The Color of Home: A Novel

by Rich Marcello

It was as if he’d lived inside an inflated balloon on a plateau ever since his father died. With each new person or event, he stretched a little, only to wobble head-first into an unseen wall he could only scale with a leap.

  And Sassa was there with him. For a year? Stuck in the same place for her own reasons. Or passing through. No wonder she had to leave.

  He reached under his chair and pulled out a soccer ball he’d found in the woods. He kicked it off the porch. Fellini sprinted into the yard, then pranced back to the porch, wet, muddy, with the partially deflated ball shaking back and forth between his teeth.

  “You need a bath.”

  Rachel had stretched him through her sheer presence. Unable to propel himself far enough or long enough to burst out alone, she helped him stress the balloon surface close to its breaking point. He’d almost busted out before she died, but her death caused his momentum to flip, change direction, and retrace an old path back to a new middle where the balloon found its original shape, fortified from hysteresis.

  The storm cleared, the air still thick with the smell of mud. Ayahuasca without the side effects. Fellini was lying in front of him, head turned back, watching his every move. He began to sob. For his father. For Sassa. For all those who had suffered. For all those that would. He wept for Rachel. An almost. He squeezed both of his hands around the ends of the rocking chair. Fuck. An almost.

  Rachel came into his life to do a job that only she could do. Once she had helped him burst out of the balloon, once he no longer believed in solid ground, once he had replaced the balloon with uncertainty, with connection, once he’d found “Love,” she would have let him go. Not because she wanted to, but because she loved him. She’d known full well that she couldn’t help him leap. She’d known deep down that he would return to Sassa. And she helped him anyway. Fuck.

  Fellini stood up and started barking at him with a special cadence. He went to the freezer and grabbed a handful of ice, then spread it out across the porch. Fellini lay down and started to chew.

  • • •

  Debbie was right: by choosing life, Nick had chosen Sassa. He switched on his phone and stared at Sassa’s number. Not yet. He needed more time by himself to process what had happened. More time to write songs to prove that he could follow “Love,” prove it wasn’t a fluke. More time to trust his creativity. More time out of respect for Rachel.

  What would he do? He’d spend as much time as required writing Songs of Love and Loss. He’d do the whole album in his cabin with an acoustic guitar and whatever else he could rummage up. The title of the record, originally not right for Rachel’s CD, sounded perfect for Nick’s. He’d dedicate the album to her. “Love” would be the lead track.

  He parked himself in the cabin and leaned into work, Fellini by his side. Ten hours a day. Like clockwork. The lo-fi studio fueled him, provided him with an edge and a level of honesty in the recording process that wouldn’t have existed in New York. As the year progressed, he tapped into the feeling he had when he wrote “Love” more and more. He began to trust his ability to create. Gradually, he pushed deeper, untangled himself.

  At the end of the year, he finished the eleventh and final song for the album, “Good-bye.” He snapped a picture of the cabin and used the photo as his album cover. Pictures of different objects around the cabin—the juicer, his guitar, the wood pile, the furniture he’d made—as well as Fellini doing his favorite things, filled out the liner notes and back cover of the CD. He scribbled the lyrics, left in all of the scratched-out errors, and asked the CD manufacturer to reproduce the lyrics on the liner notes as an exact duplicate of his handwritten pages. The last verse of “Good-bye” closed with, “I wish I could see your face when I say these words / I’ve got to say good-bye.” The liner notes “I’m writing to say good-bye. I’m leaving the middle behind, rejoining the world, acknowledging everything that you and that place have taught me. Dad, I need to go home. Rachel, I finally broke free. I love you both.”

  The CD production run of Songs of Love and Loss completed in three weeks. A thousand copies. When the CDs arrived at the cabin, he opened a box, loaded one of the CDs into his computer. Eyes closed, he stood with his hands tucked into his armpits, thumbs visible and pointing up, as he scrutinized the entire album. When “Good-bye” finished, he bowed. Applause.

  He missed Rachel. Her face. Her touch. Her laugh. And his father. He’d so much more to add since the last time they spoke. And Sassa. For the first time in two years, he wanted to see her. His time in Great Falls had run its course.

  • • •

  Nick arranged to have dinner with Debbie to say good-bye, to thank her for her support, to affirm their friendship. They both dressed for the occasion. He rented a black tuxedo from a local shop. She wore a sleeveless little black dress with a scalloped hem and lace overlay, which was sheer just above the chest. Black pumps lifted her four inches. They settled at a quiet table in the back of the most expensive restaurant in Billings.

  “You look fantastic,” he said.

  “You’re not too bad yourself.”

  “I brought you a copy of Songs of Love and Loss.”

  “The title is perfect.”

  “Yeah, I like it as well.”

  “I’m sure I’m going to love the songs. I have all of the context. When will you leave?”

  “Next week. I’m going to drive. I’ll get up one morning, load the truck, and go. Let me know if you want anything out of the cabin.”

  “Fellini?”

  “Except Fellini.”

  “You love that dog.”

  “Our first road trip. I wanted to thank you for everything you’ve done for me. You’ve been a real friend.”

  “I figured I’d get better tips if I listened to you.”

  “It worked.”

  “Will you see Sassa?”

  “I plan to. I haven’t spoken with her in two years.”

  “A lot can change in two years.”

  “That’s true, but no matter what, she needs to know.”

  They stayed at the restaurant until closing time. They’d never had a sustained multihour conversation until that night. He asked her a ton of questions about her life, her goals, her dreams—until he was sure he really saw her. They talked, laughed, ate off of each other’s plates so they could try more of the menu, had three bottles of Altamura Cabernet Sauvignon, and ended the dinner with double espressos to sober up before the drive home.

  “Are you up to driving me home?” she asked.

  “I think so.”

  “I’ll call a taxi. You can leave the truck in the parking lot.”

  When they slid into the taxi, Nick knew they would spend the night together. Sleeping together seemed like the right way to end their relationship. They’d come to know each other well enough that they wouldn’t confuse sex for anything more than a good-bye.

  In Debbie’s apartment, they stopped talking and gently, slowly, made their way to her bed. It was the first time Nick had been with a woman since Rachel died. He wasn’t nervous or inhibited; instead, he brought everything that he had learned about sex from Rachel, from Sassa, on his own, into the bed that night. Debbie, more and more receptive, shed layers of inhibition as the night progressed. They stayed up until 5:00 a.m., finally dozing off, exhausted and satisfied.

  They awoke, starving, after six hours of sound sleep. Later, at a local breakfast place, they devoured three-egg omelets, pancakes, toast, bacon, and two full pots of coffee.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  “For what?”

  “I don’t think anyone has ever said good-bye to me like that before.”

  “You’re blushing.”

  “I’ll remember last night, you, for the rest of my life. I was so hungry.”

  “Life is all about sex and food, my friend.”

  “Sassa is a lucky girl.”

  The next week, Nick and Fellini departed Great Falls and headed for New York City. On their way out of town, Nick texted Sassa to let her
know he was heading east. He asked if he could visit her in Portland once he was back for a few days. Sassa replied immediately, stating that she no longer lived in Portland, had relocated back to New York, could see him as soon as he arrived, and, without going into details, had a lot to tell him.

  CHAPTER 16

  Early May, After Sassa Year four, New York City: Fellini gravitated to the living room sofa of Nick’s apartment. He vaulted on the left cushion; then he circled down into a familiar ball. Nick slouched down next to him, and while scratching Fellini’s back, surveyed the living room. All his belongings, coated with a thick layer of dust, remained exactly where he’d left them two years ago. The television, the books, the furniture, even items minute as Rachel’s guitar picks, had formed a still-life. For a moment, he swore he smelled peppermint and lemon.

  A dozen or so unevenly stacked boxes precipitously towered in the corner. Before Nick took off for Great Falls, he’d emptied Rachel’s apartment. He’d given away all of the big items—the bed, tables, chairs, lamps, rugs—but he couldn’t bring himself to part with her clothes, her make-up, her brushes, her perfume, her jewelry, all of the things that made up her personas. He’d packed the personas into boxes and hauled them over to his apartment.

  Next to him on the sofa stood Rachel’s guitar. He picked it up and doodled up and down the fretboard, pressing each metal string until they tattooed his fingertips. His mind crowded. Raced. The Fleet Foxes concert, Difara’s, Ocean House, the tantric sessions, “Gordian Knot,” “Love,” all fired in rapid succession. He played the guitar solo from “All Along the Watchtower.” Jim Hendrix was a god. Was she playing?

  He jumped up and gently laid the guitar down on the sofa. Stepping over clutter, he walked to the corner of the room and spread out the boxes in a circle around him. A medicine wheel of sorts. Fellini jumped off the sofa and joined him inside the circle. Combing each box for memories—leather girl, hippie girl, preppie girl, tantric girl—he placed silver earrings, a Buddhist prayer bracelet, a tie-dyed bandana, and a black leather vest off to the side. For an hour, he black-bagged the remaining articles from each box and carted the bags out to the trash bin. After dumping the last bag, he slipped his phone out of his pocket and called the studio to schedule a late afternoon meeting.

  • • •

  The room bustled as Nick’s employees crammed into the makeshift conference room. He stepped onto a wooden box in the corner and quieted the room. Fellini wandered out into the audience like a politician working a fundraiser and collected admirers.

  “As you all know, I needed to leave New York for a while after Rachel died. I rented a cabin in Great Falls, Montana. Over time, part of how I figured things out was through music. I ended up working on an album last year, called Songs of Love and Loss. I wanted you all to be the first to hear it. Oh, and I brought food.”

  Caterers paraded into the studio with a bountiful supply of Italian takeout: veal parmesan, sausage and peppers, vegetarian lasagna, bruschetta, wine, beer. The smell of red sauce filled the room. All take-out sauce in New York was the same, as if there were a single Italian grandmother supervising each and every batch. The musicians heaped their plates and filled their glasses. Someone made a large plate of veal and sausage for Fellini. Nick cued up the album.

  Songs of Love and Loss poured through the studio monitors. A hush came over the room as the first notes from “Love” sounded. When the song finished, silence. What to make of it? He sipped his wine and watched for micro-expressions. Shaken. Impressed. Moved. Hmm. He scratched his knee, downed a piece of bruschetta.

  The album played on, strengthened its hold, laced together Nick’s story. Each song, melodic in a familiar and original way, reminiscent of the Beatles or the Beach Boys, built on the last. “Showers of Grace” to “Growing Down” to “Stillness.” Almost a full hour after “Love,” the last song, “Good-bye,” faded into the big calm. Then the bass player started snapping his fingers. Others joined in. People with lighters lit them above their head. People with smartphones fired up their flashlight app and did the same.

  Scattered tears. A vocalist hugged herself and swayed to and fro. The drummer nodded. All lined up.

  A hug. “Amazing. So emotional.”

  “Thank you.”

  Another hug. Fellini jumped up to get in on the action. Laughter. “Best thing I’ve heard in years.”

  “Thanks.”

  A kiss on the cheek. “The cabin saved you.”

  “That it did.”

  • • •

  The next day, Nick texted Sassa: Let’s meet at Joe’s for coffee. An hour later, he stepped into the café.

  Sassa, wearing a black business suit, black pumps, and rectangular black glasses, the kind you might see in an Italian movie from the sixties, was already sitting at a table sipping her tea. She pushed a cappuccino with a leaf sketched into the froth his way. “How are you?”

  “Okay.” He sat down. Under the table, he tightened his fist, loosened it a few times. Reaching across the table with his free hand, he brushed Sassa’s suit. New perfume. Power tangerine. “Nice.”

  “Meeting. A lot has happened since I last saw you.”

  When he’d last seen her in Portland, before the accident, she seemed happy. She belonged there. A hippie vegetarian. A flock of kids down the road. A farm in the country. Her version of home. And his. “How come you’re back in the city?”

  “After you left, I threw myself into work.”

  “Work helped?”

  “Yes. About six months later, the restaurant was doing so well that a few businesswomen approached me out of the blue and proposed opening a chain of Green Angel’s.”

  “Wow. So you own multiple restaurants?”

  “I turned them down at first, but they pushed hard. They presented a surprisingly compelling business plan, so I signed on.”

  “Weren’t you the one asking me to write a business plan just a short time ago?”

  She smiled. “They recommended smaller cities with colleges and a younger demographic, so we settled on Portsmouth, Cambridge, and New Haven. Six months later, we launched those three restaurants to positive reviews across the board.”

  “Wow.” He’d always thought Sassa would run her own business, but listening to her talk business pulled him in a way he hadn’t experienced before. Work would always be part of home for her. Work had centered her, helped her find calm.

  She took off her glasses, folded them, placed them on the table. “The plot thickened after the restaurants opened.”

  “How so? Why the glasses? They look good on you.”

  “My partners approached FoodNation to secure additional financing for expansion. They explained, apparently well, our growth plans for the restaurant. FoodNation liked our stuff so much that they bought us out a month after our initial request for help. Their CEO likes the glasses.”

  “You sound like a businesswoman.”

  “So I’m told.”

  “I like it.”

  She smiled into her teacup. “They asked me to be the face of the restaurant. They even funded The Green Angel Vegetarian Cookbook.”

  “I still don’t understand how you ended up back in New York.”

  “I accepted their offer with the condition that they open the flagship Green Angel in New York. I’m the chef/owner of that restaurant.”

  “You demanded something from a multi-national and got your way?”

  “The glasses.”

  He picked up his cappuccino. Every grain of the ceramic handle danced off his fingers, as if she’d transferred some mysterious energy to all of the inanimate objects around her. How did she do that? It took his breath away. “How many restaurants are there?”

  “We’re in the process of opening twenty across the country. I’m traveling all the time. I’ve never worked so hard in my life.”

  “You sound like you’re in love.”

  “I’m surprisingly good at all of the corporate stuff. I hope I don’t sell out.”
/>
  “You sound solid, not like someone who’s going to sell out.” He’d never seen her so solid, so confident, so full of grace and power. Maybe in order to find her way back to him, she had to find work first.

  “So tell me about you. What happened over the past two years?”

  “Let’s go back to my apartment. Probably the best way to start is for you to meet someone and listen to some music.”

  “Don’t you think you should keep me away from your girlfriends?”

  “Not a girlfriend.”

  • • •

  When Nick and Sassa stepped inside Nick’s apartment, Fellini scooted over to Sassa with his tail wagging. She bent down. A big hug. He licked her face. Blonde and black hair intermingled.

  “Nick, he’s so big. What’s his name?”

  “Fellini.”

  “Fellini, you’re so handsome,” she said. She sat on the floor. Fellini lifted his paw and she shook it. She scratched the top of his snout until he sneezed. Scratching behind his ear, she pushed her nose right up to his snout, where the two of them conversed for a bit without another English word. “Where did you find him?”

  “I adopted him from a shelter in Montana.”

  “Montana?”

  “Yeah. I rented a cabin on the outskirts of Great Falls.”

  “I had no idea you landed out there.”

  “Secluded.”

  “I can see country living has been good for your physique.”

  Perched on the windowsill, he glanced at his arms, his chest, his legs. His body had changed. He’d built muscle everywhere, more than enough to store the sadness, more than enough to weather any storm, more than enough to make his way home. “Russian kettlebells. Iron weights with an attached handle that you swing around.”

  “You may have to teach me a thing or two about them. Finding time to exercise these days has been impossible.”

  “Really?”

  “What did you do out there?”