It's Been Such a Long Time

by Davina Lee

  “There’s some donations up at the front that just came in. You want to sort them out by department and get them ready to be tagged?”

  “Sure thing, Missus J—” Katie’s cheeks turn pink when she catches herself. “Sorry. Sure thing, Amanda.”

  And with that, Katie scampers off to the front while I continue trying to organize the children’s clothing rack. I’m nearly finished, when I hear Katie’s voice again.

  There’s a woman in jeans, a t-shirt, and a blue Milwaukee Brewers baseball cap standing at the counter with her hands resting on an old milk crate. Katie’s standing on the other side looking like a little lost lamb, so I make my way over to them. Katie is pawing through the stack of LP records in the crate with her face all scrunched up.

  “Amanda,” she turns and whispers. “What are these things?”

  I bite my lip to suppress a giggle. Poor Katie, she’s too young to have ever experienced an LP when they were the only thing going, and not enough of a hipster to cherish vinyl like it was some kind of analog manna from heaven.

  “Those are LP records Katie,” I say. And at the risk of sounding more like a Mrs. Johnson I add, “We used to listen to them when I was your age.”

  A wide-eyed ‘wow’ is all Katie manages to contribute.

  “There’s probably some good stuff in here,” I say to the woman at the counter. “We’ll be happy to take them, but if they’re in good shape you might get some serious money for these at one of the used record shops.”

  I continue flipping through the stack. Judging from the album jackets they look as if someone took good care of them. Bachman Turner Overdrive I & II, The Beatles Abbey Road and Let It Be—all good stuff. Boston’s debut album…

  I pause to swallow as my past comes crashing back.

  As I look at the familiar spaceship logo on Boston’s album jacket, my mind turns back to the Apple River bash of my senior year in high school. I pull it out and flip it over to scan the track listing. I must have zoned out for a minute because the woman on the other side of the counter speaks up.

  “It’s okay, you can have them,” she says. “Found them abandoned in the basement of an old house, so they have no sentimental value to me. But that is a good album you’ve got there. Great instrumental on track three if you like rock organ.”

  I study her face for a minute or two longer than what is probably considered polite—taking in her full honey-colored lips, her enchanting green eyes, and the short-cropped hair peeking out from under her ball cap. It’s shorter than I remember, and her temples are streaked with gray, but I slowly make the connection.

  “Marianne?” I say. “Marianne Hoffman?”

  Now it’s her turn to stare. Her eyes dart over the features of my face and even take a brief detour to my chest. And that’s when the recognition registers in her eyes.

  “Mandy?” she says. “Mandy Dixon?”

  I smile and Marianne smiles back. When I step around to her side of the counter, she takes my hands in hers and looks me over from head to toe. Her hands are rough, but her grasp is gentle. As gentle as her kiss that summer by the bonfire. I feel myself flush a bit as I think back to that night.

  “Oh my God,” she says. “How long’s it been?”

  “A long time,” I admit. “Since senior year of high school. And it’s Amanda Johnson now.”

  “The years have been kind to you,” she says. “You look good.”

  I stand there taking her in. Same old Marianne, tall tan and still incredibly fit. “You too,” I say.

  Katie is still there at the counter with us, fidgeting and looking like she’s anxious to run out on this little impromptu class reunion between Marianne and me. I decide to fill her in.

  “Katie, this is my friend, Marianne. We went to high school together. Back when music still came on these.” I point to the crate full of LPs and Katie slowly nods her head.

  “It’s great to see you Mandy,” Marianne says. “We should get together and do some catching up.”

  I smile. At least there’s one more person in this store who isn’t calling me Mrs. Johnson today and that feels pretty good. I may have even blushed.

  “Though unfortunately, I’m kind of in a rush today,” Marianne says as she reaches around to her back pocket to produce a business card from her wallet. “But I usually have my lunch hours free. Wow Mandy, I honestly had no idea you were even still living in the state.”

  She quickly scrawls a message on the back of the card and hands it to me. “I’m serious,” she says, “I’d love to catch up. But I really do have to run.”

  And with that Marianne is gone, leaving only a crate of vintage vinyl on the counter with that Boston album staring at me and dragging me right back to July of Seventy-Nine and that bonfire by the river. I wonder for a moment if she recalls it as fondly as I do. And if she does, what the hell are we going to do about it after all of these years?

  * * * *

  I sit alone at the dinner table, fiddling with Marianne’s business card as I wait for my soup to cool. The big house always seems so quiet and empty whenever Adam is away on business, which is fairly often these days. And it seems so pointless to have a house this big now that our daughter Taylor has grown up and moved away, but Adam won’t part with it.

  He always makes the excuse that we’ll need the space when the grandchildren come to visit, but I honestly think the big house has always been more of a status symbol for him. Besides, Taylor is just as driven as he is, so unless she can figure out a way to outsource it, I just can’t picture her settling down with anyone long enough to have kids.

  I’m guessing my workaholic daughter wouldn’t be upset about people called her Miss Johnson. God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change.

  I take a tentative sip of soup as I rotate the business card around in my hands. ‘Mari Hoffman, Real Estate Development’ it says. I have no idea what that’s supposed to mean, but I gather that Marianne is going by Mari now and that she still has the same last name that she did in high school.

  Did that mean she and Tom never got together? Or did they get married and then divorced later, prompting her to switch back to using her maiden name. Or had she built her business under the Hoffman name and not wanted to change it? So many questions.

  I lift another spoonful of soup to my lips and set the card on the kitchen table with its back side facing up. ‘Call me for lunch,’ is scrawled in blue ink, and below it what I assume is Mari’s personal phone number. Seven digits and a yes to lunch would probably get me all the answers to all of my questions and more.

  But really, what was the point after all these years? Did it even matter? Do I actually want to know? Do I honestly want to hear about how she had married for love and was never happier while I had married for money and was stuck alone in this big house with an absentee husband?

  I put the card down and turn my attention back to my soup. It had cooled enough so that I can eat it now without burning my tongue. As I coax the last few drops onto my spoon, I think back to that Boston LP back at the shop and wish that I had bought it.

  We don’t even have the equipment to play records anymore, but that doesn’t really enter into the equation. The more I think back to that summer and our Apple River camp-out, the more I just want to have some reminder of it—the good old days—some way to maintain that connection.

  After dinner I try to occupy my mind by sitting down with the latest novel I’ve been reading, but I am too distracted. I decide to watch some television instead, but if you ask me tomorrow what program it was, I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t be able to tell you. My mind is firmly planted in the summer of Seventy-Nine and that kiss that should have been just a kiss, but has been haunting me all day.

  * * * *

  I step out of the shower and wipe the steam from the mirror over the double vanity. As I brush out my hair and tie it back, I glance down at Mari’s business card. It’s been sitting here on the bathroom counter for a week and a half now.
Long enough for Adam to be home and see it—though he never mentioned anything about it—and long enough for me to realize that I probably wasn’t going to call Marianne for lunch.

  I allow myself a brief moment of self-pity. I had traded excitement for stability a long time ago, and now I live in a nice house in a nice neighborhood with a service to take care of the lawn and a sizable investment portfolio to see Adam and me comfortably through our retirement years. If he ever stops working long enough to retire that is.

  Oh God, I’m a work widow, I think. But it’s too late for me to do anything about it, I’ve struck my bargain and I’m stuck with it. “God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change,” I mumble and toss Mari’s business card in the trash.

  I go into the thrift store to work my regular shift. Katie isn’t here since it’s a school day and I end up working with Dave. He isn’t a bad guy, but he’s retired and has way too much time on his hands. Though instead of spending his days on the golf course, he comes here and yaks with everybody who walks through the door, leaving the rest of us to do the actual work.

  But honestly, that suits me fine, I just want to hide out and organize shelves today. I’m feeling a little like a bitter old woman this morning, and the fewer people who have to feel my foul mood the better. I start with the bins of vinyl records. I make a quick show of alphabetizing the A section, but soon I’m pawing my way through the Bs.

  I keep digging, flipping the records faster. I’m on a mission now. I need that Boston album. I don’t care that I don’t own a record player, I need it. I want a reminder of that happier time in my life, even if it just sits on a shelf collecting dust. I sigh and lift my head from the bins. It’s not there.

  The door chimes and I look over. A woman and a small child walk in and head to the kid’s clothing section. As I watch them pass, I notice that there is a line of three or four people at the front and Dave is just jawing away, completely oblivious.

  “I can help the next person over here,” I say as I make my way to the counter. It’s another young mother wondering where the kid’s clothes are located. I point out the racks and she wanders of. The next person steps up while I’m still making sure the young mother is heading the right direction.

  “Hi, I’m wondering if you can possibly tell me a good place to get lunch.” The voice is familiar, very familiar. I turn to look and it’s those green eyes and honey lips again—Marianne is back. Though this time instead of the jeans and t-shirt, she’s wearing khakis and a white button-down with a tie. She looks good. And I feel like a ham.

  “Um.” Shit, what do I say? I tossed your card in the trash because I’m hopeless, and don’t want to admit that the only bright spot in my life these days is thinking about that kiss we shared so many decades ago?

  “Mandy?” She cocks her head and tries to meet my eyes. “Is this not a good time?”

  “Um.” I can’t raise my eyes from the counter. God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change.

  I’m thinking about what kind of excuse I can give to Marianne that won’t expose me for the insensitive clod that I am, when I hear the door chime again and snap out of my moment of introspection. It’s Katie Jones, bless her heart.

  “Hi Missus J—” she starts and then catches herself. “I mean, hi Amanda.”

  “Oh Katie, I’m not even going to ask why you’re not in school today,” I say, “but I am so glad to see you. Will you help Dave out here up at the front? I’ve got something I need to do over lunch.”

  “Sure thing, Amanda.” Katie smiles.

  God grant me the courage to change the things I can. I was going to need a lot of courage.

  “Mari?” I say turning to the confident green-eyed woman with the ever so kissable lips who is standing in front of me all decked out in a shirt and tie. “What kind of place did you have in mind?”

  I did it. For better or for worse, Marianne and I were going to have lunch.

  I want to hold her hand as we walk out to the parking lot together. Partly because I remember the nice way it felt when she briefly touched me the last time she was in here, but mostly because I need something steady to hang onto. I take a deep breath.

  “Mandy, are you okay?”

  “Um, yeah,” I say. “It’s just—it’s been a hectic morning.” A hectic morning of frantically searching for a particular record album that reminds me of the summer in high school that we kissed. But I don’t feel the need to verbalize that last part.

  Mari opens the passenger side door of a shiny red Ford F-150 extended cab, and I step in.

  “Nice truck,” I say.

  “Thanks,” she says, but holds the rest of her words until she’s come around and hopped in the driver’s side. “I mostly use it for work, but the four-by-four is good in the snow. So, where do you want to eat?”

  “I dunno. Do you like Mexican?” I ask.

  “Sure,” she says. “As long as it’s authentic. I have to tell you I can’t stand those hipster tacos people try to pass off as Mexican food in this town.”

  I laugh at her comment. “You pick the place, I’ll buy.”

  Mari acknowledges me by starting up the engine and rolling down the windows. Soon we’re cruising down the main drag through town and heading toward the lake. It’s hard to carry on a conversation with the wind buffeting around in the cab, but that’s okay, the Marianne I remember was never much of a talker anyway.

  The inside of her truck seems huge, and there must be at least two and a half feet of space between us in the front. Most of that space is taken up by a big center console unlike the old models from my youth that had a continuous bench seat across the front. Great for packing people in at drive-in movies, or for losing your virginity. I smile at that last thought.

  Mari wheels into a parking lot near the lake and throws the shifter into park.

  “Where’s the restaurant?” I ask.

  “Come on, I’ll show you.” Mari opens her door and I do the same. We walk along side by side toward the blue of the lake in the distance. The breeze off the water is cool and the sun glinting off the ripples on its surface is making me squint.

  Smells of cooking are wafting through the air, but from where I do not know. But soon we round a small bend and there it is, tucked under the shade of a big mature oak, a little food truck with a crowd of about a dozen people lined up beside it.

  “Looks pretty busy today,” Mari remarks as we take our place at the end. “If you don’t have the time…”

  “That’s okay. It’s authentic, right?” I scooch up beside her and lean my head on her shoulder. I have no idea what possesses me to get so friendly, but Mari doesn’t seem inclined to move away so I just go with it. “I’ve always got time for authentic.”

  All of the picnic tables are occupied, so Mari grabs a moving blanket from behind the seat of her truck and throws it over the ground at the base of another big tree. The two of us lean against the trunk and try not to get taco sauce on ourselves as we eat our lunch.

  “So, what do you think?” Mari asks.

  I finish chewing what’s in my mouth before I answer. “This is great.”

  Mari laughs. “Which part? The lake? The tacos? The incredibly luxurious moving blanket you’re sitting on?”

  “All of it,” I say. “Really. I never come down to the lake anymore, and it’s refreshing.”

  “Anytime you get a taste for tacos by the lake…”

  Hmm, did Mari just make a roundabout offer to take me out on another date? Maybe, but then that would imply that today’s lunch outing is a date. Is this a date? My mind is racing and I’m trying to figure out what’s real and what’s just my overly eager imagination at work.

  I decide to go for something safe. “Mari? What’s a real estate development person do?”

  “Hmm?” she mumbles as she finishes chewing and dabs the corner of her mouth with a napkin.

  “Your card says real estate development. Do you sell houses or something?”
>
  “Oh,” she says. “No, my business partner takes care of that end. I don’t have a real estate license. I do a little bit of everything else. Design, general contracting, even some landscaping if the need arises. We buy ‘em cheap, fix them up and then sell them. Hopefully for a good return.”

  “That explains the tan,” I say. “And the muscles.” I reach over and give her bicep a little squeeze. What is with me today? “But aren’t you a little over dressed for landscaping?”

  “Oh, the tie,” she says. “Yeah I had to meet with some people in the city planning division this morning. I thought it might be best not to show up in my usual scruffy jeans and T-shirt.”

  “So, Tom’s your business partner?”

  “Hmm?” Mari looks confused for a moment before shaking her head. “No, I’m ashamed to say I haven’t seen Tom since high school.”

  “Really? I always thought you two…”

  Mari looks at me for a second and then throws her head back to let loose a hearty laugh. “Sorry Mandy, you were such good friends with Tom I always thought you knew.”

  “Knew what?”

  “About Tom and me.” She looks at me as if she were waiting for something to register.

  “Tom and I were never going to be getting married, Mandy. We’re both gay. We were friends from way back and used to pose as a couple just to avoid any questions about our orientation. It wasn’t exactly like a lot of people were out back then.”

  “Really? You two…?”

  I think my jaw must have been in my lap and my eyes stuck in that deer-in-the-headlights gaze, because Mari picks up my hand in hers and cocks her head to look at me.

  “I thought you knew, Mandy,” she says. “I always assumed that’s why you kissed me that night at the bonfire. I thought you were curious. I tried to make it worth your while.”

  Was I curious back then? Am I curious now? I don’t know what to say to her comment, so I say nothing. As I watch the wavering look in Mari’s eyes, I know that silence is the wrong choice right now, but honestly, I have no idea what else to do.

  “It’s getting late,” she says, and lets go of my hand. “I don’t want to get you in trouble at work.”