by Ponzo, Gary
“About Andy.”
“What about Andy? Were you with him?”
Frank nodded reluctantly.
“Where?” Stephanie urged, “When?”
Silently Frank gathered his thoughts. “On The Hillary Step. He fell. Snapped his neck. I’m so sorry. He died before I could even get to him.” The man sobbed, recalling the uninvited images that swam in his head. “I sat with him for an hour. I talked to him about life. About why we do what we do. I got sick to my stomach, but before I left I buried him in the snow. I don’t know why. I just did.” Frank looked around at the bemused group listening to him and asked, “Was that wrong?”
Everyone knew what Frank did was irrational, but of little consequence. They all mumbled their approval as something they would have done under similar circumstances.
Stephanie, however, was dripping with denial. “How long ago did this happen?”
Frank shrugged, puzzled by the question, “I don’t know, maybe four hours ago.”
“You must be wrong because I just spoke to Andy on the radio not ten minutes ago,” she said.
The Sherpa sitting next to her spoke up. “I try to tell you. You no speak to Andy. You speak to his spirit.”
Trent pointed his finger at the Sherpa, “You keep your beliefs to yourself. Can’t you see what you’re doing to her?”
“I’ve heard stranger stories about this mountain,” someone commented.
“Leave the poor woman alone,” another added.
Stephanie sat still, confused by the conversations surrounding her. She held up the radio she used to talk to Andy with and showed it to Frank. “It was him. I know his voice. Maybe you made a mistake. Maybe you buried someone else by mistake. Your mind can play games with you up there,” she pleaded.
Frank nodded softly, still catching his breath. He reached into the inside pocket of his down jacket and pulled out a small black radio. He handed it to Stephanie. On its side was inscribed the name, ‘Andy Rogers.’ “I took it with me when I left him in case my batteries went dead,” he said. “He couldn’t possibly have contacted you.”
Stephanie bit her lip, turned to the Sherpa, and dug her head into his shoulder while he comforted her with warm, gentle words. She wept until her body, drained of all its energy, melted into the Sherpa’s lap. The Sherpa slid her down onto her sleeping bag and watched while she evaporated into a deep, exhaustive sleep. He leaned over, brushed her hair back and whispered, “Dream, sweet woman . . . Dream long and smile.”
The End
The Birthday Wish
She stood out like a ballerina at a rugby match. The room was wallpapered with TV screens blaring a cacophony of football games and horse races. Young men leaned on pool cues and auditioned for young women as they wiggled past them with tight jeans and fresh glasses of beer. Compulsive gamblers lined up to place their next bet on the trifecta that was sure to get them back to even for the day, while old men clutched rolled up Racing Forms and shook them at hollow monitors, cursing corrupt jockeys and slow moving horses.
It was painfully obvious that she didn’t belong. Yet there she was, sitting at the bar in a smart black dress with matching black belt and a single strand of pearls draped around her bare neck. She inhaled a cloud of steam that rose from her mug and caressed her young, smooth face. “Mmm . . . I love the smell of coffee,” she chimed, “but I just can’t stand the taste.”
With plenty of seats at the bar she chose to take the stool next to me. I wasn’t sure how to take that, but I wasn’t about to lodge a complaint. Being a bachelor for my entire thirty-two years I knew just the proper response to her comment. “Uh . . . I know what you mean.”
For some reason my sharp wit didn’t scare her away, but she wasn’t about to elope with me either. Instead she meticulously tended to her drink, and her thoughts, as if she were completely alone. She gazed down at her cup like it was a crystal ball.
“The seven horse is going to win this race,” she said, not looking at anyone in particular.
I looked up at the monitor and noticed the seven horse was a 10 to 1 long shot.
“Really?” I said, hoping she was talking to me.
She simply nodded.
“Is that who you’re betting on?” I asked.
For the first time she engaged me with her smile, warm, caring, even motherly.
“I don’t gamble,” she said.
Now I knew she didn’t belong here. “Can I ask you a question?”
“Sure,” she said. “You want to know what I doing here, at a sports bar, when I don’t gamble or drink?”
“Well . . . uh . . . yeah.”
“Just visiting,” she said playfully, with the tiniest of giggles.
Over her shoulder I noticed the race starting at Hollywood Park. A wall of horses rushed out of the gate. It took a moment for me to spot the seven horse. He was dead last.
“Don’t worry,” she said, stirring her coffee. “He’ll win.”
Less than a minute later the seven horse was flying down the lane passing horses like they were on a trail ride. He won easily.
“Why didn’t you bet on that horse?” I asked. “You could have won a lot of money.”
“What would I do with the money?”
“I don’t know—”
“Would it buy me more time on the planet?”
“No.”
“Then I have no use for money.”
I was fascinated. I looked for a wedding ring and spotted a modest, yet elegant diamond on the appropriate finger. Before I could say a word she said, “Yes, I’m married.”
My mouth locked open in amazement. She turned towards me, closed my mouth with her soft fingers, and smiled. “What’s your favorite cake?” she asked.
“Excuse me?”
“Cake,” she repeated. “Which type do you prefer?”
“I’ve always been partial to chocolate.”
“Good,” she said.
“Good?”
“Yes, good. Chocolate lovers tend to be nicer people than most.”
“Is that from some sort of scientific study?”
“No, just an intuition I’ve always had.” She shrugged. “What do you do for a living?”
“I’m a carpenter.”
She lifted my hand, held it palm side up and gently stroked it. At the same time she looked straight into my eyes, as if she were looking straight through them, into the back of my head.
“You’re no carpenter,” she said. “You’re a writer.”
“Yes, well, I do write, but I don’t really tell people that.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’ve never been published before. Right now I write, but until I get published I wouldn’t call myself a writer.”
“You shouldn’t be so modest, you’re a good writer.”
I squirmed uncomfortably. “Look, I’ve got to be honest with you—”
“I scare you.”
“A little.”
“You shouldn’t be frightened. I’m clairvoyant, that’s all. That’s how I know which horse will win. That’s how I know you’re a good writer.” Then she snapped her fingers while her eyes brightened. “I know just the girl for you.”
“Really?”
“Yes, her name is Kelli Sommers. She works in that big bank building downtown; you know the one with the clock. Her office is on the fourteenth floor, some large law firm. She’s perfect for you.”
“Why?”
“Because she loves to read and you love to write. Besides, she’s looking for someone to spend the rest of her life with, just like you.”
“What makes you think I’m looking for someone to spend the rest of my life with?”
“Oh, please,” she rolled her eyes. “What are you drinking?”
“Diet Coke.”
“How many horse races have you bet on?”
“I don’t gamble much.”
She shook her head in disbelief. “And you wondered what I was doing here. It’s Sunday afternoon
and you decided it was better to watch the football game at a bar on the outside chance you might meet someone. Am I right?”
“Well,” I admitted, “it’s a matter of law of averages. I mean if I put myself in the proper places enough times I’m bound to strike gold eventually.”
“Listen, Loverboy. You probably haven’t been on a third date in years because you’re busy with your work, you’re busy with your writing, and you’re enjoying life too much to compromise for anything less than the perfect woman. Well guess what? Kelli Sommers is as close as you’re ever going to get to perfect in your lifetime. Don’t let the opportunity pass you by. There’s an old saying, ‘Marry the right person, that one decision will determine ninety per cent of your happiness.’ Believe me I know, I married a wonderful man and I couldn’t be happier.”
“How do you—”
“Oh, just trust me,” she said. Then she pointed to a man sitting at the end of the bar. His head hung low as he read the past performance chart in the Racing Form. His right hand strangled a glass of beer like it was trying to escape. “See that guy over there? His wife is cheating on him. He’s trying to cry, but he doesn’t know how. So he drinks and he smokes and he bets on horses. One good cry and he could speed up the healing process by weeks.”
“And her,” she said, pointing to a cocktail waitress wearing a short pleated skirt that barely covered her waist. “Don’t get me started on her.”
“Tell me something,” I said.
“Yes,” she said. She sat upright and faced me with her hands in her lap like an obedient grade school student.
“You’re a beautiful, young woman . . . make that a beautiful, young married woman. You’re bright, articulate, and terrific at picking horses.” I shrugged. “Who are you?”
“I’m Angela,” she said, like I should have known all along. “I’m on my way back to my husband’s birthday party. You see, I was just about to light the candles on the cake when I realized I was out of candles. Now you can’t have a birthday party without candles, can you?”
I shook my head.
She reached down to grab her purse as she continued the story. Shuffling through her things, her voice became choppy, “Well I know I bought them at the store just this afternoon, but I couldn’t find them anywhere. Finally, I asked my four-year-old daughter, Rachel—did I tell you about her? She’s a living doll. Look.” She handed me a picture from her purse. The with the guilty voice of an unfit mother, she sighed. “I’m so sorry, this is the only picture I have with me.”
It was peculiar. Not the picture itself—it showed a pretty young girl in a pink dress riding on a carousel. Angela was right, she was adorable. It was the photograph itself that was strange. It was thick as cardboard with wide, white borders like the Polaroid’s
my parents used to show me when I was a kid. I handed it back to her, polite not to mention its quality. “She’s a real cutie pie.”
“Yes, well,” she said, “Rachel was with me at the store, so I asked her if she knew where the candles were. She knew all right. She had taken them out of the cart to play with. She doesn’t remember where she left them, however. So I went back to the store to get some more . . .” Her voice cracked. “I’m late. I’m very late.”
She pulled a tissue from her purse and wiped a pair of eyes that had suddenly become puffy and moist. She sobbed uncontrollably, then dug her face into my shoulder. I wrapped her in my arms and stroked the back of her head.
“It’s okay,” I said. “Things happen.”
Her body quivered in my arms.
“Do you need a ride?” I asked.
She shook her head and turned into my ear and whispered, “It’s not her fault. You see I left my wallet at the store also. I had to go back anyway. It wasn’t her fault.”
“I see,” I said, not sure why she would be so emotional about leaving candles behind at a store.
She leaned back, took a deep breath, and pulled her purse strap onto her shoulder.
“I’ve got to get back,” she said, wiping off the finishing touches from her eyes. She gently touched my cheek. “I need you to do me a favor.”
“Sure.”
“I forgot to tell my piano teacher I wouldn’t be able to make my lesson today. He doesn’t answer his phone when he’s giving lessons, so you need to go over there and tell him I won’t make it.”
“Oh, I don’t know—”
“Please, Michael.”
The sound of my name coming out of her mouth sent a nerve up my spine. I suspected that she knew much more than just my name.
“I’ll tell you what,” she said. “I’ll give you the winner of the next race. If you place twenty dollars on this horse to win, you’ll get eight hundred and sixty dollars back. If he doesn’t win, you’re only out twenty bucks, and you don’t have to go see my piano teacher. But if he wins, you go. Deal?” She held out her hand.
“Deal,” I said shaking her hand. “Which horse?”
She gave me a crooked smile. “Number four.”
She drew me exact directions to her piano teacher’s house on a cocktail napkin, turned to leave, then stopped. “Oh yeah, I almost forgot. Wish him a happy birthday for me.”
“It’s his birthday too?”
She nodded playfully, then left.
I stayed for the next race and watched the four horse win just as Angela had predicted. I actually felt like I was committing a crime when I collected the money.
* * *
Sticking to our agreement, I headed for the piano teacher’s house. It was in an older part of town. The streets were wide and the trees were all oversized from age. Each house seemed a mile apart. Angela’s directions were impeccable. I rolled to a stop in front of the house. It sat up on a hill surrounded by a large expanse of carefully manicured grass, with hedges that framed the long pathway to the entrance. From the curb I could see balloons tied to the screen door. The roof extended over the front windows creating an overhang for the porch, where an attractive woman in a bright pink dress was curled up on a patio chair reading a hard covered book. When she spotted me heading up the tiled path she jumped up cheerfully and yelled into the house through the screen door, “He’s here, Dad!”
Her eyes beamed with delight and her smile widened with each step I took. She stood to greet me at the top of the steps. There was something familiar about her face.
“We’ve been waiting for you,” she said.
I shook her outstretched hand and said, “Hello.” I was pretty sure she was mistaking me for someone else, so I added, “I’m Michael.”
“Nice to meet you, Michael,” she said.
The screen door opened and a handsome man in his mid-forties greeted me with a smile and a slap on the shoulder.
“Come on in, son,” he said. “We’ve got a place set for you at the table.”
“Um . . . actually, I came by to tell you—”
“About Angela, right?” he said.
“Yeah, she’s not going to—”
“Make her piano lesson?”
“Something like that. She also wanted to wish you a happy birthday.”
“Sure, my boy, you did your job. Now come in, please, and tell me all about it,” he said.
The woman held open the screen door and the cheery man ushered me into the house. The home was bright, with windows and mirrors strategically placed for an open, yet cozy atmosphere. The living room was lined with shelves and bookcases, all sprinkled with statues of Saints, lit candles, and an occasional trophy in the shape of a musical note. Fronting the large picture window was a shiny black piano with the lid slanted open exposing the taut steel strings.
I was led into the kitchen where the man and young woman sat down at a mature oak table. There were three place settings with dessert plates and forks. The centerpiece was a dark chocolate birthday cake sprouting a single unlit candle.
“Sit down . . . uh . . .”
“Michael.”
“Yes, Michael, sit down.” The man pulled
back the chair in front of one of the place settings. “You like chocolate cake don’t you?” You know what they say about chocolate cake lovers.”
“Yes, I’ve heard,” I said.
“Now, Michael, first tell me—what was Angela wearing?” the man asked with a tiny grin that I could tell was going to grow into a full-out smile no matter what answer I gave.
“Well, sir, she wore a black dress with a black belt to match.”
The woman leaned into the man, “I’ll bet she wore the pearls with that outfit.”
“She did,” I confirmed.
“Where did you see her?” he asked.
“At Mulligan’s, over on Fourth Street.”
“Ooow,” he cringed, “she must’ve looked quite overdressed.”
“Quite,” I said, giving the short answer while scouting an opening for my full canyon of questions.
“Tell me,” the woman said, “What did you talk about?”
“I don’t know, bar talk mostly. You now, marriage—”
“Marriage!” the man chimed. “What did she say about marriage?”
“Well, she said she was happily married.”
Inexplicably the woman got up and placed a box of tissues in front of the man, then he wrapped his arm around the young woman’s shoulder and delicately kissed the top of her head. A single tear maneuvered its way down the woman’s cheek. I turned back toward the entrance and planned my exit.
“Oh, Daddy,” she groaned, “I’m so very sorry.”
He held up his hand signaling me to wait. “Michael,” he said, “I apologize. This is a rather bittersweet moment for us. You see, my name is Henry Johnson, and this is my daughter, Rachel. Angela was my wife and her mother. She was the kindest, most caring person the world has ever seen. Unfortunately, she was killed by a drunk driver on my birthday, twenty years ago today.”
I shook my head. “You obviously have me mistaken for someone else. The woman I met today was young, maybe twenty-five, and very much alive.”
Henry frowned, then got up and left the room. A minute later he returned with a handful of pictures. He dropped them on the table in front of me. I lifted the first one and saw an attractive young woman chasing a little girl in the snow. The girl’s mouth was wide open and you could almost hear her screaming with delight as she tried to escape the outstretched arms of the woman. The woman was clearly Angela.