Once Upon a List

by Robin Gold

  “Oh my God. I love it. This is going to be glorious.”

  “I know.” He smiled. “We’re just lucky to be here.”

  “So lucky.”

  “Blessed,” Leo said sincerely, leading her toward a special VIP entrance where a midget dressed up like a little green Martian with glittering antennas was shouting into a megaphone, “Welcome, Earthlings! Come, one and all!”

  As it turned out, the spectacular show—complete with an elaborate set of the solar system, intricate lighting, cutting-edge, space-age sound effects, flying saucers, holograms, and a chorus of silver, clunky robots who occasionally spoke in emotionless, monotone voices and resembled “Rosie,” the lovable robot maid from The Jetsons—did not disappoint. In the production’s show-stopping finale, when at last the Robot Olivia and the Robot Rodolfo, misunderstood star-crossed lovers, finally found a way to be together, jumping, spinning, and lifting each other around the perimeter of the rink to the song You Are So Beautiful in a touching ice dance that was supposed to be romantic, Clara laughed so hard that tears spilled down her cheeks and she nearly upchucked her nachos. And Leo, holding Ava’s hand, whispered to nobody in particular, “I hope this never ends.”

  Needless to say, when the cast of robots took their final, electrifying bow, the entire audience leaped to their feet, whistling and clapping their hands in an unparalleled standing ovation that Clara knew she would always remember. Always. And not just because one of the child robots, unable to bend at the waist in its cumbersome costume, lost its balance, fell forward flat on its square face, and required the help of several others in order to resume standing—only to fall right back down again.

  After the show, Clara, Leo, and Ava took a taxi to the Wiener’s Circle, one of the city’s most celebrated hot dog joints, for a quick bite. When Ava ordered her classic, Chicago-style dog in monotone robot-speak, requesting, “ex-ter-a mus-tard please, kind mor-tal,” they all burst into hysterics, like slap-happy children who were up past their bedtime, as opposed to professional adults—one of whom was so busy enjoying herself that she completely forgot she’d been issued an ultimatum by her aggravated boss earlier that morning.

  • Attend the Ice Capades

  25.

  More than five thousand runners with large, black-and-white numbers pinned to their shirts participated in the 10K Race to Beat Cancer, and Clara knew that she would never forget some of them. There was the quartet of siblings dressed in matching green t-shirts that read “In Loving Memory of Our Father, Robert” across the back, the group of women of all ages and ethnicities wearing pink ribbons and buttons that boasted “I’m a Survivor,” and the darling little bald girl who smiled and waved at Clara as she galloped past her. There was something about the radiant little girl’s infectious, dimpled grin that tugged at Clara’s heart. None of this was fair. None of it. And it gutted Clara. Having been primarily concerned with making it to the finish line in one piece without the aid of triage and/or illegal performance enhancing drugs, never did it dawn on her that this race would be a deeply emotional experience. But tied together by the common, unifying thread of suffering, all of these people—all of them—had endured unspeakable pain in some form or another, and Clara ached for every last one of them. The remarkable courage, determination, and perseverance of her fellow race mates astounded her, inspiring her with new hope and reminding her that there were people out there who had it worse than she did. Much worse.

  Though she fought the growing knot in her throat for as long as she possibly could, eventually Clara collapsed under the weight of her own empathy and began to choke up. Jogging at a slow, labored pace by Lincoln’s side, she removed her sunglasses to wipe away her tears.

  “You okay?” he huffed, glancing at her, appearing about ready to keel over.

  Considering Jessica Foster, Clara nodded, quickly trying to pull herself together if for no other reason than to avoid upsetting Lincoln. “These people are all just so amazing. It really makes you think.”

  “It does,” he agreed. “It helps put everything in perspective,” Lincoln added between gasps of air. Suddenly, he bellowed, “Cramp!”

  Jerking to an abrupt halt, he bent over, clutching his throbbing calf as he grimaced with pain, groaning. “Bad cramp! Oh God! Oh GOD! This is bad!”

  “Okay, just calm down and try taking a deep breath,” Clara suggested, surprised that she’d made it this far without cramping, hurling, expiring (or all of the above) herself. “Take a nice, deep breath and try stretching it out—like we do when we warm up.”

  Obliging, Lincoln inhaled as he contorted his body into an awkward version of a forward lunge. “This isn’t helping, C.J. Craaamp! It hurts! It really hurts! I’ve never had a cramp this bad before!”

  Flustered by his uncharacteristic hysteria, unsure what to do next, Clara asked, “Want me to rub it?”

  “Yes! Yes!” Lincoln eyes were squeezed tightly shut in agony. “Just make it go away. Call somebody. A medic! Lance Armstrong! Anyone!”

  “You’re gonna be fine,” Clara calmly assured him, crouching down and massaging his knotted calf as a gray-haired group of senior citizens wearing matching shorts with the message “Kick Leukemia’s Ass!” across the derrière zipped past them. “Think of dinosaurs. Sweet, soothing T-rexes . . .”

  “Oh, that feels good. That’s nice,” Lincoln said, unscrewing his water bottle cap and pouring its entire remains on his face, sopping Clara in the process. “Don’t stop. Please . . .”

  Eventually, “the cramp from Hades,” as he later called it, subsided, and Lincoln, openly embarrassed about the incident, was able to walk again. Or, at least, hobble. “I can’t go any farther, C.J.,” he said, defeat written all over his sweaty face. “It’ll take me forever. I’m done.”

  “Come on, Link. You can do this.” Clara was not about to let him give up. When she agreed to run this race all those months ago over dinner at Syn-Kow, it was in order to help root him on, and that was exactly what she intended to do.

  “No. I really don’t think I can. You have to finish without me.”

  “Like hell I will. This is for cancer research, Link. If you can make it up that stinking ‘Mountain’ I hate so much in Grant Park, you can make it to the finish line. We’ll walk slowly if we have to. We are completing this!”

  “I don’t think so, C.J.”

  Wiping perspiration from her brow, Clara hesitated. “Think of Jessica.”

  She wasn’t sure if Lincoln’s wince was a response to her mention of his deceased wife, or the pain in his leg, but he nodded at her. Then, inhaling a deep breath, he said, “Let’s go.”

  About a quarter of a mile later, moments before they strained their way under the multi-colored balloon arch and crossed the yellow finish line that was crowded with spectators, he reached out his hand, and Clara, smiling, instinctively took it.

  At eight o’clock that same evening, just as Clara was about to step into a nice, soothing tub of bubbling, hot water, her telephone rang. Utterly exhausted, she almost let the call go to voicemail, but, observing that it was Lincoln, she answered at the last second. And was she glad she did, for he did not sound good. He did not sound good at all.

  “What’s the matter?” Clara asked, worried. “Is it your leg?”

  “No, my calf’s actually feeling much better.” Pausing, Lincoln cleared his throat. “I’m calling because I’m . . . I don’t know. I guess you could say I’m having a mean moment. Tough day.”

  “Oh, Link.” Clara sighed, understanding. After their emotional experience at the 10K, she couldn’t say that she was surprised her somber-sounding friend was in an especially contemplative state. It made perfect sense. “I’m sorry . . . Is Meg there?”

  “No. She’s in Minneapolis this weekend at her cousin’s baby shower.”

  “That’s right. You mentioned that during the race. I think I was so busy channeling my inner Dromice
iomimus that I forgot half the things you said,” she joked, injecting her voice with levity as she referred to the speediest of all dinosaurs, which Lincoln had educated her about—at length—during their first jog together a few months ago. Clara waited for him to chuckle, sure he’d be wowed by her impressive dinosaur recall, but there was silence on the other end of the line. Crickets. “Oh, come on. I get credit for remembering those things could run at speeds of up to sixty kilometers per hour,” she added, hoping to distract him. After all, as he had told her, distraction was key.

  “You do,” he acknowledged, his voice thick with undisguised gloom, as if he’d given way to despair hours ago.

  “I’m coming over,” Clara announced, plunging her hand into the tub and opening the drain. “Would it be okay if I bring Milk Dud too? I feel guilty about leaving him alone all day.”

  “Of course Milk Dud’s welcome. But that’s all right, C.J.—I don’t want you to feel like you have to come over. Really. I know it’s been a long day for us both, and you’re probably as beat as I am. I’ll be fine. I should just—I don’t know . . . do a Sudoku, or try to fix the broken air conditioner in my bedroom that feels like the damn Mojave Desert, or . . . something.”

  “I don’t feel like I have to come over,” Clara emphasized, her mind already made up. “And I don’t want you to feel like you have to order us a large cheese pizza with pepperoni and onions. Oh! And how about sausage on half too? And maybe some garlic bread if they have it? Or cheesy garlic bread even?”

  Now, this inspired Lincoln to emit a faint chuckle. “Fair enough,” he agreed. “Would you like anything to drink to go with that?”

  “Hmmm . . . I’ll leave that up to you.”

  One quick change into her most comfy jeans and twenty-five minutes later, Clara and Milk Dud knocked on Lincoln’s door.

  When he answered it, dressed in an old-looking t-shirt and mismatched sweatpants, his eyes appeared tired and glassy.

  Giving him a warm embrace, Clara couldn’t help but wonder if he’d been crying.

  “Hey, amigo.” Lincoln bent down, petting Milk Dud affectionately on the head. “Good to have you here, buddy.” Then, looking up at Clara, he added gratefully, “Thanks for coming over.”

  She was tickled to see that Lincoln had placed a small bowl of water on the living room floor for Milk Dud in advance of their arrival.

  “We get wine,” he told her. “Assuming that sounds okay to you?”

  “That sounds great.” She smiled, intent on keeping him distracted. “Sleeping on the pull-out couch tonight, I see.” She nodded at the dark brown, leather sleeper sofa in the middle of the modernly decorated living room, which Lincoln had unfolded into a queen-size bed and dressed in a beige, lightweight blanket.

  “I gave up on trying to fix the busted air conditioner in my room. It figures the damn thing would croak when it’s ninety degrees outside. Too hot for May . . .”

  “Well, at least it’s nice and comfortable in this part of the house,” Clara, feeling rather like Pollyanna, optimistically pointed out.

  “Here”—Lincoln ambled toward the convertible bed—“let me reassemble the couch so we can sit. I’m sorry. I’d meant to do this before you got here.”

  “Don’t be silly. Leave it,” Clara said, stopping him. “It’s a pain to pull these things out and put ’em back together. No need to do it on my account.”

  “Really?” He gave her a dubious look. “Are you sure?”

  “Positive.”

  “Because I was actually going to suggest that we eat in front of the TV,” Lincoln added. “I could use a little mindless entertainment.”

  “So we’ll be careful not to make crumbs. That is, assuming I don’t inhale every last scrap like a Hoover.” Clara extended her best effort to evoke a smile. “Personally, I’m pro pizza in bed. Speaking of which, think it’ll be here soon? I don’t know if it was the race or what, but I have the hunger of ten burly men.”

  “It should be here any minute now,” Lincoln answered with an amused grin—to her delight—just as the doorbell rang, inspiring Milk Dud to bark and charge the door. “Speak of the devil.”

  Lounging on top of the sofa bed in front of the big-screen television and an excellent bottle of Pinot Noir, they wolfed down the pizza and garlic bread in no time flat.

  When Clara, stretched out on her side of the mattress, let out a rather lengthy, unladylike burp, quickly covering her mouth and excusing herself, Lincoln shook his head in amazement. “I can’t believe you eat like a man, and belch like a man. Outstanding . . .” he marveled. “I salute you.”

  “Shut up.” Smirking, she gave his leg a friendly kick.

  “Ouch! My leg!” Rocking back and forth on his distinct side of the bed, he winced as he cradled it.

  “I’m sorry!” An expression of horror crossed Clara’s face. “I totally forgot!”

  “Got ya.” He winked, pointing at her as he broke into a satisfied grin.

  Glaring at him with a dropped jaw, Clara shot him a pretend dirty look. “Oh, that was evil. Sic him, Milk Dud.”

  With his tail wagging back and forth, Milk Dud did a running leap onto the bed and covered Lincoln’s face with wet, friendly kisses.

  “What’s up, buddy?” Lincoln gave him a thorough belly rub. “Who’s the best dog in town?”

  “The One-Ear Wonder,” Clara said with a yawn, smiling, pleased to see Lincoln doing the same.

  “Should we see if there are any good movies on TV?” He refilled her glass of wine, reclining on his back with his legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles.

  “Sure. Why not?”

  Lincoln was scrolling through the channels when suddenly, Clara gasped. “Go back! Go back, go back!”

  He did as he was told until at last she declared, “Stop!”

  Lincoln looked at Clara as if she was nuts. “Mother, May I Sleep With Danger?” He read the movie’s title, which just so happened to be floating across the screen.

  “This movie is hilarious.” She adjusted the pillows behind her neck. “Pure, campy, made-for-TV cheese. It’s so bad it’s good. Besides, you gotta love a title that contains multiple forms of punctuation.”

  “Mother, May I Sleep With Danger?” he repeated in a stunned voice, as if there had to be some sort of misunderstanding. “You’ve actually seen this before?”

  “Talk about timing. I can’t believe we caught it right at the beginning,” Clara said, clapping her hands.

  “Neither can I,” Lincoln admitted. “You’re sure about this?”

  She cocked her head to the side. “Do I look sure?”

  “All right.” He shrugged. “If you say so. Should I turn off the lights?”

  “Oh yeah,” Clara said, nodding, staring at the television screen.

  When Clara’s eyes fluttered halfway open at 4:30 a.m., she yawned in a sleepy daze, instinctively snuggling up against the warm body that was spooning her on the sleeper-sofa. What a lovely dream, she thought to herself, luxuriating in its afterglow.

  It took her a few drowsy moments to realize that someone’s arms really were wrapped around her waist, and someone’s breath really was gently brushing against the side of her neck, almost like a soft caress.

  And it took her a few languid, dreamy moments more before it eventually dawned on her who, exactly, that someone was.

  Too exhausted to think or process the situation, Clara, so comfortable that it required an earnest effort to move an imperceptible millimeter, slowly opened her eyelids all the way—as if needing confirmation that this was not, in fact, another one of her many bizarre dreams—and cast her weary gaze downward to see Lincoln’s hand resting on top of hers. How big and protective it seemed cradled against her small, delicate features. Realizing they must have somehow fallen asleep during Mother, May I Sleep With Danger?, she noticed Milk Dud snoring peacefully in the cor
ner beside his water bowl, and a late-night infomercial selling something or other undoubtedly exercise-related and available for four easy payments of $19.99 playing on TV. Yawning again as she heard, “But, wait! There’s more!” she felt Lincoln’s arms tighten around her, pulling her body closer to him in a way that if she didn’t know any better, would say almost felt deliberate.

  Clara had no idea if he was awake, or if he was asleep, or if perhaps he was floating somewhere hazily in-between, like herself. All she knew was that it was becoming harder and harder, and harder, for her to keep her heavy, drooping eyelids open.

  And then, without battle, she let them sink shut again.

  Drifting back to sleep with her lips curled upward in the faintest of grins so slight it might have even gone undetected at first glance, Clara voyaged forward, without having to command herself to.

  • Run a race (10K like Dad used to run? Find out what a K is!)

  • Help others through charity like Libby (donate time if I’m poor when I’m old)

  26.

  Later that day, Clara found herself absentmindedly turning the pages of Morse Code for Dummies without having processed a single word of what she’d just read. She had tiptoed out of Lincoln’s apartment at the crack of dawn to take Milk Dud for his morning walk before his impatient whimpering woke Lincoln—still curled up on top of the sofa-bed—out of a sound sleep. Now, lazing on her couch, flipping another page, barely glancing at it, she wondered what he was doing. Was it odd that she hadn’t heard from him yet? Was it odd that she would think it was odd that she hadn’t heard from him yet? Was that a faint scent of sandalwood soap she’d detected on his body when it was nestled around her? His body had felt stronger and more muscular than she would have thought. Not that she had actually ever given it any thought before. Turning over two pages that were stuck together without realizing it, she couldn’t help but reflect on what a strange sensation it had been to wake up wrapped in Lincoln’s arms. Not “strange” in a negative way, but rather, in more of an unexpected, bewildering way. A way that felt peculiarly natural, inspiring Clara to pause and consider her old friend. The fact that she was even contemplating him—the same dork who secretly ate glue and had taught her how to moonwalk many moons ago—when she was supposed to be mastering Morse code, gave Clara yet another jolt of surprise.