Walking Through and Other Stories

by Francine Fleming

  The telephone’s shrill ring startled me. I reached for the phone on the bedside table. “Hello?”

  The voice on the other end was tentative. “Megan? It’s Laura.”

  I let out an audibly frustrated breath but said nothing.

  “Megan? Are you there?”

  “Yes, I’m here. How are you Laura?”

  “I’m okay. How’re you?”

  “I’ve got the flu.”

  “Yeah. I can hear it in your voice. Hope you feel better soon. Can you talk for a bit?”

  “Okay, for a bit.”

  “Mom has been asking for you. Please, won’t you come see her, or even just call her? We don’t want her to go this way.”

  How dare she? I fumed silently. This was blatant emotional blackmail. I wanted to say so, but held back.

  “Megan?”

  “Yes, I’m here. Listen, you have to give me a day or two. My head is all muddled with this flu and there’s a lot going on with me right now.”

  “Of course. I’m sorry I don’t mean to stress you out. I just thought you would want to know. I understand where you’re coming from, but please, think about it and let me know as soon as you can.”

  Again, I expelled a loud breath into the receiver. “Alright. I will.”

  Her voice sounded teary. “Thank you. I’ll let you go. Take care of yourself.”

  “Thanks, Laura. You too.”

  I replaced the receiver. The tears flowed then. Could I allow Helen to go that way? "Stop it, Megan. Stop crying for her," I admonished myself. I wiped away my tears with my pajama sleeve, and then put my hand to my forehead. It felt hot. After retrieving my cold and flu meds from the bathroom cabinet, I pulled on my terry robe, fetched my laptop from my desk and headed down to the kitchen. My conversation with Laura stayed with me. “Damn her for adding this weight to my shoulders,” I grumbled.

  “A soothing cup of tea will fix everything, Meg.” I recalled Mom’s words to an adolescent me whenever I went to her with some life altering problem. It was times like this that I missed her most. I pushed my conversation with Laura to a far corner of my mind while making myself that soothing cup of tea. Mug in one hand and my laptop in the crook of my arm, I settled into the comfy armchair in the den and forced myself to focus on my most recent draft of Dahlia’s story.

  The laptop slowly came to life when I pressed its ‘on’ button. A series of blinking lights told me it had booted up. My finger hovered over the internet browser icon. I hadn’t put any research into Dahlia’s story. Her recollections, I reasoned, were research enough. Though tempted to do some digging into her past, I held off, not wanting anything I might find online to bias or influence my narrative so far. Research could wait, I decided. I poured through the pages of her story, satisfied with the draft, completed up to my last set of notes.

  ***

  Cabin fever was setting in as one week rolled into another. “I think I should be well enough to make the trip to Forest Brook on Sunday,” I said to Bradley during Thursday evening dinner.

  He didn't respond.

  I forced a smile. “Dad will be happy, and Dahlia too. She must be wondering where I've been.’’

  “Yeah, of course. Gotta look out for Dahlia,” Bradley said, his voice terse.

  My heart fluttered. "Why...why don't you come with me?"

  I stared at him and couldn’t decide what expression I read on his face. He stood and, mechanically, began to clear the table. Before leaving the dining room, he stopped and turned to me. “If only you could hear yourself, you'd know how much like an afterthought that suggestion sounded."

  I sighed heavily. "What do you want, Bradley? I'm trying, alright!"

  "Trying? C'mon, Megan. You want me to come with you as much as you want your flu to come back. I wonder if there even is a Dahlia? How do I know you didn’t invent her, huh? If I were the jealous type, I would wonder what you’re really up to during your so-called Sunday visits.” He turned and left me, gawking after him.

  “They’s delivering and you’s taking.” I heard Josephus’s blatant accusation in Bradley’s veiled one. I stood and removed the remaining dishes then followed him to the kitchen. “Seriously? You can't be suggesting that I'm having an affair?”

  “You’re the writer. Read between the lines.”

  I shook my head. “If that's what you're implying, you’re one to talk,” I shot back. “How about that Cheryl incident, huh, and what Lenore told me?”

  He groaned and rolled his eyes before reaching for the dishwasher door. “You’re not dredging up that crap again? I was having dinner with a colleague. I have working dinners with my colleagues all the time. You know that.”

  Dishes clattered as I clumsily stacked the ones I had cleared from the table into the dishwasher. “Working dinner? According to Lenore, you two were doing anything but working.”

  Bradley pushed the dishwasher door shut and turned to face me. “Man, you sure have selective memory when it suits you.”

  My heartbeat quickened. I clutched the kitchen counter. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Are you going to tell me you don’t remember what you’d said then? That Lenore was bitter because of the nasty divorce she was going through? That she directed that bitterness toward you, like she wanted you to know how it felt? Those were your words, Megan. I can’t believe you’re still holding onto that nonsense.”

  At that moment I despised him for flinging my words back at me.

  “I’ve never been unfaithful to you,” he said, his tone growing angrier. “And you damn well know it.” He moved closer to me until inches separated us. “I’m not so sure if I can say the same of you.”

  My nerves felt as if they sprang to attention, ready to heighten the offensive. I looked up and into his blazing eyes. “You’re acting like a jerk, you know that? Why would I want anyone else? You’re enough trouble!” A sharp jab in my chest accompanied a quick intake of breath. For seconds, we both seemed immobilized. Inside, I winced at the irrational words that had slipped passed my lips before I’d had a chance to rein them in.

  Bradley’s face clouded. He stood before me, like a wounded bear, unsure of what to do with the arrow I had just shot at him. “Oh, I’m the jerk, am I? Why don’t you look in the mirror? Go on to your Dahlia or whoever. I’ve had enough of this bullshit!” He turned from me and with a few angry strides was at the kitchen door before I could formulate a response.

  “Fine! Go then!” I yelled at his retreating figure. The sound of the front door being opened and then slammed shut triggered a flood of tears. I angrily wiped them away, went to the kitchen’s built-in wine rack, selected a merlot and poured myself a large drink. Still teary eyed, I sat sipping the wine until only a drop of the blood red liquid remained in the wineglass. I placed the glass in the sink, opened the kitchen window blinds and stared out at a sky that resembled Van Gogh’s Starry Night. I pictured that masterpiece on display at the Museum of Modern Art and Bradley and I standing before it, admiring it.

  “Oh Bradley,” I sobbed. “What’s happened to us?” Slowly, I closed the blinds and headed upstairs, the wine and our argument pulsing in my head.

  ***

  Bradley returned at 12:15 a.m. according to the clock radio’s red numbers. I pretended to be asleep when I heard him come into our bedroom and head to the bathroom. Familiar bathroom noises escaped from behind the closed door – a stream of pee hitting water in the toilet bowl, the toilet’s flush, running water, and then teeth being brushed. I waited for him to climb into bed, to feel the warmth of his body heat and his muscular arm reaching across me while he snuggled close to whisper that he was sorry. Instead, I heard his footsteps heading toward our bedroom door, then the door being closed behind him. The sound of his footsteps faded as he walked away. Our bed felt too big and too empty without him beside me. I lay awake until sleep finally came, hours later.

  Over the following days, an uncomfortable chill settled between us like frost on a cold autumn m
orning. We spoke to each other only when necessary. And, when necessary, only in utilitarian sentences: “I’m working late tonight.” “The dry cleaner called, your dress is ready.” “I’m taking my car in for an oil change.” We even avoided being in the same room together, until bedtime when we settled into bed, back to back, like enemies forced to share accommodations.

  ***

  Sunday morning, I awoke to the sound of Bradley rummaging around in the kitchen. The clock radio read 8:00 a.m. I slipped my feet into my slippers, pulled my robe around me and hurried to the kitchen, curious as to why this early start to the day. By the time I made it down the stairs, I heard him go through the front door and pull it shut. I was alone and lonely and wanted him to come back to me. I glanced at the coffeemaker and saw he had made enough coffee for both of us. As I went to pour myself a cup, a folded piece of paper on the kitchen counter caught my attention. A bubble of hope floated through me. Bradley had left me a note, his effort to make up. He was sorry, I guessed, but couldn’t say so in person, so he put it in a note. It was a start. I took the paper from the counter, opened it and read “Playing 18 holes today. 9:00 tee off. Having lunch at the Club. Not sure what time I’ll be home.” The hope bubble burst. Head bent, I took my mug of coffee and went upstairs to shower and get dressed.

  ***

  The drive to Forest Brook was a welcome relief from the stifling atmosphere that permeated our home. But as I steered the SUV along the highway, neither Dad nor Dahlia were on my mind. At the forefront of my thoughts were my husband and our troubled marriage. I missed Bradley terribly; the Bradley with whom I had fallen in love. I missed those intimate moments that had held our marriage together, like dabs of glue – little kisses ‘hello’ and ‘goodbye’, preparing meals together, sharing anecdotes from our day, feeding off of each other’s laughter, or the comfortable silence when we were in the same room, each working on our own thing, but happily aware of the other’s presence.

  I thought about our fight and what Bradley had said before he stormed out of the kitchen - “look in the mirror.” I couldn’t, I thought, because I wasn’t sure I would like the person I saw there. That person would self-righteously dismiss Bradley’s remarks as unreasonable jealousy and resentment, even claim that there’s a bit of Josephus in every man.

  I pictured myself standing in a courtroom before an unsympathetic judge as he read aloud a long list of accusations: “Megan Craig you are accused of neglecting your already fragile marriage; of effectively committing the sin of omission by not telling Bradley about your Dahlia project; of delegating him to a minor role in your life; and of allowing Dahlia and her story to become your number one priority, even usurping your father. How do you plead?”

  “Guilty,” I wanted to scream. “I am guilty of all of it.”

  Ahead, the narrow road, leafy trees, and powder blue sky all blurred into one. Eyes filled with tears, I pulled onto the shoulder of the road and turned off the engine, then wept and wept until I felt I had spent my reservoir of tears. I pulled a Kleenex from my purse and wiped my eyes, then started the engine and steered the SUV onto the road. My imaginary judge’s accusations were true and I was guilty. I had become consumed by Dahlia and her story. Now it was time to pause and try to piece my life back together.

  Her story, I believed, was nearing its end at least as far as her career with the Jazz Deliverers. At times, she spoke about “being done with singing” or “after I stopped singing.” Curiously, she sometimes referred to herself in the third person. I longed to call Bradley and ask him his opinion. He would likely encourage me to dig deeper, research their histories – Dahlia’s and The Jazz Deliverers’. He would probably suggest that I search for their Walking Through album and experience it in its entirety. “Nothing like hearing a recording on vinyl,” he always said. I longed to have him share that experience with me. Bradley and I needed to fix things, fix us. But would he be open to working things out or had he truly had enough?

  The grounds of Forest Brook came into sight.

  ***

  Dad wasn’t in the lounge when I arrived. In his suite, I found him in the bedroom, still in his pajamas.

  “I’ve been feeling a bit under the weather,” he explained.

  My heart sank. “Dad, I hope you're not coming down with that nasty flu. Has the doctor seen you? Maybe you should be in the hospital.”

  He shook his head and gave me a little smile. “No, it isn't the flu, yes the doctor has seen me and he confirmed that. And I am in no hurry to go back to the hospital. You know what can happen to us old folk in there. We get swallowed up in the abyss that is that quagmire of germs, never to return.”

  I shook my head. “Oh Dad. You’re incorrigible.”

  “Better incorrigible than, well, you know. I’ll be fine. I'm not as frail as I look.”

  “I know, that. But your body is still healing from the stroke.”

  He stood up and came toward me. “Listen, why don't you go on to the lounge? I'm sure Dahlia will be there. I'll be along soon.”

  “We don’t need to visit in the lounge. Why don’t we stay here? I’ll arrange lunch for us and we can watch some old movies like we used to - you, Mom and me. Remember?”

  He smiled. “Sure I remember and that sounds fine, Meg. But I’ve been cooped up in here for days. I really wouldn’t mind a change of scenery from my suite. Go on to the lounge. I will join you there soon. Just tell me one thing before you go.”

  I frowned. “Sure. What is it?”

  “I don't mean to pry, sweetheart, but is everything okay? You know...at home?”

  I sighed. “Is it that obvious?”

  “Well, I can always tell when something is troubling my little girl.”

  I folded my arms around him and buried my face in his chest. The tears that slid down my cheeks settled on his pajama top and I felt him gently patting my back.

  “Meg,” he said. “I was at the church, right near the altar when you and Bradley were married. I saw your faces when you exchanged vows and I know you didn't make those vows lightly. Talk to him, honey. Bradley is a good man and a wonderful father. Your marriage has a strong foundation.”

  “I don't know if he wants to talk, Dad. We had a bad argument, said some hurtful things to each other.”

  Dad cupped my chin in his hand. His gentle eyes met mine. “Meg,” he said. “Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things, love never fails. Sure Bradley wants to talk and so do you. Sweetheart, don't throw away nearly 25 years over a rough patch.”

  “Aw Dad,” I sniffled. “I love you so much. Thank you for letting me be your daughter.”

  “I love you too sweetheart. And thank you for letting me be your Dad. Now go on and see if you find Dahlia. I won't be long.”

  Before turning to leave, I reached up to give him a kiss on his cheek.

  ***

  Dahlia was in her usual chair, chatting away with another resident. I took a seat nearby not wanting to interrupt them but she must have sensed my presence because she turned toward me and smiled.

  “Margaret, honey. You came back. You been gone a long, long time.”

  I went to her and we came together in our customary embrace. “Not that long, Dahlia.”

  “This here is my friend,” she pointed to the woman seated in the chair next to hers. “What’s your name again, dear?”

  The woman smiled and stood up. “I’m Isabelle.”

  “Nice to meet you, Isabelle. I’m Megan.”

  “Nice meeting you as well, Megan. I was just going for a swim. Nice chatting with you, Dahlia.”

  I smiled at her then turned to Dahlia. “So, how have you been?” I asked, settling into the chair that Isabelle had occupied. “Keeping well?”

  “Oh yeah. I’m alright, for an old lady,” she chuckled. “How come you been gone so long? Did you go somewhere?”

  “No, I didn't go anywhere. I had the flu.”

  “The flu, huh? Nasty business. But that’s what
saved me, you know.” Her eyes grew wide as she spoke. “If I hadn’t of caught that flu, I wouldn’t be here right now.”

  “What do you mean, Dahlia? How did the flu save you?”

  “Was the touring that killed them. See, if I hadn’t of caught that flu, I’d be dead too, just like the rest of them.”

  I leaned closer to her. “Them?”

  “Yeah,” she said. “The band. All of them died, except me. After the boys died, she was gone too. Dahlia was no more. I just couldn’t do it no more. You see, that crash that killed them, killed me too, on the inside.”

  My mouth gaped open. “Crash?” I asked.

  She stared at me as though she were staring right through me and her voice had taken on a strange, monotone timbre. "Yeah. The Jazz Deliverers was coming home from a bus tour. After we cut our first album, that fancy-man record executive arranged for us to go on tour, a country-wide tour he called it. We would even go overseas, to Europe and them fancy places after we were done touring here in the United States, but it wasn’t meant to be.”

  “Do you remember how it happened?" I asked, my voice just above a whisper.

  Dahlia shook her head. “Sure I do. That truck put an end to all them touring plans when it crossed the line on I-95. Rammed into the bus, head-on, like a big old fist…”

  They were returning home from their last tour, Dahlia told me. They had reached about the halfway point and still had another couple of days’ worth of travelling left when she fell ill with the flu.

  “Hit me like a ton of bricks," she said. “Well, Percy, he was our manager, he always come with us on tour. And when I got sick with that flu, he decided to take no chances. He took me to some clinic. And the doctor said I was in no shape to go the rest of the way by bus. So Percy fixed it so that I could fly home.”

  She paused then and I peered into her eyes, glistening with tears. “So, you made it home safely and the others did not?”

  She nodded. “Yeah. That truck showed no mercy, mashed up the tour bus, sent it flying into a ditch on the side of the road. Not one of them on board that bus got out from that accident alive.”

  Dahlia was weeping softly. I lay my notebook down and went over to hug her. Some forty-five years had passed since the crash and still she mourned the loss of her boys, The Jazz Deliverers and, perhaps, the loss of the Dahlia she once was.