He pulled his forehead back from the wall, the front of his hair flopping in front of his eyes, his skin glistening with sweat. “I don't want to be someone who hurts women.”
She touched her neck, her eyes focused on the collar of his shirt. “I know.”
“Lee, I would stop if I could, but I'm in too deep. Do you get it?”
“Yes, I understand.”
He nodded and wiped under his nose with the back of his sleeve. “I'll see you around, then.” He left through the kitchen door like a blind man without a cane.
Lee slumped into a chair and folded her hands together to stop them from shaking. She looked at the clock on her phone. It was 3:00 in the afternoon but it might be midnight for how tired she felt. The afternoon sun streamed through the front windows into the spot where the checkout counters had been when her mother worked here thirty years before.
Her mother had worked at the register while Lee sat hidden at her feet, listening to the voices of the customers and her mother's breathy voice in response to their questions. Lee was inconspicuous and so obedient that she was invisible and the world went on above her, without her. She began to draw with her mother's Bic pen, stick figures with big round heads in varying haircuts, Christmas trees and suns with lines that reached out to the very edge of the paper.
By the time she was seven there was schoolwork to do and books to read. The hours passed with the smell of ripe fruit and cardboard in her nose. She was safe. But one day her mother picked up a box of canned tomatoes and screamed from pain, clutching at a spot on the middle of her back. Eleanor couldn't work after that and told Lee about a word called disability for people who got hurt at their job. Now Eleanor's back ached all the time. She drank clear liquid with ice after breakfast and wore her bathrobe all day. “Can you get me more ice from the shed,” Eleanor asked Lee each day when she came in from school.
Now, Lee looked around the empty room. She thought of Tommy then, with his contagious smile and inquisitive eyes, the citrus smell of his skin that filled with her with longing. Without thinking, she pulled up his name on her cell phone and dialed, telling herself that she could allow kindness into her life.
Tommy answered on the first ring. “It's Lee.”
“I know,” he said, his voice tentative, hopeful.
“I'm at the restaurant. Will you come get me?”
“You sure?”
“I'm sure.”
“I'll be right there.”
Chapter Sixteen
Tommy's house was a surprise. It was newly constructed and full of light, perched on beams and jutting out over the grassy bank of the river. The main level was a great room with a kitchen on one end and a slouchy comfortable lounging area on the other. Guitars stood in one corner, and a brown leather chair and an old upright piano on the eastern wall. Sun came in from the picture windows that opened to a large deck.
As her eyes took in the open rafters and extended ceiling, she said, “Makes me think of a ski lodge.”
He followed her gaze, shoving his hands in the back pockets of his jeans and rocking on his heels. “Had it designed for light and comfort. Oh, and the view.” He pointed to the river. Across the water was a flat sandy area with two lawn chairs.
“You own this place?” she asked him.
“Yep. Bought the property years ago when prices were low. Moved here three years ago and had the house built.”
She must have looked skeptical because he went on, somewhat defensively, as if offended he had to explain it to her. “Listen, I sold a song to a female singer that hit the country top ten and the royalties paid for this house.”
“I thought you came here because you couldn't make it in Nashville?”
“Who told you that?”
She shrugged her shoulders, flushing.
He laughed then and seemed to relax. “What did you think? I was just some loser musician?”
“I guess I figured the EMT thing was your steady job.”
He nodded. “It is. The life of a songwriter, you never know when or if you'll sell another song, so I like to keep my bases covered. Let's just say, I'm conservative with money.” He paused and sank into couch, resting his feet on the rustic looking wooden coffee table. “Although, women in my past have referred to it as cheap.” He sighed and raised one eyebrow in a gesture that made her wonder what those other women were like. And how many were there? Crossing his arms, he grinned. “This make you like me better?”
Her voice was dry. “Where you live has nothing to do with who you are.”
“I agree,” he said.
Lee's gaze drifted to twin paintings of red poppies that hung over the couch. “The paintings are nice.”
“Thanks. One of my sisters painted them.” His voice was soft but wary. She understood he was worried he might frighten her away. “I'm glad you called.”
She imagined sitting on his lap, feeling his arms around her. “I'm sorry about the other day,” she said.
He put up his hands. “Don't apologize. It was my fault. I've been kicking myself ever since.” He glanced at his guitars and then back to her. “I can't stand to see you cry. To think I caused you any further pain, it makes me crazy.”
“Not you. Never you.” The tears were there again, in the back of her throat.
“I don't ever want to be the person who makes you cry.”
“I know,” she said, gently.
He was quiet for a moment and when he spoke his words sounded thick. “Lee, why did you call?”
“I wanted to talk. Not to just anyone. To you.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Really?”
She smiled. “You've worn me down. What can I say?”
“I say I love it.”
“Zac came by about a job and we had a little episode, so to speak.” She pushed her hair behind her ears.
He sat up, swinging his feet to the floor. “Your neck is all red. Did he do that to you?”
She pushed her fingers into the soft skin of her neck, mildly surprised to find it tender. “Yes, but it's fine.” She told him then what happened with Zac, sparing no details. He listened quietly, becoming absolutely still when she told him that Zac threatened her.
After she finished he got up and began to pace behind the couch. “You have no idea how I want to take him behind the restaurant and beat the crap out of him.”
“Tommy, I'm not telling you this so you can beat him up. I'd like to share something with you but it's hard to say. Especially when you're moving around like a caged animal.”
He stopped and looked at her. “Anything.” He put his hands on the back of the couch as if that would keep him from moving.
She took a deep breath. “Something in Zac's eyes made me think of my husband. And my mother. You see, Dan conceived and developed a game for our first company based on a world view of randomness. In the game metaphoric life threw you unexpected joy and tragedy and your job was to maneuver around it and if you were clever and hard-working enough you could win. But his second game, Deep Black, was based on the world view that no matter what you did, your weaknesses combined with chance would destroy you and there was nothing you could do about it.”
“Sounds fun,” said Tommy sarcastically.
“He thought for gamers it would be the ultimate.” She went to the window. “But in the ironies of ironies, he couldn't get the damn thing to work. And ultimately it destroyed him.”
Tommy was staring at her now, a helpless quality on his face. She went on. “There was this darkness in Dan that I pretended not to see, this way of looking at the world that made him feel defeated even in the midst of all the fortunate things that happened to us. My mother was the same. She gave up hope of ever winning the game, succumbed to this idea that everything was stacked against her so why do anything but drink? They were afraid and I've been too, all the time, even before Dan died.” She put a hand on her stomach and saw Tommy's eyes follow her movements and then fix back to her face. “I had my lists and my work and my
perfectly ordered home with the coordinated hangers in my closet, all to manage my fear.” She paused, trying to find the words to say what she meant.
“Go on,” he said.
She gazed at the rafters of his living room, steadying her voice. “For the first time this afternoon I understand what went wrong with their lives. They gave into the fear. And I felt compassion for them, maybe even forgiveness.” She threw up her hands. “And I don't know where that leaves me, except really sad.” She stopped talking, as suddenly as she started and stood with her hands poised in the air as if she might go on but instead closed her mouth and gazed at Tommy.
He moved to the couch and sat with his hands folded in his lap. His eyes were open and seeing. “What else?”
She paused for a moment, trying to find the right words. “I wonder if there's something in me that made the two most important people in my life turn dark and hopeless?”
He inched forward to the edge of the couch as if he might stand. He brushed his hands through his hair. “Lee, their demons had nothing to do with you.”
“Do you have demons? What keeps you up at night?”
He smiled, running his middle finger along the top of his lip. “The thought of you keeps me awake lately. But my demons were put to rest a long time ago, with God's help. Now I find peace everywhere.”
“What does that even mean?”
He smiled. “Sounds a little woo-woo, huh?”
She nodded. “Yes.”
“This morning I sat on my deck and listened to the sound of the river, which I've come to think of as alive because it's ever changing, like us. This time of year the water's still pretty high and if you listen carefully you can hear the current moving towards the ocean, the sound almost imperceptible because it's so quiet - a low steady drone punctuated with burbles over rocks and the gush of the mild rapids just down from my swimming hole. The sun was warm on my back and I sipped an espresso I made for myself with a smidge of half-and-half, just the way I like it. I felt abundant and at peace and grateful – this surge of wholeness that I know is God.”
She sighed and looked toward the river. “I used to feel that as a child, but it's been a long time since I felt that kind of peace. Or hope.” The sun on the water sparkled in little bits of light. She had the sudden desire to strip off her clothes and dive in deep; to feel it ripple next to her skin and run through her hair. She turned to him and smiled with a slight tremor in her voice. “Something about this place,” she said, indicating outside the window. “Something about you, makes me less guarded. I find myself revealing things lately that I usually keep to myself. And I don't know why. I don't know why it's you. Or this place.”
He got up from the couch and stood next to her at the window. “Whatever the reason, I'm pleased.” He tilted her face and they stood for a moment, their breath intermingled, her lips slightly parted, his gently closed, until she shifted towards him, almost like a fall. And he caught her mouth with his, moving in a soft capture of her top lip and then inside to the warm flesh of her mouth. His lips were soft, not hard as she'd imagined. He tasted faintly of chocolate. Everything disappeared but the feel of the kiss, of him. Finally he pulled away, tracing her jaw with his fingertips and she watched the pulse at his neck that seemed to beat with her own hammering heart. “I don't know what I'm doing,” she said.
“You're letting me kiss you.” He kissed her again, harder this time and she let her body melt into him, feeling the muscles of his legs press into her own.
She put her face into his collarbone, breathed in his scent, felt the heat through his t-shirt. “This can't go anywhere,” she said. “It's too soon, and I'm not staying in town.”
“Alright.”
“I still feel married.”
He nodded and felt the tender spots on her neck, looking into her eyes. “I can understand that. It's too soon. I'm rushing you.”
She smiled and plucked at the collar of his shirt. “That's what I just said.”
“I learned that technique in therapy. It's called mirroring.”
She laughed. “It's very disarming.”
“Let me take you to dinner. Dinner's harmless enough.”
She moved away, placing her fingertips on the glass window, suddenly cringing, thinking of Dan's eyes the last time she saw him. She changed the subject. “Why are the chairs on the other side of the river?”
“Because the sand's soft and fine, over there. Keeps you from making excuses about jumping in the water if you have to swim to the chairs.”
“What about a book? How do you get that to the other side?”
“I have a raft. Good for books and beer.”
“What if you can't swim?”
“You can't swim?”
“No.”
“Want me to teach you?”
“I'm too old to learn to swim.”
“Nonsense. The feel of that sand between your toes - it'll be worth it.”
They were quiet as they drove south in Tommy's truck south until they crossed the Oregon border into California. Lee felt shriveled and strange in the seat next to a man, on a date when only months before she'd been married; her vow to act with bravery diminished.
“You're sorry you agreed to come.” He said it as a statement.
She was apologetic. “It's not you. Just that...I don't know. It feels like homesickness almost. That kind of strange.”
“You want to turn back?”
“No.” The road began to curve along the highway above the Smith River. They traveled at a slow pace along the two lane highway carved out of the side of the mountain. There were blind curves where you couldn't be sure what awaited, as in another car, a logging truck or even a deer. She watched Tommy to discern if he was a skilled driver.
“You can relax, I've driven this road many times in the last couple of years,” he said.
“My grandparents were killed on a road like this.”
He put his hand on her knee for an instant. “I'll take good care of you, don't worry.”
After a few miles she decided he must be good at all things physical, including maneuvering this dangerous but beautiful span of highway. He adjusted the car's speed at the curves and accelerated just beyond their crests. At one point they fell behind a slow truck but instead of trying to pass he seemed in no hurry, so she settled into her seat and soaked up the view.
They drove south, next to the mountainside. On the other side of the highway, in the cavern, was the Smith River. Every mile or so, she saw the green water playing and sparkling in and around the gray river stones. She waved her hand around to indicate the terrain. “Since I've been back here, I'm struck by how dramatic the beauty is. Everything's so big.”
“Vivid.” Tommy smiled at her, taking his eyes from the road for an instant. “For a person who doesn't want to stay here, you sound like you're falling in love again with a childhood sweetheart.”
She laughed and brushed her hair behind her ear. “You don't know what you're talking about.”
“We'll see about that,” he laughed in return.
Along the way, Tommy answered her questions and offered information about his life, surprising her with his candor. She listened, resting her head on the back of the car's seat, eyes shifting between his moving lips and the river in the canyon below, absorbing his story, absorbing Tommy.
He was 42 years old and it astonished him to be middle-aged because he felt the same about things as when he was young. The possibility of everything still ran through him and he began most days with excited anticipation in his stomach, like he remembered from Christmas Day as a child. His life felt good to him, like he was where he belonged. He was thankful to have the freedom to play music and write songs. He looked forward to his shifts at the firehouse and playing with the band in the evenings. He loved the feel of the air in this corner of the world because it was dry and unspoiled by smog or anything man-made. It was the arid heat of the summers that he loved the most, the way the sun dried and warmed your skin
after a swim in the river water.
He believed life held endless possibility, even after two marriages and a somewhat inconsistent musical career. He attributed it to his early childhood, when they were migrant workers, recent immigrants from Mexico. His parents talked about what a blessing it was to be in this country. “Nothing but possibility in America,” his father said at family dinners.
“Do you wish you were a rich and famous singer?” Lee asked him, hoping the question wouldn't offend.
“I can't remember if I ever dreamt that large.” He remembered the bands that played the County Fair when he was a kid and that he was overwhelmed with the beauty of live performance. He thought it was glorious, how the music floated out from the stage and touched him where he sat in the bleachers with his brother. “I guess I wanted to be like them but now I get a thrill from expressing my unique point of view in a song I've composed. I love it when the crowd - small as they may be some nights - enjoy my performance.”
His mother said he sang before he talked. It started with an old guitar his father had around and he strummed on it, trying to figure out how to make it sound like the records on their old phonograph. When he was ten his mother found him a guitar instruction manual at a used book store and little by little he taught himself how to play and read music.
His freshman year in high school he had an English teacher named Ms. Cooper. She made them all try to write a poem. He saw they were songs without music. He stayed up until 2:00 a.m. the day their poem was due, working it, trying to find the particular words that would articulate his thoughts. When Ms. Cooper passed back the poems days later, there was a sticky note attached to his paper. It said, “This work is impressive. Try putting it to music and you might have magic.”
It was the little things that inspired him. The pudgy fingers of his baby niece or the way a tulip bent in a vase like a bowing ballerina. The words just kind of stacked together in conjunction to the notes until it became a song.
He spent over fifteen years in Nashville, trying to break into the business. One day he thought, this is no kind of life. It occurred to him that his songs caught more attention as demos to bands and singers that already had recording contracts. The songs made him unique. That year he got an agent who peddled his songs to the major talents and since then he'd sold at least one a year. It was a decent living and allowed him to live his life next to the river. “I can never walk away from the music. It's cost me some things too, along the way. But it's all about measurement - how much can you give up for something you love”.
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