by Kai Strand
“Good to have you, Lola.” He tips his chin up, and a huge grin splits his face. “Knock ‘em dead on Thursday.”
“I’ll do my best.” I laugh.
Just then my phone buzzes and I see a text from Rome. It’s a picture of a coffee cup with the caption. Big test tomorrow. It’s gonna be a long night.
I reply with a picture of an empty cafeteria seat and the caption. Cyn got busted sneaking off campus. And yet it wasn’t a long lunch.
He replies without a picture. How is she?
Dealing. I wish I could do more for her.
She’s lucky to have you.
As I enter Lit class, I snap a picture of the room number and the fancy name plaque the teacher has hanging by the door. I add the caption, I’m pretty lucky too. Gotta go.
He responds with a close up of his frowning mouth and the caption, Miss you.
I stare at the picture of his mouth long after I sit down, thinking of how very much I like those lips and all that they can do. When the teacher calls class to attention, I store my phone, but the image of Rome’s lips lingers in my memory making me that much more eager to surprise him on Thursday.
Chapter 19
“Lola can I talk to you for a second?”
I smile tentatively at Donna, the meal coordinator of the kitchen and nod. She never needs to talk to me. Our serving assignments are posted by the sign in sheet, so those of us who are experienced volunteers know to check the sheet and get to work setting up the station we will be serving.
As Donna leads me into her office I almost panic. Is she firing me? Can you fire a volunteer?
She turns to me with a sorrowful look. “I’m afraid I have some bad news.”
I frown trying to imagine what on earth she could have to tell me bad, good or otherwise.
“It’s Mr. Whitman. I’m afraid we’ve lost him.”
My frown deepens when I can’t figure out what she means by this. Maybe he got off the bus at the wrong stop.
“He passed away. Over the weekend.”
My mouth forms an O, like I’m going to respond, but I’m too shocked to say anything. My mind tells me this news means I will never see him again, but the realization won’t quite gel so it’s also urging me to leave the office because I’ll find him sitting at the tables waiting for me to bring his coffee and tell me a story.
My breath hitches at the thought that there will be no more stories. My eyes flood with tears.
“I’m sorry, dear.” She looks truly sorry. “I know you shared a special bond with him that few others did. His funeral is on Saturday. Here’s the information in case you want to attend.”
Donna hands me an index card with the name and address of a church and the time. I stare at it like I’ve forgotten how to read.
“I’m sure this is a shock. Are you okay?”
I just blink up at her.
“Why don’t you take the night off, dear? We’ll cover for you.”
I nod, but don’t move otherwise.
“You just take your time. Collect yourself. If you need anything…” She points toward the kitchen and I nod again, giving her permission to leave.
My gaze drops to the card.
Grace Baptist Church. 10:00 AM
I’ve never been to a funeral. I’ve never lost anyone before.
I see Mr. Whitman in my mind’s eye. Stooped under the weight of his aged wool overcoat. Faded black fedora perched on his head. Plaid pants. Always plaid. White button down shirt. Tie. Leaning so heavily on his cane I always expected him to just tip forward, straight to the ground. Clutching a plate of food in his shaky grip, the weight of the food making the plate droop precariously.
He was quick to scowl. Eager to bark. But when his gaze found me, all the grumpiness fell away, and his eyes lit with pleasure and his craggy face smoothed with joy.
Oh God, was he alone? What if he was alone? What if no one knew right away?
I slap my hand to my mouth to stifle the cry that threatens to escape. Fresh tears well in my eyes. My heart rate accelerates. I hope he wasn’t alone.
My watery gaze returns to the card still clutched in my other hand.
Grace Baptist Church. 10:00 AM
I blink, and a tear falls onto the last zero making the ink blur.
“Lola, you okay?”
It’s Victor. Relief floods me, but I have no idea why. Maybe because I’m no longer alone.
Memories of Mr. Whitman continue to play in my mind, superimposed over the real life Victor standing in front of me. It’s like my mind has split and is living in the past and the present at the same time.
I shrug. When I finally speak, it’s only a whisper. “I don’t know.”
Then my mind settles on one memory. One thing I’ve seen again and again in the two years I’ve known Mr. Whitman. The picture of him and Gladys. The picture with the worn edges that he pulled out at least once each mealtime just to show me. But I’m sure he produced countless other times in a myriad of other circumstances.
My gaze focuses on Victor and I offer a sad sort of smile while my heart breaks for me but rejoices for Gladys. “They’re finally together again. He’s finally with his beloved wife of fifty-two years.”
But I’ll never see him again. How can it be like that? So sudden. Without warning.
Victor nods. “You need anything, kid? Want me to call someone for you?”
I shake my head. “No, I think I’ll just go home and have a good cry.”
“Even I shed a few tears when I heard. I loved that cantankerous old goat’s stories.” Victor doesn’t seem to know what to say next as he turns to leave, but then spins around again. “See you next month?”
I smile because he seems genuinely concerned that I’ll stop coming or something. I nod. “Of course.”
I follow him out of the office and he gives me a little wave when he turns toward the kitchen. I watch him, not really seeing him, but imagining another month without this place. I’m not in any shape to stay and work tonight, but I stop at the sign up board to put myself down for the following Wednesday. A little whine escapes me when I remember the fashion show fundraiser stuff I have to participate in all next week. Reluctantly, I put myself down to return in two weeks.
I pass through the cafeteria and hear the hustle and bustle of the volunteers and staff getting the service ready. The tables and chairs are all still empty and waiting for the evening rush. I stop and stare at the table Mr. Whitman sat at, when he told that surprising story of the life I never knew he had, and I’m filled with gratitude that I got that very important story from him. I look around at all the other empty chairs and imagine all the people who usually fill them. They all have stories. Some good, many sad, and I’m sure some are as surprising as the one Mr. Whitman shared about Meribel.
The desire to hear all the stories overwhelms me. I take a deep breath to stay the panic at not being able to hear them all. As if the only thing that can help people in need is for them to tell their story out loud. I close my eyes and search for calm. I can’t hear them all. I can only hear one story at a time. Mr. Whitman’s stories are done, but I’ll be here for the next person and the next.
But maybe not tonight.
Chapter 20
I dab at the puffy skin under my eyes. Even if they don’t un-puff by the time I give my speech, I’m thankful to know that the audience—most importantly, the judges—won’t be able to see me that clearly as I stand behind the podium on the stage.
I pull the white blouse on over the camisole and study myself as I button it. It’s the exact same outfit, but somehow it isn’t as show stopping as the last time I wore it. Though, the fact that I’m grieving for the first time in my life probably taints my view.
I grab my book bag and purse and slump down the stairs. I’m unaccustomed to the weight I feel in my muscles. Everything feels heavy. It’s an effort just to walk. I mentally scold myself that I need to put my emotions aside for the day. I’ve got a once in a lifetime experience to
win a scholarship today. The scholarships aren’t huge, ranging from $500 - $2500, but it would look great in my admissions packet.
The doorbell tolls as I hit the bottom step. I call out, “I got it. Be home late. Between seven and eight.”
“Okay, mija.” Edna calls from the kitchen. “Good luck.”
“Thanks.”
Miss Bell’s eyes pop in surprise when I swing the door open. “Oh no. Are you not well?” she asks by way of greeting.
“I’m fine.” I finish buttoning my coat and pull on my gloves and then follow her to her car.
Miss Bell chitchats for the first half hour of the drive, but then we fall silent and listen to the radio. I watch the ever-changing scenery speed by as we pass through towns and countryside, imagining Rome making this same drive over and over again. The traffic grows heavy for a spell and Miss Bell seems nervous about the length of time it takes us to clear it, even though I know we can be late without penalty. We don’t have to be there for the entire competition, but one of her rules is that we support all the contestants by being present the entire time. Ironically it doesn’t bother her when I read a book or do homework. She says from the stage, the body in the seat is the important thing. I guess she’s right about that.
I can’t stop thinking about Mr. Whitman, which feels ridiculous to me since he was never a part of my day-to-day life. But I knew him for a long time. I’ll suddenly remember his laugh or a particularly funny (though rude) response he gave a tablemate. Or the look in his eyes when he stared at that picture of his wife. Each time I’m swamped with grief. I long for Miss Bell to start prattling again. I’d start a conversation if I could think of something to say. By the time we get to the college, I’m exhausted.
After a couple of hours of listening to speeches that all sound like the adults in a Charlie Brown cartoon, we’re given an hour and a half for lunch. I assure Miss Bell that I’m fine on my own and I set off across campus to track down Rome. I’ve been peppering our conversations with questions about his Thursday schedule for weeks now, so that I could piece together where he’d be when I was able to escape the competition. He only has half an hour between classes, so he always goes to the library. With luck, I’ll find him there.
I pull the heavy glass doors open and step into the biggest library I’ve ever seen. The entry is long and rectangular with an enormous reference desk at the far end. The ceiling above the entry and the reference desk is four stories high. Each floor circles the opening and is lined with bookshelves packed full of books. Four stories of books!
For a second, I’m awed by the quantity of knowledge in this one building, but then as my gaze falls from the tiers of bookshelves to focus on the rows of tables broken up by occasional groupings of cushioned chairs.
How am I going to find Rome in this huge building?
I move forward deciding I’ll just have to walk up and down the aisles of seating. I’m discouraged to realize there is more seating between every fourth and fifth bookshelf or so. So many heads bowed over books. Most of the tables have at least one person at them. At least I can quickly rule out females and boys with longer hair.
I finish checking the left side of the bottom floor and swing around to pace the section along the far end of the library when I see him. I grin and change course, but falter to a stop as he leans forward and slowly, passionately kisses the girl sitting next to him. When they pull apart she giggles and says something in a low rumbling voice. He reaches up winds a finger into a long tress of her red hair and I want to grab a book and throw it at him.
His gaze shifts my way, maybe because I’m just standing there staring. He looks away, but then does a double take and pops out of his chair.
“Lola?”
The girl squeaks and grabs the hair he yanked when he stood so fast. After she untangles it from his finger, she turns to me and I feel sick. She and I could be sisters. Really the biggest difference is her eyes are blue.
“What are you doing here?” Rome asks.
Other than springing out of his chair, he hasn’t moved. For some reason, that feels very significant to me. I picture him kissing her, the tenderness, the care, and I can’t even talk. So, I spin on my high heel and all but run away.
I’m halfway to the door when he catches up.
“Lola. Wait.” He grabs my elbow to stop me, but I yank my arm from his grasp and keep walking.
“Come on, Lola. Let me explain.”
I stop and spin to face him. “Explain? What? Are you going to tell me you were just checking her tonsils to see if they were inflamed? Or try to pass off the kiss as a homework assignment?”
“It isn’t like we ever said we were exclusive.” Rome slaps his thighs with his hands reminding me of a small boy caught stealing a cookie who pleads that he was never told not to have one.
Though anger flashes through me, I keep me voice and manner calm. “You’re right. We didn’t. Now that I know that isn’t how you work, I’ll be leaving.”
I turn back toward the door, realizing that all the students studying in the area are watching us. I wonder if the girl he’d been kissing followed him and is watching too. I shiver when I remember how much she looks like me. Or do I look like her? I shiver again.
I’ve passed the circulation desk and I’m crossing through a beam of sunlight streaming down from the glass ceiling when Rome grabs my wrist.
“Lola, wait. I don’t want you to leave.”
His voice echoes into the open air. Probably carrying up all four stories so that everyone present knows we’re arguing. I picture the old couple holding hands in the restaurant, the couple he said he wants to be when he grows up and my breathing speeds up.
I keep my voice to a whisper—or more like the hiss of a deflating balloon. “Let go of me.”
He releases my wrist but keeps pace with me as I finally push through the doors. “Let’s talk about this.”
I’m halfway across the open quad in front of the library when I stop and face him. Suddenly I’m exhausted again. Heavy in my muscles, limbs, and mind. “Rome, there’s nothing to talk about. You were kissing her. I don’t like dating more than one person at a time and I don’t like for the people I date to do it either. I’m sorry we didn’t talk about it before. Now we know, and we can get on with life. No harm. No foul. Okay?”
He stands there flapping his jaw but offers no response. The watery winter sunlight makes his eyes sparkle like a blizzard of snowflakes. I’m sad that I’ll never again get to see those eyes heat with desire before a kiss. Or feel the dexterous play of his lips on my mouth.
“I gotta go,” I say. “I’ve got a competition. I can’t be late.”
I know I’m nowhere close to being late, but I need to get away before I’m crushed under the weight of loss looming over me. Suddenly I picture me splattering on the ground, a mass of blood and guts and my previously sexy outfit. Like some cartoon character squished by an invisible anvil.
The movement to turn away feels burdened by a thick sludge of finality. I can’t get caught up in this drudgery. I have to compete. To be persuasive. But I’m so very tired and really, really sad.
“Lola.” Rome’s voice is hoarse.
I sigh and stop, but I can’t turn around. It’s too much effort.
“I’m sorry.”
I nod. Or, at least I meant to nod, but I’m drowning in some sort of fugue state and instead of walking away from Rome, I find myself folded into my chair in the almost empty auditorium, I don’t remember getting here. I try to piece it together and come up with images of mascara streaked Cyn yelling for me to call her dad at the dance, Mr. Whitman staring at the well worn picture of Gladys, Rod’s pinch-lipped delivery of “Your confidence is exuding again, Lola,” Jay’s angry glare at being rejected, and Rome slapping his thighs. The auditorium ceiling is high above me making me realize that if the invisible, frayed tether holding me to earth broke, I’d float up, up, up until I bumped into the steel beams high overhead. Maybe I’d hit a rivet at
just the right angle and pop, and that would be the end of me.
Then the microphone wails as they announce that we will get underway again in a few minutes and I realize the seats are teaming with contestants and audience members even though I didn’t even notice them come in. I draw a deep breath, intent on focusing my mind on the competition, but just like that my thoughts scatter and I’m thinking how funny Rod would find it that the girl who had everything is sitting in the middle of a room of strangers after having lost so much of it.
They introduce my speech category and I furrow my brow, intent on listening to the speaker. I hear the introduction and start to think about how the speaker is from another private school and wonder if it’s privilege as much as anything else providing this opportunity for the current speaker and me. I shake my head, silently scolding myself for following another thought tangent. The speaker is stating the reasons we should have a flat income tax system. The words he’s using are technical and boring. As much as I want to pay close attention to him to discover how he wraps it up, my mind keeps drifting away. In the end I have no idea if his speech was at all persuasive. The huge grin on his face tells me he thinks so. Then I’m being introduced. As they read my biography, I stand and walk toward the stage stairs. I should be rehashing my speech, but instead I’m wondering if any of what I do is even worth it in the end.
I feel myself drowning in self-pity, even though I’ve never done it before. My mind keeps replaying Rome’s seeming annoyance at my desire to date exclusively and Rod’s displeasure at my self-ignorance. I’ve never been one to need the approval of a male, but suddenly their disapproval is making me feel very, very inferior. The crowd is clapping. I’m climbing the stairs, but I feel like I’m getting smaller—shrinking into myself—instead of rising above the audience.
I stand at the podium, staring at the scarred wood, desperately trying to remember the first line of my speech. The quiet of the audience is broken by a few people clearing their throats or coughing. Then several people shift in their chairs.