Gathering String

by Mimi Johnson

  “Oh,” Tess lowered herself onto the desk chair. “He recommended me for your gallery?”

  “Enthusiastically. He quite convinced me that I must see your work as soon as possible. What are you doing this weekend, dear?”

  “I, ah …” Tess pulled a schedule toward her, looking down over the four assignments listed under her name for Saturday and Sunday. She drew a breath to say there was no way she could get free, and suddenly it felt like a thick, heavy chain wrapped around her neck. Her shoulders sagged. But then, "Take a shot," whispered in the back of her mind. She shook off the weight, straightening her shoulders. “I very much want to meet with you, of course. I'll clear some time. But let me take your number and get back to you. If I can manage it, I’m thinking Sunday.”

  “Sunday? I rather hoped it would be tonight or tomorrow.” Dolly sounded like a disappointed child.

  “Dolly, I really need to make a quick trip up to …” Tess hesitated, but there was something in the older woman’s warm voice that invited her confidence, “to Lindsborg, don’t you see?”

  She heard Dolly draw a breath and then sigh, “Ah, perhaps I’m beginning to.” She fairly purred the next words, “I can cool my heels until Sunday. Just call me back when you and Jack work things out. I’ll give you the directions to my home in Ames, and for heaven’s sake, bring plenty of examples of your work. Any chance you might be bringing that adorable creature with you too?”

  “Keep your fingers crossed.” Tess took down Dolly’s information. Then she rushed to farm out her assignments to other photographers who owed her.

  In spite of her best efforts, she didn’t pull onto Lindsborg’s main street until nearly seven. That evening’s Journal was on the streets, but she knew Jack always worked late, so she went straight to the office. She didn’t see his Jeep in back, but did catch the devil photographer, Laramie, coming down the wide stairs, and pulled in at the curb, putting down the electric window on the passenger’s side.

  “Hey!” she called to him, and he ambled over, smiling under his wispy mustache. “Is Westphal still in there?”

  “You were in the office a few days ago, right?” He stuck his head in the window.

  “Right. Is he still there, Laramie ?”

  “Jack?”

  “Yes, Jack,” she fought down her frustration. “Did he get back from Ames?”

  “Hours ago.”

  “So is he still there?” The guy seemed stumped, and she pointed to the building, hoping that would help him understand.

  “Oh,” Laramie looked back over his shoulder toward the front door. “No, he left the office maybe ten minutes ago. He went off to shoot some hoops with the kid who tweets high school games for us. Jack’s been grumpy as an old bear all week. He said he needed to blow off some steam.”

  “Where?”

  “At the school.”

  “Where?” Tess swallowed a swear word as Laramie just stood there with his silly grin looking confused. “Where’s the school?”

  “Oh, out on the south end of town. Just head down the street and take a right when you get to the highway. You’ll go right past.”

  Tess pulled into the lot a good way from the court. Jack was easy to spot, older and taller than the other players. Most were high-school age, a couple probably in their early 20s. A number of young people, mostly girls, stood around watching, and she joined them, staying near the back.

  The evening was heavy with thick, muggy air perfumed with the smell of lilacs from a windbreak at the edge of the campus. The players were shooting free throws to divide up sides, and before Jack’s turn came, a fourth kid made his shot, setting the shirts team. A pleased ripple went through the young women, and Tess realized that it was Jack they were watching closely as he stripped off his t-shirt and tossed it off the court. The tight muscles played over his arms and chest, his smooth belly flat against his jeans as he stretched to take a practice shot. “God, I love this game,” a buxom brunette muttered to her friend, who giggled.

  At first he killed them.

  Taller and faster, he turned them around on every drive, cutting back into the basket and setting the ball in, his fingers coming up to the rim with an ease that made Tess remember Dolly Timm’s words about poetry in motion. When they started double-teaming, he moved to the air, seeming to hang there for seconds to take his shot. He just killed them.

  For about 20 minutes.

  Then a hefty young guy, two or three inches shorter but heavier, began leaning on Jack and bumping him every time he got near the basket. He would foul rather than letting Jack shoot. And soon, instead of sprinting down court when his team had the ball, Jack trotted. She noticed that he started stalling, holding up at the top of the key, passing the ball off and taking his time moving under the basket, where the youths bumped and held to slow him down. He started shooting from the outside, making several long shots, but missing a few as well.

  He was nearly in front of her, falling back on defense, watching a surprisingly fresh kid come barreling down the court, when he glanced over and spotted her. She saw his huge smile, and then the boy cut around him, making a run at the basket. Jack swung back, and his legs strained for one more jump, arms raised, to block the shot. But he was too late. The kid’s elbow caught him just under the right eye, snapping Jack’s head back, and sending him sprawling.

  “Shit, Jack, you OK?” The boy they called Brandon hurried over.

  “Yeah, just old and tired.” Jack touched the blotched red spot gingerly, then grabbed Brandon’s offered hand and pulled himself back to his feet. “Come on, guys, let’s wrap this up,” he glanced back at her, with a funny grin. “The old man’s had it.”

  Distracted now, Jack missed every shot he took, but the shirts still couldn’t catch up. On their way off the court Brandon stopped and pointed to Jack’s eye. “You might want to get some ice for that. It’s starting to swell, might be sore tomorrow.”

  “If that’s all that’s sore tomorrow, it’ll be a miracle,” Jack bent to pick up his things. They all laughed, and then Jack moved deliberately toward her, pulling on his shirt, his smile deepening. Taking her arm, he kept moving, saying softly, “Speaking of miracles, what brings you here?” They walked toward his Jeep.

  “I needed to deliver a message.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “A long drive for that. I’ve spent the last few days just hoping you’d call.”

  “I did this morning. But Thelma answered, and I figured it was better to stay out of her sphere of influence.”

  He nodded and stopped at his Jeep, putting his foot on the running board and resting his forearms along his leg, leaning toward her, keeping his voice low. “She said someone called who wouldn’t leave a message. I was hoping it was you. But then, when you didn’t call again, I thought maybe no. What did you want to tell me?”

  “That I missed you. But then I got a call from a lady with the unlikely name of Dolly Timm. And after we talked, calling you wasn’t enough.”

  “She called already?” he sighed, running his hand through his wet hair. “Look, I know it’s your business, not mine. But when I saw the short about her gallery, I figured why not …”

  “Take a shot?” She finished for him, and he smiled again, but she grew more solemn. “I’m overwhelmed that you thought of it. What can I say, Jack?”

  He shook his head. “You don’t have to say anything. You came back.” For a long moment they stood staring at each other, the kids eyeing them as they filtered past on their way to each other’s cars to head off and enjoy the weekend. Finally he said, “So, how would you like to finally see the Journal? Later we could get something to eat.”

  “The Sanctuary looked nice.”

  He shook his head with a little laugh. “Let’s try the pizza place. Hey, would you mind a stop out at the farmhouse? If I don’t get a shower …”

  “No problem.” The invitation caused the backs of her knees to prickle.

  “Maybe you’d better follow me out,” he said with
a grimace. “It could get a little gamey in here with me.”

  He drove surprisingly slow, obviously aware of how easy it would be to lose her on the steep gravel roads. It was pretty country, the rolling hills dark and loamy, coming to spring life. The sun was sinking into a thick line of clouds crowding the horizon when they pulled into the drive. The house was big, a square salt block with a porch around three sides. Old and mellow, it looked just right, crowning the hill. She was surprised at the number of well-maintained outbuildings and the thick stand of fruit trees just beyond the house. Old fashioned and unusual in these days when every foot of expensive farmland was normally put under the till.

  They went up the porch steps together. “I’ll hurry and get cleaned up, and then show you around,” he said and nodded to the southwest. “Looks like the weather’s going to break.” He propped the screen door open with his hip as he unlocked the front door. A large, tattered brown dog came loping from somewhere behind the house, and Jack reached down to rub its ears. “Hey, Rover, say hi to Tess.”

  “You got another dog,” she said, reaching down to pet the scruffy animal.

  Jack opened the door, and Rover scampered in. “More like he got me. He just showed up one day.”

  “Original name.”

  “Well, he’s got such a nice stray cliché going, I figured why screw it up.” He stepped aside to let her in. “I feed him and let him sleep in my kitchen. He acts like a watchdog while I’m gone, and gives me someone to talk to when I’m here.” Tossing the keys onto the kitchen table, he crossed to the refrigerator and held out a long-necked beer with a raised eyebrow.

  “Sure,” she said. He twisted off the cap and handed it to her, taking a Gatorade for himself.

  “Make yourself comfortable.” He took her hand, but carefully kept from pulling her close, his sweat still not broken, then glanced at Rover who started to follow and added softly, “Uh-uh.” The dog seemed to understand and immediately went to his basket in the corner of the kitchen.

  “This place is huge.” She looked up at the 12-foot ceilings as they passed from the large square kitchen into the large square dining room and from there to the large square living room. He stopped at the iPod dock on a shelf on the south wall and clicked it on, Lizz Wright’s sultry voice sighing through the entire house as he flipped the switch, “See your eyes in mine, leave the rest behind. Hit the ground babe, cause I want to love you now.” The whole house seemed to wake up with sound.

  “Wow.” Tess looked down to see the word Bose as he stepped away. He had hooked up small, powerful speakers in the ceiling corners of every room.

  “I like music. You’d be surprised how quiet it can get out here.”

  “No, I wouldn’t. There’s a lot of room to fill.”

  “Yeah, Rover and I kind of rattle around, but it’s the home place. Go ahead and look around. I’ll go up and get decent.” He ran up the wide, open staircase, his Nikes squeaking a little on the hardwood floor of the upper hall.

  She wandered from room to room, enjoying the simple, homey furnishings. The hardwood floors had been refinished and sealed to a deep glow with good wool rugs, faded but whole, spread over them. The furniture was old too, but expensive and well cared for. The comfort in the things created the warmth of the house.

  The home office was the only place she was sure Jack had made some recent changes. He had another desk, this one kidney-shaped and made of shining cherry wood. Equally neat as his desk at work, it held a new, powerful notebook computer. Bookshelves lined the west side of the room, and sprinkled among the stacks were family pictures in eclectic frames. She looked them over, noting the strong family resemblance among Jack, his brother and his father.

  At a deep rumble of thunder, she went to the windows of the north side, which were obviously new and gave a wide view of the orchard beyond. In the odd, murky light of the approaching storm, she looked out and caught her breath at something she saw. With a delighted smile, she hurried out, back through the kitchen and out to the car for her camera, Rover following curiously at her heels.

  The rain was pattering on the porch when Jack came down. She hadn’t turned on any lights, and the rooms were dim with the lowering clouds. The thunder came again and again now, one quick rumble upon the other. Barefoot, he padded through the rooms.

  He found her standing in the kitchen, at the front door watching the rolling thunderheads. “There you are.” When he spoke, she jumped.

  “I didn’t hear you come in.” She caught her breath. He was wearing a painfully white t-shirt with fresh jeans, and she noticed for the first time a small tattoo on the bulge of his right bicep, the twisted funnel that was the Iowa Cyclones’ symbol. He was already a little bit tan, and his thick hair, toweled dry, looked darker in the dim light.

  “We’re not going to beat the storm back to town.” He put the empty Gatorade bottle on the counter, and opened the fridge. “Want another?” She shook her head. Opening a beer for himself, he took a sip, coming toward her, squinting to see down the porch line and the sky beyond. “It looks like we might want to wait this out. It’s going to really rain.”

  She nodded. “I don’t think I’ve ever had such a clear view of an approaching storm. This house sits up higher than anything else around. I’ve been watching the lightning.” As if on cue, a jagged bolt crackled through the dark sky, forking to the ground. A few seconds later a hollow boom rolled over them. “I’ve never seen the sky do things like this. It’s just …”

  “Beautiful,” he finished for her. “Yeah, the view’s great from here.” He saw her camera on the table, and touched her damp hair, the curls drawn tight. “You were out in the rain?”

  She looked over her shoulder. “Just as it started. I saw a shot in your orchard I wanted.” She jutted her chin toward the camera, indicating he should take a look.

  He put the beer down, and hit the review button, drawing a sharp breath at what he saw in the screen. It was a picture of a red wheelbarrow, the color rich in the odd light of the approaching storm, leaning against a tree, filled with overblown cherry blossoms. Some blooms littered the ground, and others stuck to the barrow, which was shiny with rain.

  “My God, that’s …” he hesitated on a word he rarely used, “ … lovely. I had no idea - I’ve walked past that thing for a month and never saw …”

  She smiled, pleased with his reaction. “I know. Sometimes it just takes another pair of eyes. It made me think of that Neruda poem …”

  He shook his head, “No, it’s William Carlos Williams,” and quoted,

  “so much depends

  upon

  a red wheel

  barrow

  glazed with rain

  water

  beside the white

  chickens”

  “You sure it’s Williams?”

  “Positive. No chickens though.”

  “The cherry blossoms are better.”

  He nodded, smiling, still taking it in. “Will you make me a print?”

  “Not yet. I’ve got plans for it. But the finished product is yours, I promise.” She turned back looking up at the sky.

  He came to stand behind her as a flash whipped through the oddly peaked high clouds. He smelled of some light, crisp soap and wheaty beer. She looked up at him, noticing the small mouse under his eye, puffy and discolored. Reaching up, she barely touched with the tip of her little finger. “Hurt?” He shook his head, his eyes closing.

  She settled back against him, his arms coming around her, and in silence they watched the lightning light up the clouds and jab at the ground, almost continuously, the thunder washing over them again and again.

  “Tess?” She turned her head a little in acknowledgement. “Did you only come back because of Dolly Timm?”

  “No,” she answered softly. “Did you only go see her so I would?”

  “No.”

  She felt the hard line of his jaw graze the top of her head, and then what must have been his lips brush through her hair.
He pulled her back against him a little tighter, his right hand moving to her side where her blouse ended just at the top of her jeans. His fingers were cold from the beer bottle, and they pressed into the smooth skin, then dipped a bit to rest at the top of her hip. She could feel his heartbeat through the soft cotton of his T-shirt.

  “OK, farm boy,” her own voice was husky to her ears. She nodded toward the tortured sky, now roiling into a greenish and black-gray color, the wind beginning to back and rush, first from one direction, then another. “What’s going on out there? Things are moving pretty fast in that sky.”

  “Well,” his breath tickled as he leaned down and spoke, softly, his mouth close to her ear. He pointed with his left hand. “You see that bank, higher and lighter in color, coming in from the south? That’s the warm front.” Behind them, Rover began to whine, and crept under the table, his belly on the floor. “Over there,” he pointed lower, “all that dark green mass, that’s hanging down and moving in fast from the west? That’s cold air. So, what we’ve got are the two coming together. At the moment they’re just kind of circling around, struggling to find a way to fit together.” He dropped his arm, his hand closing on her ribs, just below her breast. “They’ll twist and turn, but finally it’ll happen.”

  His smooth chin brushed against her cheek, and she smiled, realizing he shaved before he’d come down. His lips touched just under her ear, and moved down, slowly, along the back of her neck. She shivered as she asked, “And when they do?”

  He turned her in his arms. “Then a hell of a storm is going to come right down on us.” His mouth came down hard on hers, and she felt herself melt right into him, his powerful arms holding her up, her knees weak.

  “Should we take shelter?” She could barely hear her own breathless voice against the wind and the thundering of her heart.

  “We already have.” Drawing her with him, he stepped back, closing the door tight against the rising wind. He grasped her hand, pulling her toward the stairs.