the table and saw a shadow pass over her grandmother’s face—a haunted, empty expression. But she couldn’t afford to think about that. She had to go or she’d be late meeting Mike. “Gotta run. Don’t wait up.”

  “All right, sweetie. Have a good day.” Her mother kissed her on the cheek and patted her arm. “I love you.”

  Caught off guard, Neal couldn’t decide how to respond. It had been months since her mother called her sweetie, and she certainly hadn’t said I love you in a very long time. At last she opted for the line of least resistance. “Love you, too,” she said.

  She paused in the doorway and turned. “And you too, Granny Q.”

  The old woman’s eyes misted over. She raised a trembling hand and opened her mouth to speak.

  But Neal couldn’t wait. She grabbed her backpack off the chair and bolted for the door.

  Edith watched as her granddaughter dashed from the room. Something was up with that child, and she was pretty sure she knew what it was. But she couldn’t seem to make Abby listen long enough to get through to her.

  “It’s nice to see Neal Grace so happy these days,” Abby said. “Maybe this family is finally getting back on track.”

  Edith shook her head. “I’m worried about her.”

  “Worried, did you say?” Abby stared at her as if she’d lost her mind as well as her mobility. “There’s nothing to worry about, Mama. The punky hair style and the clothes don’t mean anything. Teenagers need to have their little rebellions. I’m just glad she’s spending time with her friends and being—well, normal for a change.” She sighed and gazed over Edith’s head. “I know it’s hard for you to understand, but I think Neal Grace is finally coming around.”

  Edith didn’t answer. Instead, she struggled to cut off a bite of pancake. Her fork wasn’t working properly, and the pancake slid off into her lap. Despite her best efforts, tears welled up in her eyes.

  Abby didn’t notice. She had already gotten up and was clearing the table, still talking. “You do like Charles, don’t you, Mama? He’s so—what’s the word? Stable. Dependable. Just the kind of man I need in my life. He makes everything seem so much simpler. Oh, I’m not going to do anything silly like run off and get married. But I do enjoy his company, and—”

  On she rambled, not waiting for a response. Edith sat there half-listening, glad for once that communication was so difficult for her. Her daughter wouldn’t have wanted to hear what she had to say about Charles Bingham.

  Abby finished loading the dishwasher and turned. “I’m off to work, Mama. You take care of yourself. I’ll be home around midnight, I’d guess.” She leaned over, kissed Edith on the cheek, and was gone.

  And Edith sat there, alone at the kitchen table, her hand pressed to the kiss she could no longer feel.

  The day seemed to grind by in slow motion. Abby wasn’t getting anything accomplished. She sat at her desk, surrounded by proofs for the November issue of the magazine, concocting an elaborate daydream in which she married Charles Bingham, quit her job, and let him take on the responsibilities of making a living and worrying about the upstairs plumbing and making sure Mama and Neal Grace were properly cared for.

  It was an attractive dream. But one question continued to plague her. Did she love Charles? Maybe—if love could be defined as mutual compatibility, or shared values, or complementary intellectual interests. She didn’t have particularly passionate feelings for the man, but he was a good person with a solid, stable life. She could do worse.

  And besides, the one person who did generate heat in Abby’s soul was completely unsuitable as a candidate for a long-term relationship.

  Abby thought about the last time she had been with Devin Connor. She had contrived a reason to visit—needing to check some details and get a few more candid photos for the layout— but in her heart she knew that her carefully planned professional “reason” was only a thinly veiled excuse. She was just about to turn around in the driveway and leave when he opened the door and came out onto the porch.

  She had gotten out of the car and stood in the clearing, looking up toward the cabin. He made no move to come toward her, but simply stood there, waiting. Abby took a deep breath, and without warning that sense of freedom and lightness rushed into her—the very feeling she had experienced the first time she rode on the back of his Vespa.

  She hadn’t felt that way since—since John Mac brought light and color and meaning to the world.

  Staggered by the unbidden thought, Abby moved numbly toward the cabin, holding her briefcase up to her chest like a shield.

  “I’m glad you’re here,” Devin said when she was settled at the kitchen table with the pages of her article spread out between them. “There’s something I’d like to talk to you abo
ut.”

  “All right.” Abby shuffled a stack of photographs and pretended to be looking for something.

  “Abby, look at me.”

  She stopped fiddling with the pictures and looked up. His eyes, blue as the Carolina sky, smiled across at her, and in the back of her mind she could hear echoes of his music. A baffling combination of emotions assaulted her—she felt bewildered and terrified and captivated and glorious, all at the same time.

  “I’ve been thinking,” he went on.

  She willed herself to speak. “About—?”

  “About us.” He ducked his head and poked at the ice in his glass with a forefinger. “I mean, this article is almost done, correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “And when it’s done—”

  When it’s done, I’ll never see you again, Abby thought.

  “When it’s done,” he repeated, “we won’t be seeing each other again. At least we won’t have any reason to see each other.” He paused and waited. When she didn’t respond, he plowed ahead. “I was thinking—that is, I was hoping—” He exhaled heavily. “I was hoping we might come up with a reason.”

  Abby kept silent.

  “Such as having dinner together.”

  Again she said nothing.

  “Like—well, like a date.” He took a drink of his tea, then peered at her over the rim of his glass. “You could give me some encouragement here.”

  Abby summoned all her will power to glance up at him. He looked so fresh, so innocent, so—scared. Say yes, the voice inside her head demanded. “I . . . I don’t know, Devin,” she hedged. “I’m sort of—”

  “Seeing someone?” His face fell. “Well, of course. Of course you are. You’re intelligent and attractive and interesting and—” He ground to a halt. “OK. I, uh, I really feel foolish now. So let’s just get this done, all right?” He turned his attention to the layout. “I’m sure whatever you come up with will be fine with me.”

  They finalized the details of the article, and Abby had driven away, back to her black-and-white life, back to Neal Grace and Mama and Charles Bingham. But no matter how fast she drove, she couldn’t outrun the sense of loss.

  Afterward she had gone over and over it again in her mind, all the reasons she could not afford to open her heart to Devin Connor. He was a destitute musician, for heaven’s sake. An artist. An itinerant who lived off the generosity of others. A caretaker. Not to mention a complex, enigmatic man whose very presence aroused in her uncomfortable and unsettling thoughts about her own values and priorities.

  She longed for life to be simpler, easier, less burdensome. And Devin Connor, for all the external simplicity of his life, was complication incarnate.

  Well, it didn’t matter. The interviews were done, and the article was almost finished. She had plenty of material and enough photographs. She would never have to face Devin Connor again. She could put him out of her mind and move on.

  The telephone rang, and Ford buzzed her on the intercom. “Abby, call for you on line two.”

  She picked up the receiver. “Abby McDougall.”

  “Hello, beautiful.”

  At the sound of Charles Bingham’s voice, Abby stifled a rush of disappointment. “Hi, Charles,” she said with forced brightness.

  “I’m just calling to double-check about tonight. Dinner at six? We’ll need to be at the theater by quarter to eight.”

  “That’s fine. Shall I meet you somewhere? I’ll be coming straight from work.”

  “How about that new Courtyard place just off the Square? It’s quiet, and I have something important I want to talk to you about.”

  Something important. Abby’s stomach lurched. She closed her eyes and took in a deep breath. “Sure. That sounds wonderful. I’ll meet you at six.”

  Charles hesitated, and Abby could hear him breathing through the telephone. “Is everything all right?” he said. “You sound— odd.”

  “I’m fine,” she said. “Just busy, that’s all. I’ll see you tonight.”

  With the lie still burning in her throat, she hung up the phone.

  10

  When Wishes Come True

  Riding up into the mountains on the back of Mike Damatto’s motorcycle left Neal feeling chilled to the bone and slightly queasy. His friend’s cabin was little more than a rustic shack with a broken-down fireplace and a hodgepodge of mildewy furniture that might have come from Goodwill. But it was secluded, and she had to admit the view from the rickety deck was pretty awesome.

  While Mike gathered up a few sticks of wood to build a fire, Neal inspected the place. It was one small squarish room, with chinks between the logs wide enough to let daylight in. One L-shaped corner served as a kitchen, with a small rusted sink set into a scarred green Formica countertop. In the opposite corner sat a sagging double bed covered with a brown, hairy-looking blanket.

  “Great place, huh?” Mike said in a breathless, heaving voice.

  Neal turned. He was down on one knee, blowing into a damp and struggling fire. Smoke billowed into the cabin, adding more soot to the already blackened stones above the mantelpiece.

  She came over to inspect the fire. “Do you have the flue open?”

  “Yeah. I think so.” He fiddled with the damper lever, and with a sickening metallic clunk, something black and heavy fell into the firebox. Sparks flew, and ash drifted out onto the dirty rug, but the flames caught and the smoke whooshed up the chimney. “Guess it’s open now,” Mike said with a laugh. He got up and wiped the soot from his hands onto the back of his jeans.

  Neal sank onto the splintered wooden coffee table and stared into the fire. She was feeling rather green around the gills, and the smell of the smoke wasn’t helping.

  “You OK?” Mike asked, peering into her face. “You don’t look so good.”

  “I’m just cold, and I got a little motion sick on that curvy road. The fire will help. I’ll be fine.”

  “Got just what the doctor ordered,” Mike declared. He reached into his battered duffel bag and pulled out a six-pack. “Want one?”

  Neal grimaced. “Beer? At ten in the morning? I don’t think so.”

  “Whatever.” He popped the top on one of the cans and took a long swig. “But I’m telling you, it’s good for what ails you.” Flopping down on the sofa, he stretched his legs out, propped his feet on the table, and patted the cushion next to him. “Come sit.”

  Neal complied. Mike put his arm around her and drew her close, and for a few minutes they sat in silence, watching the dance of the flames. Between the warmth of the fire on her face and the warmth of Mike’s body at her side, she began to relax, and her eyes grew heavy.

  “I been thinking,” he said, his voice sounding fuzzy and far away. “You’ll be graduating come spring.”

  “Right,” she murmured.

  “So there’s nothing to stop us getting our own place.”

  The impact of his words didn’t quite register. “What do you mean, our own place?”

  He took a long drink of his beer and set the can on the floor at the side of the couch. “Me and you, babe,” he said. “Just the two of us. Together.”

  Neal forced her eyes open and sat up straighter. “Live together? Us?”

  “Why not? You love me, don’t you?” His jaw clenched in a hard line.

  “Well, sure I do, Mike, but—”

  “Then there’s nothing else to discuss.”

  “There’s lots to discuss!” Neal countered. “There’s college, for one thing—”

  He waved a hand to dismiss her objection. “You don’t need college. I can take care of us. I make good money, you know.” His voice carried a challenging edge, as if daring her to disagree.

  “I know you do, Mike.”

  “I’m a good mechanic,” he persisted. “Soon as I raise the cash, I’m gonna buy the shop.”

  “That’s great, Mike, but—”

  He lowered his feet to the floor with a thud and turned to face her. “But what? You don’t want to be with
me? I’m not good enough for you?”

  “Of course you are,” she soothed. “I’m here, aren’t I? With you?”

  “Yeah. But—” He narrowed his eyes and scanned her face, as if looking for something. “You been with somebody else? ’Cause if you have, I’ll put him out of commission, I swear I will.”

  A familiar wrench of fear twisted in her stomach. “No, Mike. There’s nobody else. Only you.”

  “But you don’t want to live with me.” He got up and paced across the room—three steps—then turned back to her, his fists clenched at his side. “I don’t get it. You say you love me, you use me, and then when you’re done with me—”

  “I didn’t say any of those things, Mike,” Neal interrupted, trying to keep her voice calm. “I haven’t used you. And I didn’t say I don’t want to live with you. I only said we need to discuss it.”

  “OK, let’s discuss it,” he said, still standing. “Are you my girl or not?”

  “Your girl?” she repeated. “Well, yeah. Sure.”

  “And there’s nobody else.”

  “Nobody.”

  “Then we should be together.”

  “We are together, Mike,” Neal said. “But moving in together is a big step. It’s a serious decision. And I guess I never thought about living with anyone until—” She stopped. She couldn’t say it.

  “Until what? Until you were married?” He uttered the word as if it were a curse, an obscenity.

  Neal ducked her head. “Yes,” she whispered. For all her talk about change, about liberation and independence and living the kind of life she chose, she realized in that moment that something in her still clung to the values she had grown up with. Marriage. Family. Purity of heart, faithfulness of soul. The legacy that had been passed down to her through nearly a hundred years. Try as she might, she could not escape it.

  “Listen,” Mike was saying. He had returned to the sofa and now sat close with his arm around her again. “I love you. I need you. Before you came along, I had nothing. No ambition, no future, nothing. You’re my whole life. Without you, well, I don’t know what would happen to me.”