by Terri Kraus
Leslie knew he was that sort of man—a man who prepared ahead, looked ahead, making sure there would be no surprises, making sure all the bases were covered, and the gutters cleaned out for the cold rains of October.
“Are you looking for a job?” Mike asked. “I mean, not that I need to know …”
Leslie smiled. “Mike, it’s okay. You can ask me questions. I won’t break.”
He slapped at his forehead again, as if it had been a practiced move. “Sorry. I’m never too sure.”
“I am looking for a job. I was supposed to have an interview at ARMCO. But something … came up and I had to cancel. Now I’m back to square one.”
“Well, I know a few people in town. I’m not sure if anyone is hiring right now, but I’ll ask around.”
Leslie wanted to tell him that it wasn’t necessary, that she didn’t want any special favors. But if he asked around and that helped land a job, so much the better, she told herself.
In a few minutes, they were at the Midlands Building. Leslie unlocked the street door. Ava asked for the key for the upstairs door and she and Trevor took off like monkeys climbing a tree after bananas, leaving Mike and Leslie alone in the small vestibule. Leslie thought Mike had hesitated a moment, allowing the children to charge ahead.
When the upstairs door clamped shut, Mike turned to Leslie. “This has been nice, real nice. I’m glad you two came with us. It was fun.”
“It was fun,” Leslie agreed.
Mike hesitated, then spread his arms and hugged Leslie. Leslie had seldom, if ever, felt so engulfed, so protected, as in his thick arms. He hugged like she was fragile, not wanting to break something in the process.
“This was nice,” he repeated, talking toward the wall.
Leslie nodded against his chest.
Then he leaned back and bent down a lot to kiss her ever so lightly on the lips. He let the kiss linger longer than Leslie thought he ever would when he began the kiss.
He leaned back, flushed, and perhaps embarrassed, and repeated, one more time, “This was real, real nice.”
Leslie nodded.
“I should go,” Mike said. “Trevor has had enough sugar for a while and the walk home will help.”
They both walked upstairs, Leslie going first. Then Mike gathered his son, and the two departed in a chorus of good-byes, clicking the door shut behind them.
Ava stared at the closed door. “That was nice,” she said.
Leslie would have agreed with her, except she was waiting for the familiar bands of constriction in her chest, precursors to panic, begin to form around her heart, leaving her mute. Yet the panic did not start, and Leslie was unsure how to stop her preparations, her bracing for the storm, if the storm never appeared.
Alice swept every paint chip off her desk, or what was her section of the large work surface. Worthless, after assessing his chances of finding that errant open can of tuna on the kitchen floor were nil, had wandered back underneath the desk. The deluge surprised him, but it was not enough of a surprise to get him to move.
Alice flipped open her worn red leather address book, with numbers crossed out, names crossed out, Wite-Out frequently used, to add yet one more entry. She resisted going digital, though everyone encouraged her in that direction, and her phone had the capability. Alice had refused all entreaties, claiming that written numbers were much more secure than some wired piece of plastic that could be rendered useless by a dead battery.
She ran her index finger down a long list and settled on one number. She picked up the phone from the desk, a landline, “just in case that wireless system shuts down some day,” she’d explained, defending the dinosaur. She tapped at the numbers, then leaned back in her chair, crossing her legs, nearly taking off the ear of Worthless, who still had not budged an inch.
“How are you?” Alice all but shrieked, in a pleasant shriek sort of way.
She waited a long time to reply.
“No! Really? That’s wonderful. How are you feeling? You can still travel, right?”
Alice tapped at the piles of paper, looking for a pen.
“Well, I know how busy you are, but you simply must come down to Butler.”
She nodded as she listened.
“I know it is nowhere near as cosmopolitan as Franklin, but Frank and I have found a new place to start Alice and Frank’s Take Two. A wonderful old building with oodles of character and charm. We are just about to start work on it. You must come and document the renewal process. I know that you love taking the ‘before’ pictures. That’s the start of the drama, right? This is such a wonderful project, Cameron. It would be just so perfect for you.”
She began to jot down names and numbers.
“I will call him immediately. But you can do it, right? You’re the star, right? You have pull, my dear. You must learn to exercise it properly. You must.”
Alice sat up, laughing at whatever had been said in reply.
“I will call you tomorrow, then. You will make plans to come down. Remember your promise.”
Alice nodded one last time, then replied.
“We miss you, too. Frank sends his love.”
She took a pen, and flipped open her calendar, and wrote “Three Rivers/Cameron” on an open square for the correct day, then drew an arrow to the following week, with a question mark, then another arrow to in between the two dates, and wrote “Confirm/Callback/Cameron.”
Amelia Westland, age seventeen years
Butler, Pennsylvania
July 10, 1879
Julian Beck has twice called upon me here at the Barry residence. We have taken tea in the parlor. Dr. Barry has expressed his concern, in his kindly way. He did not say so in so many words, however, I have had the disquieting feeling that, at first impression, he does not approve of my Mr. Beck. Mrs. Barry has also inquired as to my perceptions of various aspects of Mr. Beck’s character, not showing outright disapproval, perhaps, since she has but briefly met Julian, but from her manner I discern she also is showing her concern. I am sure that it is only in the interest of my well-being that she and the good doctor have done so. I do not wish to be unwise in my affections toward Julian, but such feelings as I have in my heart for my “beau ideal,” do I pray they be banished if he is not who God desires for me?
For thou art my rock and my fortress;
therefore for thy name’s sake lead me, and guide me.
—Psalm 31:3
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
IT WAS SO QUIET IN Leslie’s apartment. As part of her sixth birthday celebration, Ava was spending the night with the Stickles, her new de facto grandparents. Both sides all but begged to allow the sleepover. Mrs. Stickle said that they would make sugar cookies and have chocolate-chip pancakes for breakfast. Ava had been too excited to deny Ava such an innocent pleasure.
But that left Leslie alone, an occasion that had seldom occurred in the last six years. In fact, Leslie could not recall the last time she had been off “mom duty” at night. With the sole custody of a child, that was nearly impossible.
Leslie had gotten a small bundle of firewood, sold for a few dollars outside the convenience store, and had arranged the logs in the fireplace. Once the fire was started, she sat down and tried to read. But sometime after 11:00, she slipped out of the french doors and walked out onto the balcony, decided it was too chilly to sit there, and returned to the kitchen to make a cup of instant coffee. So far today, this cup would be, perhaps, her tenth cup of coffee. She knew it was too much caffeine, but she didn’t have any soda in the house and had always resisted resorting to wine on these occasions. So coffee it would be—regardless of the total daily consumption. And the ritual of making coffee had become a soothing activity: routine, easy, and mind occupying … for a little while, at least.
She had tried her best not to think of Mike and his
embrace and all the rest of it, the totally unexpected part of it, until this moment. She wondered if Ava, who was very intuitive and perceptive, had noticed anything different. If she had, she’d made no reference to anything out of the ordinary. This evening, she had given her mother a hug, a peck on the cheek, found her teddy and blanket, and had taken Mrs. Stickle’s hand.
Leslie poured the hot water onto the spoonful of coffee. She sipped at it, disliking the taste, disliking the acrid sensation on her tongue at the end of the day, yet knowing she would drink the entire cup because she’d made it and didn’t waste things in a cavalier fashion.
What was he thinking?
She turned her cup around so that the handle pointed away from her.
Did I encourage him? Did I lead him on?
She turned the handle around again.
And … did I like it? It has been a really, really long time since I’ve been … you know … kissed by a man. I like him. I guess I like him. He’s a nice guy. He seems to be normal. He seems to be a decent person.
She breathed in deeply, waiting for that unsettled feeling again.
But there was none. Maybe what she had felt earlier was simple excitement, an expected response from an unexpected kiss.
Maybe I did encourage him. Maybe touching his hand like that and being nice because he was being so kind and sweet was the encouragement.
She picked up her coffee cup, now cool enough to carry and half-consumed so spills wouldn’t be a problem, and walked to the french doors of the balcony.
Maybe I wanted him to do that. Maybe Ava needs a strong man in her life. Maybe it’s already time to start thinking about making a more stable home for her—with a mother and a father. Maybe it is time. And Mike is very easy to be with.
I guess …
She looked down at her cup.
I could do a lot worse.
Then she looked up at the moon, just rising, almost hidden by the streetlight at the end of the block, and thought about Jack.
I wonder what he’s doing tonight.
Jack waited in his truck a long time, watching the moonrise, deciding a thousand times. He wondered why his life so often careened from rock-solid good to horrifyingly bad. He wondered why God would let his life spiral, sometimes out of control, and never bring him back from the edge.
A long time ago Jack had decided that God was in the lifeguard business. But Jack was also convinced God must just have been paying attention elsewhere when he was pulled into deep waters.
Or maybe He doesn’t care. Just as likely He doesn’t care about someone like me.
After he’d taken the keys out of the ignition and buttoned them into his coat pocket, he stepped out onto the gravel parking lot. Slowly he made his way around to the front and into the familiar darkness that enveloped and welcomed in such a wonderful way, making Jack feel, at least at that moment, like the right decision had been reached.
Celebration. Release.
The next time Jack looked at his watch, he could barely make out the small numbers and arrows, but correlating his watch to the NASCAR-themed clock behind the bar, he determined it was a few minutes past 11:00.
That’s not so late. Only a couple of hours. Well, maybe a few more than a couple.
He scooped the small pile of bills and coins from his pocket. He fished out a five-dollar bill and smacked it onto the bar. He nodded to the bartender, who smiled back at him. Jack wondered as he snaked his way back to the front door if the bartender’s smile was a five-dollar smile or an accidental ten- or twenty-dollar smile. Jack had made miscalculations like that before. It was not the sort of mistake he could go back and examine. If he overtipped, so be it.
Glad that the front door was a push door and not a doorknob door, he made his way outside. Now that late night had come, the temperatures had dropped, and Jack could see his breath in the air—little clouds of alcohol-fueled breath, dissipating into the darkness.
He sat in the cab of his truck for a long time, breathing in deeply, hating himself for what he had done, blaming it on what had happened to him, blaming it on the fact that he was alone tonight, every night, blaming it on.…
“I’m not going to drink anymore,” he said out loud, emphatically, and thumped his palm on the dashboard, as if adding an exclamation point. “I’m not. This time I mean it. Sober. Sober from here on out.”
He felt fine. He felt in control now, now that he had promised all this manner of self-destructive behavior was behind him, and that a new start had begun, right here, right behind the tavern on Route 8.
He jammed the key into the ignition, started the truck, and carefully pulled out of the parking lot and onto the highway.
I’m okay. Really. It was only a few drinks, anyhow.
He drove slowly, or what he thought was slowly. He had trouble focusing on the road as well as the speedometer. But he was dead certain he was traveling within the speed limits, although he wasn’t sure what the speed limit was on this specific stretch of Route 8.
Probably forty-five or fifty. And no way I’m going that fast.
He was sure that he was in his lane and remained in his lane. He was being so very careful that when the sharp turn in the road appeared all of a sudden, not marked at all, he cursed, and swore it was not a turn he recalled negotiating on his earlier trips. It threw him, confused him, and he twisted at the steering wheel, feeling the front tires catch the softer dirt and gravel of the shoulder at the side of the road.
The truck barked and shifted as he fought the wheel, the tires squealing, trying to regain purchase on the smooth asphalt, the gravel and dirt of the shoulder clutching at them.
He wrenched the wheel again, and the truck bounced, then veered farther off the road. As Jack slammed on the brakes, the passenger side crunched against a stand of trees. As if in slow motion, Jack watched as the sideview mirror snapped off like the head of a dandelion in the wind. He could hear the mirror’s glass explode, spreading like a small comet.
In a matter of seconds it was all over.
The truck stopped moving. Jack unclenched his right hand from the steering wheel and threw the transmission into park, the terror rising in his chest like a tsunami.
After a long moment he stepped out of the truck. The vehicle had wound up several feet off the road, well out of traffic, the front tires deeply mired in mud. As carefully as he could, he stepped around to the passenger side. Mirror gone. Supporting arm gone. Clean little holes in the sheet metal where the mirror had been ripped from the car. Some scrapes and scratches on the door and front fender, but some of them might have been there from before.
Not that bad, Jack reassured himself.
He slapped at his hip. His cell phone was still there. He grabbed it, and his hands shook so that he struggled several times to flip the slim unit open.
If a police car sees me here, they’ll get me on a DUI for sure. They will. And if they do that, I’m in jail. Everything will be gone. I can’t let that happen. I can’t. Not for just one screwup. I promised to go sober now. I made that promise. If they find me here, I’ll be in big trouble.
He took off, almost at a jog, toward the city, wanting to get some distance between himself and the truck.
If the police come, they’ll chalk it up to me running off the road and getting stuck in the mud, and that I had to go for help.
That’ll work. I can get the truck in the morning.
After a few minutes of jogging, he realized that walking the eight or nine miles back to town might take him most of the night. And he was certain that if a passing patrol car spotted him wandering along Route 8 in the middle of the night, far from anywhere, they would stop him, eventually put two and two together, and arrest him for drunk driving and leaving the scene of an accident. Besides, the wind had begun to pick up and it felt like rain.
I have to call somebody. I have to call somebody to get me. That’s what I have to do. They’ll come get me and then I won’t have to worry about the police.
He stopped in front of a closed tire repair shop, under the glare of a sodium vapor light, flipped open his phone, dialed a number, and dialed it without hesitation—just as the first drops of rain began to fall.
Leslie, startled by the electronic warbling, lurched for her purse, not wanting to wake Ava, then remembered that Ava was not there. She grabbed the phone and snapped it open. “Hello?”
Her heart began to beat fast. No one called close to midnight. It might be the Stickles. Or her ex-husband. Both scenarios, however briefly considered, scared Leslie more than any horror she could imagine.
She repeated, “Hello?”
“Mrs. Ruskin? Leslie? This is Jack. Jack Kenyon.”
His words sounded precise, as if he were trying hard to pronounce every single letter.
“Yes?”
What could he want? Why would he call this late?
“Mrs. Leslie, I didn’t want to bother you and all, but I’m sort of in a pickle.”
She heard what she thought was a muffled laugh, but it might have been Jack coughing.
“I need your help.”
“What sort of help, Jack?”
She heard him cough again, this time a bit longer.
“Jack? Are you okay?”
There was another spasm of muted coughing, then the rustle of something, as if he was holding the phone against his clothing. She waited.
“I need your help.”
Then Leslie knew he had been drinking. She was well aware of the signs.
“You said that, Jack. What do you need?”
Jack coughed again. “I got my truck stuck in the mud. On Route 8. There shouldn’t be any mud there. Too far to walk home. It’s raining. I need a ride. Can you run down to get me?”