The Moment Before

by Jason Makansi

  She pushed through the door, paused to breathe deeply, and strode toward the remaining empty chair, right next to John Veranda. The light scent of her perfume parted the atmosphere in front of her and left a faint fragrance behind her, like the dissipating tail of a glowing comet.

  Holly smiled inwardly when she noticed John’s eyes widen. Maybe it was the skin tight white jeans flared at the bottom, a style not popular since John had been in junior high, her shiny, cherry-red fingernails, or her just slightly too tight lemoncello sweater which did double duty as frame and uplift. Above all that, her hair was swirled into an elegant nest, large corkscrew strands dangling to outline her face, and that’s where Veranda’s gaze rested the longest.

  Holly stood behind her chair, grasping its top like an eagle on a branch, exhaled, smiled, and acknowledged each council member in sequence with a look and a quick tilt of the head.

  As she took her seat, John leaned over and said, “Where’s your baton?”

  She looked straight ahead, leaned over to him, and whispered, loud enough for everyone on the dais to hear, “Not where yours is.” John was too stunned to return a quip, but a broad smile spread across his face.

  Someone sighed. A few rolled their eyes.

  With introductions made and roll called, the council got down to old business. This wasn’t the monthly meeting held at the high school where the majority of the time was set aside for community input, but rather a regular business meeting with a few committee reports and a presentation by the sheriff on a couple of new trafffic lights. Holly counted seven concerned citizens in the room—a journalist taking notes, a couple of what Holly liked to call “neighborly curmudgeons,” old men who had an opinion on everything whether they knew anything about it or not, and a couple of students who looked like they were there for extra credit. Kathy Veranda was not present.

  As the meeting progressed, Holly said nothing, rarely letting her eyes fall on the man sitting next to her. Heather Briggs gave Holly a generous amount of eye contact, though. Finally, council president, Blake Andrews called for new business, and Holly’s hand shot up like she was in class and knew the answer.

  “Mizz Chicago?”

  “I think the council should solicit new ideas and study successful economic development initiatives in other areas.”

  “What do you mean, other areas?” Heather asked. “Outside the council? Outside the town? What?”

  “I lived with a close friend in an area of St. Louis that was undergoing extensive redevelopment. He could speak from direct experience on the transformation, the pros and the cons. He lived it.”

  Andrews asked, “If he doesn’t know our town, how can he tell us anything useful?”

  “It isn’t so much the specifics of the redevelopment, but the overall strategy and approach,” Holly said. “In many ways, the neighborhood faced the same issues as Saluki. After years of businesses relocating and leaving urban blight in their wake, the city focused on the university as the anchor for the community and driver of revitalization. That worked to a point. Then someone proposed something different, a museum. Not a museum with marble statues and dreary paintings from long-dead masters, but contemporary art. So contemporary, in fact, some patrons leave angry because they don’t understand the exhibits are art in the first place. But it draws young people and their money into the area like a magnet.”

  John leaned back, locked his hands behind his head, and stretched his legs until his foot unexpectedly knocked into Holly’s under the table. He was clearly enjoying the show.

  She ignored the bump. “I’m not saying the museum idea works for Saluki. The catalyst was the willingness to solicit new ideas. Try something wholly new. Take a calculated risk.”

  Holly quit talking. The silence was funereal.

  Finally, John spoke. “The official word, I believe, is ‘benchmarking’. Compare our situation to others.”

  “With all due respect, Mr. Veranda, I’m talking about soliciting ideas from people who don’t do this sort of thing for a living. Not professional planners, but rather real people who have lived through plan after plan after plan.”

  At the end of the discussion, no council member could perceive a large enough threat, or big enough disruption, to dissent. They voted to create a task force that Holly would head. Before the meeting adjourned, Blake Andrews pushed his chair back, and walked over to a credenza. There he picked up one of three identical three-ring binders stacked upright next to one another. Like dominoes, the others fell over, scaring up dust.

  “Anyone remember these?” he asked, turning around. He walked over to Holly and plopped the binder in front of her. She jumped. “Here,” he said, “you’ll want to review this.” Holly glanced down at the binder. The spine was labeled Town of Saluki, Illinois: Ten Year Growth and Development Plan—Executive Summary. Produced by the Economic Development Sub-committee, May 2004.

  “That was not only juvenile, Blake, but extremely rude!” Heather scolded.

  Before Holly could tell her it was okay, Blake blurted, “My apologies, but Mizz Chicago should familiarize herself with the most recent recommendations from outside consultants before she seeks new ones, don’t you think?”

  22

  December 26, 2009

  Facts on the ground. The phrase kept coming at Holly throughout Christmas night. She could not keep herself from dancing around her small house, playing Christmas song after Christmas song and pondering Maya’s paintings now hung on her walls, until finally, her joy descended into a solo erotic dance. No fear of audience or judgment. No need for tips.

  She had changed the music from Angels We Have Heard on High to Breath and Dark Side of the Moon and OK Computer, a CD from a contemporary band she had grown to like. She pulled from the closet her veils and scarves, and other paraphernalia from her dancing days. Midnight became one swirling mass of Holly in a cascading waterfall of color and fabric, amidst a multitude of candles.

  And to think she had feared spending Christmas day alone.

  Sometimes things came together in the strangest of ways, she thought—Penndel’s fired sculptures, Maya’s paintings, the vacant land of Veranda’s medical complex, the demons and delights pouring out of her when she was inside Joe.

  As the evening progressed, she conceived of a place—a modest place—an art gallery of sorts, to display what you can’t confront with words or articulate with everyday discourse. Works like Maya’s paintings, which have no meaning to those who run art galleries and museums, or Pendell’s creations that could have plenty of meaning to some, if they were only seen. The sensation, the urge to get started immediately, made her skin tingle and her hair stand on end. She stopped dancing. She knew just the place. John’s cleared, idle land. After all, John Veranda was the type of guy who could get things done in this town, and he liked her, so that was a plus. She knew where to find him tomorrow, just like on any other Saturday morning. So did everyone in town.

  The next morning, as day gave way to sunlight, Holly fried bacon while savoring the gray mist of fine frozen particles glistening off of layered snow. Even though she’d like to have spent the morning pondering the quilt of ice that lacquered the trees and the sidewalks, she ate her breakfast quickly. Then, like she always did trekking through the snow to her car, she looked back at her grand piano framed by the picture window, its lid elegantly displayed propped open to the world. That window and the front room with plenty of space for her piano was the reason she’d fallen in love with her bungalow in the first place.

  She made her way towards the intellectual capital of Saluki. John would already be ensconced at his favorite table in the corner after coughing up a five spot, four dollars and change, the remainder in the tip jar, for his latte customized like a teenager’s wet dream. In the years since she’d arrived in Saluki, he’d always commandeered the same table, situating himself to look outward to the shop, like a prince, cloaked in his mantle of The New York Times and Wall Street Journal. And in the year since he’d wrangl
ed her into joining the town council, she’d become almost as much of a regular as he was. They talked politics, and Saluki personalities, and always kept it professional. Or at least they both tried.

  Holly ordered a regular coffee, and handed over her thermos-sized mug, smiling at the quote emblazoned on the side—It’s the caffeine, stupid! Of course, it wasn’t just about the caffeine, it was about not wasting four dollars for a cup of coffee. Besides, she preferred to add her own blend of cinnamon, nutmeg, low-fat milk, and one packet of sugar, like a hobo blending condiments into hot water for soup.

  Quietly, she crept towards Veranda, flicked her finger against the newspaper hiding his face. “Oh, your munificence, are you in there?”

  John peeked from one side of the paper. “Well, if it isn’t one of our esteemed town council members.”

  Holly pulled a chair from the nearest table. “No time for small talk, Veranda. I’ve got this spectacular idea!”

  Veranda folded his paper and laid it on the table. “My Christmas was fine, Ms. Chicago. Thank you for asking. And how was your Christmas? Can I buy you a real cup of exotic java?”

  “What’s unreal about the one I have in my hands?”

  “Okay, okay. Why are you always so indignant first thing in the morning? Let me try again. How was your Christmas?”

  She didn’t want to tell him she’d spent Christmas by herself. “Oh, the usual, you know, a few presents, some good food and wine, singing some favorite carols. I take it the boys are home for the holidays?”

  “Only Chip. Serious girlfriends are in the picture for the other two.”

  “Tell him I said hello.”

  John folded his hands onto the table and leaned in. “He’ll love being noticed by a beautiful woman. I think he has a bit of a crush on you. For that matter, so does his dad.” He reached over and ran his finger across her hand. Holly caught her breath and pulled her hand away. She leaned back and fiddled with her coffee cup. Veranda smiled at her reaction. She knew she should tread lightly, and knew she was taking advantage of Veranda’s feelings for her, but she couldn’t help her response. “How’s your wife?”

  Veranda groaned, leaned back, and folded his arms across his chest. “All right. So, go ahead. Your idea.”

  “I need a corner of your vacant lot.”

  “That’s not an idea. That’s a transfer of property. Boldly requested, I might add. What are you talking about?”

  “I want to build an art gallery, one for artists who aren’t known, and aren’t ever likely to be. Artists who produce their art because it’s part of their survival.” Already, she was imagining strolling through a space displaying Penndel’s information fusions and Maya’s abstract paintings, and who knew what else she could discover. Maybe even artists from right here in Saluki.

  Veranda shoved his folded paper to the side and leaned forward again. “Saluki has a museum. It’s small, I admit, but fine enough for a town its size. It isn’t the Met, but—”

  Holly shook her head. “I’m talking about a gallery, Veranda. There’s a difference. I just need the space.”

  “I can’t just give you a piece of land. For one thing, it belongs to a limited liability corporation.”

  “You’re a smart man, John. You make things happen here in this town. You could make this happen. Just think, the gallery would be a start. We could build a community center, maybe not one with basketball courts and a swimming pool, but one for artistic expression, for the random interactions that lead to creativity … for people who—”

  “You’re going a little granola and Birkenstocks on me here, Holly.”

  “John, haven’t you ever known someone who writes beautifully, composes songs and plays them on the guitar, who paints, but never gets a chance to show their work, or is needlessly modest about their talent? Art i s all so intermediated by institutions, by experts.”

  “Yes, I have, Holly. Many times. Most recently, from the person staring at me right now, burning holes into my pupils. Veranda slid his finger over the top of Holly’s hand. This time she didn’t pull away.

  Damn him! She wanted to literally kick herself for letting Veranda read some of her attempts at poetry. An appalling moment of weakness. The only other person she’d let peer into her journals was Penndel, but at least he gave her something creative in return. MAR—mutually assured risk—she and Penndel had called it. But with Veranda, she felt utterly exposed. He had interpreted the act as a gesture of intimacy.

  Maybe it was. “We all have talented friends and people like these, John. Wouldn’t it be great if there was a place for people, here and anywhere for that matter, to display their artistic wares? No charge. No fees. Open to the public at large.”

  “It’s a far cry from a medical center.”

  Yes, and I’m really sorry about that, John, I know what it meant to you.” She squeezed Veranda’s hand. “But, think about it. What a connection. Art is therapeutic. I keep reading more and more about that. Just ask my friend Maya.

  “I understand where you’re coming from, but you have to be realistic. You know people in this town have far more serious things to deal with than feeding their aesthetic impulses. Have you been reading the papers? The country’s gone down the shitter, and Saluki’s going with it.”

  “All the more reason to build something modest, insignificant even, compared to the scale of the global economy you’re obsessed with. It would be meaningful to the suffering masses right here. You’re always talking about Wall Street versus Main Street. Let’s do something for Main Street. For the people of Saluki.”

  Veranda fingered the newspaper lying beside him. The ink blackened his finger tips. Holly’s idea made more sense than anything he’d read since the banks collapsed and took his medical center dreams with them.

  “As much as I like the idea, I can’t let you appropriate land willy-nilly. Who would pay for this gallery anyway?”

  “Would you look the other way if I had something small built on one of the far corners?”

  “The legal implications are legion. Liability, property rights, trespassing, usage permits, rights of way, water and electrical supply, parking. The list goes on.”

  “Life is only complicated because we make it complicated.”

  “Holly, don’t be naïve. Life is complicated because … it just is. Besides, I’m a lawyer. I’m paid to make things complicated and then to uncomplicate them.”

  This was going nowhere. Maybe if she let him chew on it for a bit, he might change his mind. “Excuse me. I’ll be right back.” Holly stood and smiled at him before walking toward the bathroom.

  John enjoyed Holly’s backside as she walked toward the restroom. He wished he could’ve spent at least part of Christmas with her, snuggled inside a plush bathrobe beneath a down comforter, tree lights flickering off her hair. As the door closed behind her, he shook off the thought, realizing his body was responding in kind. He looked around at the other patrons. Less than half as many filled the shop as a year ago, of that he was sure. He hoped the owner would be able to stay in business. He wanted more for Saluki. Not because he had “high-falutin” big city ideas, as some of his neighbors might think, but because he loved the place. He hadn’t wanted to end up here, but here he was and here he would remain. So why not make it the best town it could be? That was why the idea of giving up part of his family’s land for the medical center made so much sense. And why Stuart’s idea of housing jihadis from the so-called War on Terror on that same land made no sense at all. In fact, it turned his stomach.

  He’d convinced himself that Stuart’s call was nothing more than DHS putting out feelers. It had been months, and Stuart’s guy, Sugarman, hadn’t even called yet. In the meantime, he’d convinced Jim to try to resurrect the medical facility and renegotiate their deal with a new set of bankers. But John knew that in the world of business, time was not on his side. Still, no news is bad news. He put his customized latte to his lips and told himself he’d look at the plat map again. Maybe Holly’s
idea wasn’t so crazy. Well, it was crazy, but maybe not impossibly crazy.

  His concentration was broken as Holly walked back toward him. He absorbed the curvature of her body and the line of her neck, which again stoked his imagination in dangerous ways. How long had it taken her to work her hair up into the nest of wavey, languidly dangling curlycues? He’d love to unclip her locks, entangle his fingers in them, and pull her toward him.

  Holly sat back down and took a sip from her mug. When she looked up at John, his eyes met hers in a way that made her afraid she might not be able to breathe again, and all she could think of was that someday the tips of their tongues might meet to dance around each other, two points crowded onto the head of a pin where there was room for neither. She willed those carnal thoughts out of her head as quickly as they entered. His eyes told her he was doing the same. “Well?”

  “Actually, I did think of something.”

  “I’m all ears.”

  “I’ll need to check the plat map to be sure of the area, but there’s a small parcel sandwiched between what the corporation holds and the boundary of the Veranda ancestral estate.” John waggled his eyebrows. “And there’s a third parcel owned and farmed by our neighbor. Wedged in between all that, there’s a triangular piece for which ownership has always been ambiguous. Frankly, I don’t remember the details. No one has cared enough to wrangle over it. I’ll do a little research, and show it to you some time.”

  “No time like the present.”

  “As much as I’d like to, I can’t today. It’s the holidays. I’m in enough trouble coming here as it is.”