New Year's Resolutions

by Briggs, Laura

  “I know it’s late,” she answered. “But if you could give them a chance, Mr. Gyvers.” Her voice sounded pleading, something Abby had hoped to avoid. Begging wouldn’t get her the same results as confidence.

  He placed her stack of forms in front of her again. “Why don’t you try for next year’s class, Miss Nesbit?” he answered. “If you turn these forms in early ... then we’ll at least have a possibility to discuss instead of a theory.”

  In the hallway, she pressed her forehead against one of the lockers, grateful that no one was around to watch. The cool metal against her skin made her realize her face was burning–no doubt with indignation.

  She felt like a failure. Moreover, she felt like a coward, backing down so quickly. Who said they needed school funding? Wasn’t there some way to raise money for the performance? She should have taken more initiative, solved each problem as she encountered it during the meeting.

  “That was the inevitable, Abby.” She recognized the sympathetic voice of Stanley the math teacher as she turned her head. “Getting funding out of Gyvers is like squeezing a dry sponge.”

  “So you heard?” she said, trying to suppress the bitter defeat in her voice. “Word travels fast through this place.” With a sigh, she faced him, hands jammed in her sweater pockets.

  He shrugged. “If it helps, Penny from art just got denied a field trip to Connecticut for a painting session. And we’re talking a department that–well, has more on its side than your class.” James and Lou, two of the science teachers, had joined him with notebooks tucked underneath their arms.

  “I just feel disappointed for the class. I set them up for a big moment and now they’ll end up with nothing.” Brushing aside her hair, she attempted a smile and a shrug– anything to fend off the looks of pity on their faces.

  Abby knew what they were thinking. That her class was the least likely to receive a favor from the department. After all, there were no scholarship or awards to be had from an orchestra of off-key students with emotional problems.

  Stanley thumped her shoulder sympathetically. “You have our condolences,” he said, as the teachers trudged along to the faculty meeting room down the hall. She watched them, trying not to let her blood boil in response. The feeling that her class was not as good as Penny’s art students–or any other department’s classes.

  Jutting her chin determinedly, Abby lifted her bag from its resting place on the floor, stuffing the useless request forms below her copy of The Mill on the Floss. If she stopped by the main office, she could pick up new ones, request forms for next fall. Maybe this year her class would be disappointed, but not next time.

  *****

  Abby pulled a French romance from the bookshelf, blowing a thin layer of dust from the top. Herman’s Rookery was an obscure little hole in the wall for readers, the kind of shop only locals visited–locals who knew a good bargain awaited in bins of tumbled secondhand volumes or rows of old gothic novels and vintage textbooks.

  In the aftermath of a long day, Abby would sometimes come here as a release. Especially now that Maureen’s time was occupied with her marriage and career. And since Abby herself had no one to occupy her time, except the ghosts tucked in the closet’s box of crayon drawings and letters.

  She tucked the romance back on the shelf after perusing its pages for a moment and reached for a volume on the shelf below. Cooking for Love in raised gold letters, a braised pheasant depicted on a platter.

  A soft spot for cookbooks occupied Abby’s heart and several of the shelves in her kitchen. Despite her lack of cooking skills, she continued to purchase them, try a recipe or two, then fail and shelve them without a second thought.

  But hadn’t she resolved to change? Tapping the volume against her hand, she pictured herself slicing and dicing food instead of popping open a box from the Thai Pie takeout menu. Braising meat and vegetables, boiling noodles–these things weren’t beyond the skill of two hands that could coax a classical symphony from a cello.

  Shifting the coffee table volume on the Impressionists in her arms, she added the cookbook to the pile, atop a volume on music history. Abby’s eye scanned the shelves for something intriguing as she strolled on, attracted by cracked leather covers and the musty smell of attics and store rooms until she felt her body collide with another’s.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry,” she gasped. Aware of a muscular form bending to collect her cookbook. A tall man with blond hair spiked above his white t-shirt, a pair of blue eyes meeting hers with a grin as he straightened up again.

  “Too many distractions,” he said. Something in his voice made her blush.

  “Yeah, maybe,” she answered, tucking aside a strand of her hair. A slightly giddy feeling entered her stomach, a far different nervousness from the one she felt in the principal’s office. She noticed a silver earring dangling from his ear, a mini surfboard that reminded her of a summer crush from the beach crowd.

  “Cooking fan?” he asked, handing her the book.

  She shrugged. “Call me a student,” she answered. On impulse, she added, “Abby Nesbit. Teacher and book collector extraordinaire.” Holding out her hand, enjoying the tingle she felt as his muscular fingers curved around it. His left hand, she couldn’t help but notice, was absent any ring.

  “Blake Lewis,” he answered. “Pleased to meet you.” As his grin did something funny to her knees. A possibility entering her mind beyond cookbooks and an evening spent drafting the proposal for the school concert.

  “As for me, I’m here for Incan art,” he answered. “South American travel’s the closest thing I have to a hobby, you might say. That, and rollerblading.” Beneath his arm was a thick volume with a piece of pottery on its cover.

  Rollerblading–a physical activity for a hobby. Still, he was an art enthusiast, and obviously liked books. Those were points in his favor, along with the admiring glance he gave her the first moment they met.

  “So, can you recommend any good places to have coffee around here?” he asked.

  A boldness shot through her, giving her a sudden strength she didn’t anticipate. Catching his eye, she twitched her mouth into a smile. “That depends. Are you busy this afternoon?” she asked. Her breath caught as she saw the look of comprehension in his eyes, his lips curling upwards.

  “Actually, I am,” he answered. She refrained from biting her lip and showing disappointment.

  “But I’m not tomorrow afternoon. If you’re free.” He added this with a smile as he pulled a card from his pocket.

  It was a business card for a health food retailer–he was the manager, Abby discovered, in their brief conversation at the shop. Back at her apartment, she pinned it to her refrigerator with a sense of pride. What would Maureen say, if she knew about this? She would probably say Abby was crazy–or finally found the guts to make love happen on her own.

  Pulling a record from the stack beside her turn table, Abby placed the needle on its surface. A scratchy sound issued, then a smoky, plaintive voice. Billie Holiday singing “I’ll Be Seeing You.” As the music filled the air, she propped open the cookbook against her counter, pondering the possibilities for roasted peppers in beef sauce and pineapple sage pork roast.

  *****

  The herbal teas were supposed to be caffeine-free, according to the vendor at the food market. Henry hoped it was true, even as if he wandered past a tempting display of coffee blends.

  The farmer’s market was indoors, a semi-weekly affair that began in the spring with the last of the greenhouse vegetables. Since he was hosting his first dinner party of the year this evening, he took an early afternoon from the office in quest of ingredients for a pasta salad with garlic sauce.

  At the moment, the only other things in his basket were spring peas and red peppers. Every passing shopper cradling a cup of coffee caused Henry’s nostrils to flare with longing. To stave off the crankiness from caffeine-deprivation, he had taken up sucking coffee-flavored mints. A poor substitute for the real thing, he decided, grimacing as h
e moved from a display of end-of-winter carrots to bushels of red potatoes.

  Tonight’s guest list included Seth and the librarian, a few coworkers, and some of Henry’s neighbors who were enthusiastic fans of his cooking. A small crowd, since it was early in the year; a guest list limited to close associates, unless he chose to invite Annette. He debated doing so, over and over again as he tested bundles of parsley for freshness and chose packets of dried red tomatoes.

  Annette was attractive; she was friendly and enthusiastic and full of life. There was no reason why he shouldn’t pursue her since he felt a spark of interest during their initial meeting. No reason except for the sneaking suspicion his interest was really a search for qualities he admired in Lois. The same passion for social invitations, the enthusiasm for art–wasn’t that what attracted him the most in his last relationship?

  He shook his head, as if trying to drive the notion away. Exiting the marketplace, he squinted against the late afternoon sunlight streaming through the trees from the park entrance across the street as he followed the sidewalk through neighborhoods still unfamiliar after years in this city.

  Pressing the button for the crosswalk, he gazed at the passing cars and the pedestrians busy with strollers and shopping bags. A vine cascaded from the window box of an apartment building, the neighboring one pasted with bird decals.

  From somewhere above, strains of music drifted. The sound of a woman’s voice made scratchy by a record played too many times, a jazz orchestra’s melody vibrating in the background. Snatches of the melancholy tune were audible to Henry’s ears, transforming themselves from pain to love with his comprehension. A love song, not a broken-hearted ballad, not melancholy but wistfulness in her voice.

  For a moment, the music seemed a color infusing the neighborhood with new shades of life, as if the brick and sandstone glowed with possibility. The sunlight streaming between the buildings a golden light made magic at this moment. Henry’s eyes sank closed for a moment, imagining the world of champagne and slow waltzes, of love letters and long years of tender remembrances.

  It was worth waiting for and impossible to force into existence on his own. Even a mild attraction couldn’t erase the life he imagined only a few months ago. It would take something powerful to shake him free of that dream, even though it would never come true.

  He opened his eyes as the crosswalk signaled his turn. Stepping off the curb reluctantly, he listened as the strains of jazz faded into the traffic noises, the hum of voices from open windows and clusters of friends on the building steps.

  Annette wouldn’t be coming to tonight’s dinner party. At least not until he had a sign that what his heart felt was something real.

  Chapter Eleven

  The book Henry pulled from the shelves was David Copperfield. Ideally, Henry would have read it in high school or college, but this volume of Dickens had slipped through the cracks in his reading list.

  Cracking it open, he turned the stiff pages to the first chapter. Already he was biased against the text, thanks to the publisher’s choice of fonts, something tiny, narrow, and blurry around the edges.

  He was cranky this evening; aware that the herbal tea steaming along the top of his mug was far from a latte or a cappuccino. A blend of peppermint and chicory that tasted more like dull dishwater than anything.

  Temptation had gotten to him last time, so he had resolved to eliminate it for once and all. Determination spurred him to toss his pre-packaged coffee blend into the garbage and give his stash of organic beans to one of his neighbors. The unplugged cappuccino maker was silent in a corner, its cord wound in loops around its base to prevent any hasty backslides.

  Right now, he gazed at it as if a thirsty desert dweller spotting an oasis. The shape seemed to beckon him from behind the counter, lurking in the shadows. Daring him to break his resolve.

  He flipped a page in his book. He was going to stick to his resolutions if it killed him.

  “You mean you didn’t ask her out?” Seth stared at him. “Dude, are you crazy or what?”

  Henry slumped over an open Sprite in Seth’s studio, watching as his friend sorted a stack of cds for review. “I didn’t want to,” he answered. “I just ... didn’t feel it. She was nice, she was pretty, but thinking about her wasn’t keeping me awake at night, plotting my next move to impress her.”

  “So what?” Seth scoffed. It occurred to Henry that Seth probably never gave impressing girls a second thought. Women flocked to him, attracted to his indifferent attitude, the scruffy charm and appearance he sported in public.

  “You never miss a chance with a hot girl, Dude. Ever. That’s the rule of guydom.” Seth’s warning was accompanied by a point blank stare above his retro reading glasses.

  Henry sipped the Sprite, making a face as the fizzy bubbles impacted his nose. He wasn’t overly fond of carbonated beverages–lemon lime flavors in particular always made him think of childhood colds and viruses. But it was caffeine free, a virtue it possessed far above the energy drinks and iced coffees in Seth’s mini fridge.

  “Maybe I want a romantic encounter,” said Henry. “Something a little more memorable. You see a girl, you gaze at each other from across the room, you make a connection. Simple but sweet.”

  “Like opera girl,” said Seth. “See, you had your chance with that, and it didn’t work out. I mean, it’s early in the year, but if you want to get serious, you should do it before summer. That’s when all the hot girls start grabbing whoever’s available.”

  Henry snorted. “You make life sound like a beach movie,” he said. “Who wants to be one of those muscled blondes whose tan wins over the girl in the first fifteen minutes? Not me. Give me a little relationship substance, at least.”

  Seth popped a cd in the stereo, turning up the volume as a cello and techno band throbbed together in electronic harmony. “What do you think?” he asked. “They call themselves, ‘Seltzer and the Frecktones.’ Supposedly hot in southern New Jersey.”

  “Southern New Jersey is now a music scene?” asked Henry, skeptically. Drumming his fingers against Seth’s table, its surface decoupaged with hundreds of tiny music posters and stickers from various groups Seth chronicled on his website.

  He wasn’t lying when he said he didn’t want to be the muscled blonde who landed the beach babe, but he admired the breezy confidence of that type of guy. The way they ignored women and were suddenly surrounded by a crowd of cooing females. Henry pondered this scenario as he sat with his feet propped up on a leather ottoman, the cat Ron fixing him with a Buddha-like stare from his perch on the bar. The pages in David Copperfield were sticking together, some sort of company defect in the paper.

  That type of guy moved on from past relationships without hesitation. None of them kept their ex-girlfriend’s sweater folded in the bottom of a drawer; none of them were guilty of occasionally opening it and staring at the folded fabric, remembering the last time she wore it. Laughing and smiling at an independent movie showing, where she cuddled up against Henry in the darkness.

  Two weeks later, she was gone. Or was it two months? Time had entered a new form of passage with her absence, chronicled in the back of his mind by anniversaries no longer observed, invitations no longer honored, friends no longer included in his plans. He could not recall how long it had been since he had heard her voice physically spoken in his presence, although he could remember the last moment in detail. The paint peeling from the lamp post outside her apartment building, the apricot knitted scarf wound around her neck. Her eyes averted, avoiding his own as she stared at passing cars or the droplets splattering the sidewalk.

  Chapter three of David Copperfield had flown by. Not that Henry could recall a word of it.

  *****

  Don Numo’s served a quality house red and a Caesar salad on Wednesdays. That was all Abby knew about the dark little restaurant on Eight Avenue before tonight. Seated at a table crowded near the bar, she gazed at the string of clear lights visible in its dining room’s potted p
alms.

  Blake Lewis had decided on dinner in place of coffee when she phoned him that afternoon. Dialing a man’s number, she felt a shiver of girlish wrongdoing, as if her mother would suddenly appear to scold her for breaking the time-old taboo. Although her memories of her teenage years included a mother whose health was showing subtle signs of failing, a woman growing more concerned with the clumps of hair in her brush and the bruises on her arms than with her daughter’s social life.

  Her father was the one who solved those problems by banning her from bringing any friends to their house.

  She tugged the string of beads around her neck, a nervous habit she had never managed to break. Blake had promised to meet her at seven o’ clock, as soon as he finished with a meeting at work. Until then, Abby amused herself by sampling the contents of the bowl of croutons on the table.

  At seven-fifteen, the bowl of croutons was empty. The waiter had stopped by two times with his order pad, only to be sent away by an increasingly meek Abby. Her eye was fixed on the door, watching each entry with hope. Only to find an older couple, three teenagers out on the town, a doorman in a trench coat.

  Blake entered behind a large family crowd; Abby recognized the silver earring dangling above his leather coat. He scanned the room briefly before spotting her, pausing to say something to the hostess before making his way inside.

  “Hey, you look nice,” he said, sliding into the seat across from her. “Have you ordered yet? Flag down the waiter and ask him to bring a grape martini.” He shrugged off his leather coat, revealing a tie-dyed t-shirt beneath.