MAGPIE

by Reyes, M. A.

  Dear MGroadie,

  You MUST tell me what your profile name stands for! I’m dying to know… Anyway, you’re probably annoyed with my various attempts at getting your attention. Hoping this old school message works!

  I found your profile so refreshing – real pictures, real stories, real life. I wish you knew what your competition’s profiles were like. Actually, they aren’t your competition – you stand apart from all the rest. I’m sorry about the loss of your husband, but I have to say, you seem so happy and content with life. You must have worked through it with such a positive attitude. Would love to know your secret to happiness!

  I have two kids. I started fairly young and they are both in college. Only a year apart—a boy and a girl—they both attend Northwestern. They come home to Colorado periodically, particularly when they need money. Other than that, I have a dog, Fresno, a mutt who is ancient but is still hanging in there. I have my own business, which provides the means to have a little fun on the side. I work out of my house and love it – what can I say? I lucked out, professionally anyway.

  I’m an extrovert, can you tell?

  I know you’re thinking I’m too young, but I would just ask you to consider having dinner. If, after that, you are convinced you can’t afford childcare, then we’ll shake hands and part ways.

  Warmly,

  Greg

  Before I could begin to craft a response, I quickly glanced at his profile,

  I’m a pretty down to earth guy. I love the outdoors and feel most at home when I’m enjoying nature. I enjoy white water rafting, camping, biking, rock climbing, fishing and golf (just learning!)

  I enjoy working with my hands around the yard and house, remodeling and landscaping. I’m not a contractor but my dad and uncle taught me well.

  Love going to the movies, out for dinner and drinks, dancing, grilling in the back yard definitely with a beer in one hand and my girl in the other – LOL!

  I’m hoping to find my best friend and confidant, someone I can share my deepest feelings and fears with, as well as my strengths and aspirations.

  I’m not looking for perfection, but I am looking for a woman who can love openly, play fully, and live authentically.

  Like me, Greg was a Colorado native. He enjoyed the same things I did, though I realized I hadn’t done anything on my list of activities since last fall. I could thank Greg for the nice note and leave it at that, but something pressed me to respond further. The last time I contemplated an online relationship was with Daniel, which hadn’t turned out too badly. We’d constructed a virtual world insulated from the day-to-day bullshit that hampers “real” relationships. Despite our ups and downs, Daniel and I had managed to become close, thoroughly enjoying our digital time together. I wondered if I could apply the same approach to a local relationship. I answered Greg with more than a polite “thank you,” and wrote,

  Dear Greg,

  I was tempted to send you a “thank you, but” note and decided against it. You had me at “not looking for perfection…” jk! Don’t know if you noticed, but we enjoy some of the same activities. You’ve reminded me, however, that I haven’t been up to the hills since last fall. Movies are my favorite urban activity and, to be honest, I was just thinking about catching one when your message popped up. Haven’t been in a while. Would you like to know why? Wait for it… I’m a grandmother and have been spoiling my twin grandkids for the past few weeks. Did you see how I slipped the white elephant in ever so gently?!

  Still, I’m going out on a limb by saying “yes” to your suggestion for dinner. Why not cut to the chase, meet for a nice meal, and see if six years really means that much at our age. I’ll hold off sharing other factoids about me to ensure crickets don’t invade our space at dinner.

  BTW, profile name is uneventful: “MG” are my initials and “roadie” signifies my love of road trips.

  Warmer than you,

  Maggie (given name, not short for anything)

  Not expecting a reply for at least a day, I opened a new tab and searched Fandango for a nearby movie. I’d heard about “World War Z” and, quite frankly, needed to zone out. There was a showing at 8:20, just five or so minutes away. I didn’t have time to shower, so I washed my face, smoothed my tousled curls and grabbed a cardigan. I would barely make it, so I moved quickly out the door and hopped into Beater.

  “Bye, buddy boy,” I yelled to Cody as I pulled out, noticing I hadn’t turned the porch light on.

  Luck was on my side; I pulled into a close parking space just as an older couple pulled out. I hurried to the ticket window and held up one finger to the clerk who sat behind a thick slab of glass. I took the stairs two at a time so I could snag a bag of popcorn and fill my water bottle with warm tap water. I wasn’t concerned about missing the trailers…I wanted an aisle seat.

  The theater was freezing, and I was glad I’d brought a sweater. For the next two hours, I sat transfixed at images of ravenous zombies. Oddly, I could relate to the creatures on the screen: clinically dead, but driven by a diseased, primordial need to suck the vitality out of the living. Is that was I was doing? Was sex a mechanism to breathe life into an otherwise inanimate soul? I brushed those musings away and tossed a Milk Dud in my mouth.

  The movie was a good escape, but I was glad to leave the stale air and walk into the cool night breeze. Fatigue was seeping into my body, and I desperately wanted to get home, strip off my clothes, slip into my thin cotton nightie, and hit the sack. As I turned into my driveway, I heard Cody barking, which was odd because, as he eased into old age, his need to bark at things that tickled his senses waned.

  I brought Beater to a stop and turned off the ignition. Reaching for the door handle, I jumped when heard a knock on my driver’s side window. Looking through the glass, I noticed a hand holding a bottle of beer—it was Brett’s.

  I considered getting out but saw that he was seriously drunk. He staggered back, thinking I was going to get out of the car, which gave me time to think. If I drove off, Cody would be in danger—he was still barking at the side gate. If I stayed, I would be.

  Rolling down my window, I said, “Brett, you’re drunk. Please leave. Nothing good will come of this.” Simultaneously, I texted Katie and asked her to come over ASAP.

  Slurring terribly, Brett managed to get out three words before he fell backward, “Mags, Mags, Mags!” His beer bottle shattered as he hit the ground.

  I ignored him, hoping like hell Katie would pull up any time. Seconds later, I saw headlights in my rearview mirror, recognizing Katie’s Mini Cooper pulling in behind me. I noticed two silhouettes in the car, one much larger than the other. She’d brought her neighbor, Tyler, a former college ball player whose size meant everything to me now. They both stepped out, Katie hanging back and letting Tyler manage the scene.

  “Come on, dude, why don’t we get out of here. Called you a taxi already, we don’t want any trouble, okay?” Tyler had a surprisingly soft voice, and thankfully, it was working.

  Brett struggled to get to his feet, and as Tyler walked him to the cab that had just arrived, he yelled out to me, “Love you, babe!”

  Katie grabbed my car door and ushered me into the house. I was shaken and needed to sit down. I really didn’t think Brett had come to harm me, but drunk as he was, anything was possible.

  “Here honey, have some water,” Katie handed me a glass. I looked at it and asked for a glass of wine instead. “Let me pour three.”

  As she poured the third, Tyler stepped through the door, shaking his head and wringing his hands as if he’d just disposed of a stinking rodent. We sat at the breakfast bar, silently considering a more ominous ending to this peculiar story. Katie and Tyler finished their wine, gave a swift hug and left.

  I was drained and glad to finally be alone. I got up to take a hot bath. Soaking in lavender and vanilla salts, I began to cry; wasn’t sure why, and I didn’t care. I let loose, feeling the strain of the day—and last few years—wash away. After a bit, I pulled myself
out of the tepid water, eager to crawl into bed. Before I could turn the light out, a text came through. I looked over at my phone buzzing on my nightstand and saw Daniel’s name. I had the strongest urge to respond and didn’t hesitate to satisfy it,

  Today, 11:02 PM

  DANIEL: U r up!

  MAGS: Ya, bad night

  DANIEL: Bad date?

  MAGS: Can I call?

  DANIEL: Pls do

  Daniel answered on the first ring, “Hey Mags, what’s going on?”

  I couldn’t even spit out one work before I started sobbing.

  He gently murmured, “It’s okay, baby, you don’t have to say a word, just stay on the line with me, I’m here. I’m here…”

  I fell asleep with my phone to my ear, listening to Daniel tell stories of his work, flying to exciting cities around the world in search of the sexiest tennis story ever written. I giggled as he spoke, not sure if he was serious or being a joker. It didn’t matter; he made me laugh, enticing me into his world, if just for the night. I needed this virtual vacation, and I boarded the plane with no bags of any kind.

  CHAPTER 6

  August’s Embers

  August was a blur. I’d packed more into the past four months than I had into the last four years; I needed some serious down time. After the twins went back to California, I spent time catching up at work. The remaining hours were devoted to tending my gardens, guarding them from the scorching summer sun with plenty of water, soil amendments and a generous dose of TLC. I’d buried the incident with Brett in the part of my brain that holds the rest of my demons. How I wished memories were tangible; those of Brett would be stuffed in Cody’s dog shit bag and sent off to the landfill with the rest of the city’s putrid waste.

  Greg wrote me back a few days after the Brett debacle. Funny and sweet, he said,

  Maggie,

  Your warmth flows like the rays of our beautiful Colorado sun! (Too sappy?) What movie did you end up seeing? Perhaps your critique can be the icebreaker on our first date… Then you can disclose your factoids (Why, oh why does that word conjure a medical condition that is not suitable for conversation?)

  You bring out my own mischief, Maggie, and I really like that about you. Heck, if you can do that in writing, what can you do in person?

  So, shoot me a couple of your favorite places and I’ll do the rest. Do you suppose this is a good time to share personal contact info?

  With radical coolness,

  Greg

  p.s. Don’t go running off on a road trip without me!

  I didn’t have any interest in going out with Greg or anyone else, at least for the time being. I wrote him back a few days later,

  Hi Greg,

  You are too much! I chuckled when I read your message – thanks for a much needed laugh.

  Something tells me I can be honest with you, so here it goes… I am beat. My grandkids really took it out of me and then, to boot, I had to do a bunch of catching up at work. I want to take a few weeks for me, myself and I. And, I’m sorry to break this to you: I am hoping to take a road trip with another guy, Cody, who does a terrific job keeping me warm at night. But I’m sure Fresno does the same for you.

  Any chance for a rain check? Mid-September maybe?

  Equally hip,

  Maggie

  Greg responded later that day with a quick note, saying he’d be happy to take me up on the offer of a rain check; he left it to me to touch base. I liked that. He seemed confident and in no hurry to secure a date with me. His postscript, though, sent a small shock wave,

  p.s. Cody is the only character allowed in your sleeping bag!

  I wondered if Greg was the overprotective type; worse, maybe he’d left an old, new or otherwise messy flame who’d charred his soul.

  Tucking away thoughts of Greg came easily; practice with Brett had paid off. I focused on the much more enticing idea of a road trip. It was as though sharing my desire to hit the road in writing somehow made it real.

  So make it real, Mags!

  The nice thing about working for the same company for eons was the amount of leave accrued. Several years ago, I had to purge more than one hundred hours of vacation time because the new HR rules capped the amount one could bank at twelve weeks. I’d worked like a dog the first ten years of my career and took only a few long weekends with Jack, including several, magical dive trips. We paid little attention to our valuable free time that escaped like a slow leak in a tire; our careers had become priority one. Even with the two weeks I’d taken in July, my reserve was still in good shape, so I requested another five days off. I’d caught up at work, and my new boss was still trying to scale the learning curve—another vacation request was the least of her worries.

  I decided to hit the road the first week in August, counting on low-stress driving conditions. The highways would be full of tourists, though relaxed from enjoyable excursions, most likely heading home. Plus, I planned to head north to Wyoming, long-haul truckers and commuters the bulk of the folks going that way. I knew the route there and back—could probably drive it blindfolded—and looked forward to coasting along, listening to my mega-playlist of music spanning five decades.

  It was Friday and I wanted to take off Sunday morning, but Beater needed a tune up. I called my garage and asked if they could squeeze me in, hoping to pick up my resuscitated comrade Saturday afternoon. A friend had recommended Ralph’s Imports once I’d earned the “widow” title; Jack had refused to let anyone under the hood of any of our vehicles, leaving me clueless about car repairs. I was on a first-name basis with all the mechanics at Ralph’s due, in large part, to my complete lack of mechanical skills. I was in luck; they’d had a cancellation and could fit me in, as long as I came by before they closed.

  Leaving Beater in good hands, I walked home; wouldn’t be ready until the next afternoon.

  Cody knew something was up, so I spent ten minutes tossing the ball—he and I both needed to work out our jitters. Excited to start organizing my road trip gear, I made my way inside. It took just a few minutes navigating the dusty storage room in the basement to uncover my “ready-bag,” one of Michael’s old duffels filled with road trip clothes and gear.

  Everything looked in order, so I moved on to the first-aid kit, making sure it was fully stocked. Cody’s bag received a look-through, too; an old throw, several toys, and a doggie first-aid kit filled it to the brim.

  Bags were set, so I went into the garage looking for my road-trip toolbox. My dad had put it together for my first cross-country trek the summer between my junior and senior year of college. I’d taken a short course, leaving four weeks of vacation before another year of brain-numbing textbooks, thirty-page papers and grueling exams.

  Leaving exactly one hour after my last class ended, I’d taken off for my folks’ house, craving familiar surroundings and an abundance of comfort food. After a heaping snack of salami, provolone cheese and tasty crackers, I’d asked Dad to help me look over my old but functioning jalopy, talking him into an oil change. An hour later, he stood up, stretched and, in his typical nonchalant way, suggested that I take a few days for myself. By six the next morning, I’d eaten breakfast, dressed and packed a bag for my first solo trek.

  I remember that morning like it was yesterday; tossing my duffle in the back seat, I noticed a box brimming with road trip essentials. Sitting on top was a white envelope, “Magpie” scrolled in Dad’s beautiful handwriting.

  Unfolding the tattered and yellowed page from a Ziploc baggie, I read Dad’s words from a lifetime ago,

  My dearest Magpie,

  May you marvel at the sights that fill your mind; be eased by the roads you travel; feel peace under the stars; laugh at the stumbles you take, and may you find love for Mother Nature and all Her creations—even in the beautiful black and white scavenger who, in her attempt at survival, clears the paths of weary sojourners.

  With all my love, Dad

  I’ve updated the box over the years, but the principle remains the sam
e: Be prepared to survive three of four days in the car or wilderness, regardless of the season. Reading Dad’s letter made me think about survival; not in the wilderness but the kind I’d strived for the last seven years. I wondered what kind of survival kit I could have rigged to ease my pain. An image of a sleek, solitary magpie crossed my mind.

  Had I been scavenging for what was missing in my life? Was I aloof and self-directed by nature?

  Without thinking, I began reciting an old rhyme about my totem dad used to whisper as he tucked me in for the night,

  One for sorrow,

  Two for joy,

  Three for a girl,

  Four for a boy,

  Five for silver,

  Six for gold,

  Seven for a secret,

  Never to be told.

  When I was old enough to ask, Dad explained the rhyme—old superstition, really—foretold one’s luck, depending upon the number of magpies seen. For a brief moment, I wondered if I was, somehow, the conveyor of luck…good or bad. Not wanting to dwell on mystical metaphors and prose, I returned on the task at hand, replacing the batteries in the flashlight and making sure my multi-tool knife was in good shape. Everything else looked okay. Finally, I grabbed my camping box that held, among other things, a two-person tent—make that a one-person, one-dog tent—a Coleman stove, and my “kitchen” in case I decided to camp out a few nights.

  Wiping my hands on my shorts, I made my way to the front yard. I glanced around, pleased with the lush and colorful scenery that had survived an unusual heatwave, which was expected to continue. I set the sprinklers for an extra day and piled another layer of mulch on my garden beds. Satisfied with my work, I went inside to call Sean, a neighbor boy who looked after things when I traveled.

  “Mrs. G, how are you? I haven’t seen you all summer!” Sean was a good kid and I was glad we’d worked things out.

  “I’m well, Sean. Yes, I’ve been extremely busy this summer. I should have called you over to meet my grandkids, now that I think about it. Oh well, old age is setting in, it seems.” Talking to Sean had a soothing effect on me, not sure why—unless I’d somehow made him Michael’s proxy.