by APRIL ASHEIM
Spring tore open her purse and searched every pocket. A pair of old sunglasses, a green sock, and three Christmas photos of her Aunt Loraine’s dog fell to the ground. Finally, she found her Hello Kitty wallet. "I have forty-three dollars and twelve cents." She thrust the money at the man. "I’m good for the rest. I promise."
The man turned to regard her. His eyes ran from the top of her head to the bottom of her feet. It wasn’t a very promising appraisal. She was about to hand him the phone and begin her new life as a convict when he grabbed the money.
"I guess we could work something out." He shoved the money into his front pocket, leaned through the window of his truck, and produced a pen and paper. He scribbled the name 'John' on it and a number and handed it to Spring. "Call me."
"Wait a second!" Spring slapped his hand away. "Just because I hit your precious little truck doesn’t mean I’m going to have sex with you."
John laughed. "I’m not letting you off that easy, lady. Trust me. This truck is worth more to me than a few hours with any woman, let alone a lunatic. I could get that back home far cheaper."
Spring felt her face redden. "Well, then…I’m not going to date you either. I don’t date jerks."
The left corner of John’s mouth turned up in what Spring guessed was a smile. "You watch a lot of movies, don’t you? Again...not worth the trouble. Call me and we can set up a payment plan after I get an estimate."
Spring nodded, torn between gratitude and indignation as she took the slip of paper. "Thank you. Sorry about the jerk comment. You really are nice." She reached to hug him but he put his arm out in a halting motion.
"I’m not that nice. I’m just tired. It’s been a long day. Think I’m going to have my beer at home instead." With a final shake of the head, he entered his truck and drove away. Spring hoped the scraping sound she heard as he pulled out was a preexisting condition. She took the sheet of paper, folded it twice, and placed it in the pocket of her wallet where there had once been money. She grabbed her things and trudged inside. Near the rear of the bar she spotted a small round table and seated herself. "Hi, honey I’m home."
She took a deep breath and surveyed the place where she had spent so many hours––the place she had not been back to since Trevor disappeared. But it seemed so necessary lately, to reclaim her past, to return to the scene of the crime, to figure out what had went wrong. She stirred uncomfortably on her stool, scratching at an imaginary itch.
Maybe this was a mistake. She tried to ignore them, the ghosts that lingered here, but the flashing Budweiser sign above the bar, the smell of ash and beer, the old juke box by the bathroom that played their song, Bad Moon Rising (red flag!), were all reminders of her past life. Why did I come here, anyway? she wondered, chewing on the ends of her hair. Phoenix boasted many bars, most far nicer than this one. But something had pulled her back this day, some quiet insistence of the Universe that turned the steering wheel into the parking lot and tapped out the words to Debbie and Sarah as she texted them on her cell phone.
"Having anything, hon?"
The waitress, perhaps a decade older than Spring, had the look of a woman who had lived a lot of years in a short amount of time. With her hair bleached to a crisp white, her lips varnished to an apple red, and blue eyeshadow that extended from lash line to brow, she reminded Spring of Old Glory, now more old than glorious. Spring immediately wanted to know her story. Had she had dreams once, too? Maybe she would have been a singer. A writer. A counselor. Or maybe some guy with a big smile and empty promises had ripped her heart out and she had stumbled into this bar and found absolution in serving drinks to strangers.
"Well?" the waitress inquired, flicking the head of her pen to a pad to indicate that she was in a hurry.
"I really shouldn’t. I’m on the clock. Well, not really on the clock. We don’t punch in, actually. It’s more an honor system thing, which I owe a huge karmic debt to already. But I am technically working right now and I’m not sure what our policy is on drinking during work hours." The waitress shrugged and turned to go. "Wait. Piña Colada. With whipped cream. And pineapple." The waitress nodded without writing it down, and turned to leave. "Oh, and a cherry. Two. Please. Cherries, not Piña Coladas. That would be pushing it and probably would be against employee regulations."
When the waitress left, Spring realized what a stupid idea this had been. Whatever force was at work with her subconscious was not a very helpful one. Did it really think this would cure some old wound and release her from Trevor's psychological hold? That everything would finally come full circle and all the rest of the stuff Lanie preached about when there wasn’t anything good on TV? Maybe it wasn’t too late. She could pack up her stuff and run. Quit work. Leave Sam. Start a new life somewhere.
Where?
Someplace exciting. Istanbul. She could be a belly dancer. Did Istanbul still exist? Or was that Constantinople? Was she too blonde to be accepted into the belly dancing culture? Too old to learn? What about the boys? They’d probably be bad for business.
The waitress returned with a sad-looking drink and sat it down apologetically in front of her. Spring took a sip and looked across the dark room at the bar. Third seat from the left. That was where he was sitting when they had first met. She had been standing in line, getting a drink. The bartender, a young braless woman, was ignoring her in favor of the men she was sure would tip more. But Trevor had caught the bartender’s attention for Spring and had helped to get the drink. He even paid for it.
"Thanks," she said, slurping up the thick cream through the straw. "I don’t think she liked me."
"I don’t think she likes anyone, really," he said, smiling. A wicked smile. Clover-green eyes shadowed by lush, black lashes. Dimples. White teeth. A bad boy smile. He was cotton candy, caramel apples, and saltwater taffy, all rolled up in one. Spring had seen boys like him before, those she knew she should stay away from. Heartbreakers. She was about to retreat back into the crowd, disappearing before he could spring the trap. But he smiled again and there was no turning back.
"Name’s Trevor," he said, extending a hand. He had an accent. Irish maybe? Spring balanced her drink in her left hand and shook with her right. Someone bumped into her from behind and she spilled her Piña Colada down the front of her dress.
"Oh no," Trevor said, taking a napkin and dabbing it on the spill. When he got to the place where he knew he shouldn't dab anymore, he blushed. Spring laughed.
"It’s okay, Trevor. My dignity was gone long ago." She took the napkin from him and finished the job. He ordered her another.
Instant chemistry. He gave her his stool and they spent the entire evening together, closing down the bar. When it was time for her to go home, he called her a cab but took her number. They became inseparable. Together they were like two kids, laughing, giggling, sharing secrets. Three months of that. Movies. Bars. Late night dinners. Mad sex. And then it was time for him to leave.
"I want to go with you," Spring begged him. "Don’t leave me here, please."
"We hardly know each other," Trevor answered, kissing her as they lie in bed on his last day. "It wouldn’t work."
"What do you mean, we don’t know each other? We’ve spent the entire summer together. You told me you loved me!" Spring sat up, wrapping the sheet tightly around her body. "I can’t believe you just said that."
Trevor looked at her, seemingly confused. "Spring. You know I care about you. It’s been fun. Can’t you leave it at that?" His tone was pragmatic. Before she could respond he softened. "I’m sorry. I’ve got to go to New York for a while, then abroad. We’ll stay in touch. Email. Phone. Whatever. True love takes time. If it’s meant to be, it will be."
She pled with him. Cried. Begged. Threw herself in front of the door as he tried to leave. She did all of those things she knew women shouldn’t do to hold on to a man. But it made no difference. And when he was gone, he was gone. Not a call. Not a letter. Not a forwarded joke in her junk mail. Every day she waited, certain he longed for h
er in the same way she longed for him. But no communication was made. She tried to console herself at first by saying he must have died (surely better than being a deserter) but a quick Google search assured her that he was still alive. The jerk.
Spring wondered if she had misread it all along. In her head it was perfect, and nobody walks out on perfect. She spent countless hours scanning her memory banks, replaying every moment, every scene. What had she missed? A word, a nuance, a shrug, a disagreement. Somewhere in all the fragments was the answer.
Sometimes she would think she’d have it, the a-ha moment. But nothing ever really made sense. She’d throw the memories up in the air and see where they’d land, a puzzle with some pieces facing in at times, some turned upside down, and some completely missing. She’d move them around, the best she could. Remember when he gave you that bizarre look when you mentioned you wanted to go on a road trip? Recall the way there was a pause that time at dinner when you said you absolutely loved shrimp? Remember that weekend you couldn’t reach him and he said he was camping? He even came back with scratches on his arms where he had to cut through some nasty bushes. Remember those times the phone would ring at random hours and he wouldn’t answer it, claiming the calls were from anxious telemarketers?
Remember...
"Must be some drink,” said a voice.
Spring looked up to see Debbie and Sarah with an armful of packets. She had almost forgotten they were coming to help. She wanted to stay inside her head and luxuriate in self-pity. She scratched at an eye that was beginning to twitch, but nodded amicably.
"Get any work done while we were prostituting ourselves for the silent auction?" Sarah laughed, but there was an edge to her voice. Jane had her on the phone all week, soliciting donations from local businesses. The silent auction was only one of a dozen fundraising events Jane conducted each year, though no one ever knew where all the money actually went once raised.
"Only if getting tipsy counts as work." Spring dropped her eyes, feeling guilty. "Sorry."
Sarah smiled. "It’s okay. This job blows. Drinking is the only thing that helps."
Debbie put the folders on the ground and fished into her large black bag for something else. "Look what I got." Debbie passed around ivory cards with purple lettering that read: Welcome to the Hitchin’. A farmer was tying up a mule to a wagon. "This is Jack’s idea of a wedding invitation."
Are you supposed to be the mule or the wagon?" Spring handed back the card.
Sarah choked on her beer.
"Gah. Can you believe men?” Debbie stuffed them back into her bag. "Serves me right for marrying a guy from Wyoming."
"I guess we should discuss work," Spring said. "In case Kimberly wants a report."
Sarah bit on the tips of her fingers where her nails used to be. "You know that woman wants me to throw condoms at the Memorial Day parade downtown?"
"You have to do the parade? In May? In Arizona? In that costume?" Debbie almost fell out of her chair with each realization. “What the hell is wrong with her?"
"Don’t get too cocky," Sarah said. "I heard you might get the honor of joining us."
Spring’s phone buzzed and she looked to see that Sam had left her a voicemail.
Sweetie. Bought a cappuccino maker for you! Was not cheap...but only the best for my Pooks! Kisses!
She turned off her phone and sighed.
The waitress returned, handing Spring a bill. "Want me to add anything else?" Spring wanted another drink, but she resisted. "No. Thanks. One is all I can afford." The waitress smiled and walked away. "I shouldn’t even have the one," she said to the two girls seated with her.
"I can buy the next," Debbie offered, digging into her purse.
Spring shook her head. "No. I’ll be fine. I only need to pay a few bills, get Mom her meds, pay off some auto body work for a complete stranger and develop a sudden love for cappuccino.” Spring shook her cup, letting the ice melt before taking the final swig.
Eight
1983
"There he is!" The fat boy who never ironed his shirt and smelled like gasoline, pointed. The two boys beside him followed his gaze and Sam knew he had been spotted. For a moment he wasn’t sure if he should run, or stand and fight.
Sam did the calculations. There were three of them, each weighing twice as much as he did. He could probably outrun them, but they were not weighted down as Sam was, with necessary items like books and ballet slippers. Still, it might be his only chance.
"Get him," the pasty one said.
Sam thought his name was Lewis but he wasn’t sure. Though he had been classmates with the trio for most of his life, nothing had ever inspired him to learn what they were called. Uncivilized apes did not deserve names.
Sam took off running, zigging through a swarm of students in white shirts, navy pants, and plaid skirts. He passed Mary Jane Drinsel and gave her a quick smile, but she turned away from him, as most of the girls at St. Mary’s did. He took no heed of it and continued his escape, feeling the heat of the three dirty thugs behind him. Sam thought about ducking into the bathroom, but realized if they found him there he’d be cornered. Besides, the bathroom smelled. Bad. Sam made it a point to pee right before school and to hold it until three p.m. so that he would never have to endure the unsanitary conditions of the St. Mary’s urinals.
Bump. Bump. Bump. Sam turned his head. They were closing in on him. Sam thought about throwing his copy of Anna Karenina at one of the boys, but he wasn’t going to lose a prized book, even if it meant taking a beating.
The hall had cleared as students settled into their classrooms. The exit sign was straight ahead and Sam pushed through the double doors leading out onto the blacktop. But the boys continued their pursuit.
"Step on a crack, break your mother’s back," Sam said, aiming for every tear in the asphalt.
This, however, took up precious time and he could feel the energy of the boys behind him. It took his entire will to ignore the cracks but there were more important things to consider at the moment. Sam noticed a pair of tin trashcans and rushed towards them. Nimbly skirting around them, he pushed the bins over with his right hand and sent them rolling in the direction of Lewis and pals. He listened for the crash of their bodies as they fumbled over the receptacles but was dismayed to hear nothing but their heavy breathing and the steady pounding of their puffy feet.
These things never worked out in life the way they did in his story books.
"This is it," Sam said, hoping they would choke him, rather than beat him to death. If he was going to die today he wanted to die clean. He stopped and waited for his demise.
Dong! Dong!
Sam turned his head in the direction of the bell and a building came into view. A colossal, brick monstrosity that caused the hairs on Sam’s thin arms to rise up in protest. A place more horrible than the boy’s bathroom. The Chapel.
He felt one of the boys tug on his elbow and he realized he had no choice.
He changed direction, running towards the bell as fast as his long, tired legs would carry him. In a leap of faith he vaulted the three stairs and pushed open the great wooden door. Sam thought he heard Lewis yell, "No!" but wasn’t certain. His heart was beating too loudly. When he caught his breath, he turned to look at his pursuers. He was dumbfounded to see that they stood immediately outside but would not cross the threshold into the church. The boys waited a moment and, seeing that Sam was not going to emerge anytime soon, stomped their feet, called him a queer, and left.
Sam had only ever been inside the chapel when he was forced to by his grandmother or the nuns. But here, alone in the chapel with nothing but stained glass and music, he found it to be a much different place. It was sanitary and quiet, even more so than the school library where he usually hung out.
"Sanctuary," he said, and it all made sense.
From that day on, Sam took to retreating into the chapel whenever he needed an escape. He could spend hours lying flat-backed on the wooden pews with The Hardy Boys
or Sherlock Holmes and nobody bothered him. In fact, his teachers seemed to approve and Mary Jane Drinsel actually smiled at him one day as he left the Cathedral. And on those rare days when he was without reading material, he even perused the Old Testament that the church was kind enough to provide him with.
2005
"Is it our week again?" Sam was grilling turkey hotdogs on the back patio. He was wearing his new apron and chef’s hat combo, purchased from the Eddie Bauer store during his last mall outing. Spring sat on the patio chair beside him, rummaging through a bag of potato chips like a puppy looking for a lost bone. She had this annoying habit of only eating the ones that were curled or folded. Sam sighed, wishing she would use the chip bowl he had made for her in week two of his ceramics class.
"Yes, Sam," she finally spoke when she found the perfect chip. It was folded over like a taco, and she popped it into her mouth and immediately began searching for the next. "It’s our week again."
"But why tomorrow? Why can’t Jason follow the rules? Sunday through Saturday. That is what it says in the custody agreement."
"He asked me if I could have them an extra couple of days so that he could take a trip to the botanical garden." Spring tossed the bag onto the ground and Sam bent over to snatch it up. He folded the top and fastened it with the chip clip he stored in his apron pocket.
"You mean the one he grows in his backyard?" Sam snorted. When Spring didn’t respond he realized the joke might have been funnier if Jason actually had a backyard. "But really, he isn’t above the law. You should bring that up in court."
Spring held her ground. "He asked me, Sam. And they are my kids. I love them." Spring stood, crumbs falling from her dress, and stomped into the living room. Sam decided it was a battle not worth fighting. He would simply remind her of his concession the next time he wanted something.
Sam turned off the grill and placed the hotdogs on the plate. They looked sad and shriveled and for a brief moment he missed pork. Still, it was a small price to pay to enter Paradise, where the women behaved themselves. It could be worse. He remembered his stint as a Buddhist. He hadn’t fared well on the Himalayan diet of yak butter and grass. He took the hotdogs into the kitchen and set them down on the counter. Not quite hungry, he left them to wither, picking up a new book he had acquired in a hard-won eBay fight. It was leather-bound and he held it to his nose a moment, taking in its scent. His fingers pulsed around the spine and his grip tightened. There was nothing sexier than opening a brand new book.