by Dan Kolbet
"At least a few of them, that's guaranteed," I say.
"OK, maybe just a few of them."
We stand in silence for a while, watching the kids. The leaves on many of the trees have fallen to the ground and the kids are tossing them up into the air and running under them.
"Is that why you decided to join me today?" I ask, "To remind me that my 6-year-olds are running the asylum and I should watch my back?"
"More or less, yes," she says. "But I heard a few other things too."
"Such as?"
"For starters, I heard that the kids ask about you every morning and let out a collective groan when Mrs. Weston tells them that you're not coming that day."
"That's news to me."
"Just wait. I'm not finished. I have also heard that you are quite the animated character during story time."
I blush a little at that, thinking how embarrassed I'd feel if someone, other than a bunch of little kids, was watching me.
"I've got to perform for my audience," I say.
"I wanted to let you know that you have been noticed."
"That's nice to hear."
"I've also noticed that you are helping Gracie with her homework."
"Is that so?"
"Yes," she says. "Most of the other parents don't sign each page of homework or attach descriptive notes to the assignments about which areas their child struggled."
"I'm new to this. I thought that was what we were supposed to do," I say.
I knew this was overkill, but even if it was in the context of grading papers, I wanted Michelle to think of me when she saw Gracie's papers. It was childish, but it worked.
"Well, my student teacher thought it was odd and pointed it out to me."
"Student teacher?"
"She's a college student who grades all the homework, so she can earn her teaching certificate."
Apparently I had my sights set on the wrong educator. Michelle hadn't noticed my little effort after all.
"I think it's cute," she says.
"What's cute, exactly?"
"The effort you're obviously putting into Gracie's schoolwork. You're a good uncle."
She might not think that way if she chatted with Kendall.
"I do what I can."
"Why did you keep coming back to be a reading mentor? Mrs. Weston said you offered to come twice a week."
"It's a nice break from the house. It's a bit nuts with my parents there."
"More so than a wild band of 6-year-olds?"
"At times, yes."
"Terrifying," she claims with feigned horror.
We share a laugh.
"I think you're an interesting character, Billy Redmond," she admits. "I'm not exactly sure what to make of you, but you're interesting, that's for sure."
"Maybe you need to do a little more research on me, so I can prove that I am without a doubt the most boring guy you'll ever meet."
"What do you have in mind?" she asks.
"Can I take you to dinner?"
"Hmm, let me think. Have you improved your ability to walk down stairs without hurting yourself?" she asks, in reference to the first time I tried to ask her out years ago.
"It's a struggle, but I'm working on it."
"Well, then OK, it's a date."
* * *
After Mrs. Weston joined us outside, Michelle excused herself to return to her own classroom.
A date?
Holy crap.
Chapter 23
The softball-sized lump in my throat feels like it might choke me. The shower didn't help. Tonight at 7:30, I'm supposed to pick up Michelle for a date. Unfortunately I still feel sick to my stomach, not because I'm ill in any way, but because I'm nervous. I thought cleaning up a bit would do the trick by somehow fooling my sweat glands to stop drenching me in nervous moisture. No such luck.
I've had three days to think about it and I don't know what it is, but the excitement of spending time with a beautiful woman has been overtaken by my fear of letting someone in. Sure, it could be a playful good time, but I know Michelle. She's not one to fool around, or insinuate something is there when it's not. Of course I could be completely wrong on this point too. How much do I really know about her anyway?
So what does one date mean? Everything. It means choosing to be vulnerable again. To be put in a position to lose something. I don't want to be sorry about this.
Sorry.
"I'm sorry - EMM."
The words scrawled over my and Jane's initials in the carving shelter flash in my mind. I'd be lying to say I haven't thought about it, but what's there to think about anyway? Some jerk kid ruining what should be a nice piece of my relationship with Jane that is now over. Why would someone choose to do that? What does it mean? I have no idea and I'm trying not to think about it. I'm again putting distance between myself and what could potentially cause me pain. At least I recognize it. I'm running away, just like I did 12 years ago.
Maybe that's why this stupid date is weighing so heavily on me. I actually want to do it. I want to explore a relationship. I'm running toward something. This feels different. I'm naked and exposed. That's a feeling I don't like. Something I'm not used to.
I examine my face in the mirror and without giving it a second thought, I pluck several gray hairs out of my beard. That's a battle I can't win, but one I don't intend on ignoring either.
I'm not sure what the guy behind the beard actually looks like anymore. For so long the lower portion of my face has been obscured by my shaggy brown hair. Hidden in plain sight.
I remember the story of Samson in the Bible who got his power from his hair. I don't feel that sort of connection, obviously, but it's been a part of me for so long that if it weren't there, I'm not sure I'd feel the same. I could do what Gracie did and chop off my hair in a cry for attention, but I don't think anyone would care in the first place. It's not the same thing.
I say goodbye to Gracie and my parents who are watching television in the living room. No questions about where I'm going and for that I'm grateful. I listen outside Kendall's door before knocking. She's typing on her laptop. I knock and the door pops open from the pressure. She must not have latched it.
She turns to see me standing in the doorway, my hand still raised from knocking.
"Have a good night," I say, expecting her to return to her computer screen without a word. Something catches my eye. I can't be sure because it's all the way across the room, but I swear that one of my blue notebooks is sitting open on the desk next to her. The loose white pages with my messy handwriting are hard to miss. But I choose to ignore it. I don't want to start an argument or question her. She places her elbow on the stack, blocking my view.
"Where are you headed?" she asks.
"Actually I have a date," I say.
"A date? Do tell."
She looks excited and leans forward. I'm shocked she even asked, but I give her a quick summary of Michelle, our history and how we reconnected. She seems genuinely interested, which surprises me.
"You'd better get ready then," she says.
"I am ready," with a hint of modest indignation.
"Oh, no you're not," she says. "You actually like this woman, I can tell from your face. And you're going to wear that?"
I glance down and raise my palms upward, as if I'm examining my attire for the first time.
"First of all," she says. "That polo shirt has to go. Nothing says I'm a tool more than a tucked in polo shirt. Especially with those slacks? Come on. It's like you're not even trying."
She gets up from the desk.
"Follow me."
I trail behind Kendall down to the basement where all of Trevor's clothes are boxed in a storage room.
"Don't worry, he wasn't a snazzy dresser either, so you'll be right at home," she says, ripping the tape off of a cardboard box.
I don't take offense to the comment. She hands me a pair of faded blue jeans and holds up a shirt to my chest. It's a dark gray button up shirt with s
ilver snaps on the cuffs.
"Put them on," she says.
Taking fashion advice from a teenager dressed in gothic clothes and black eye paint doesn't come naturally; but I comply, knowing that even in her reduced capacity as a fashion icon, she knows a great deal more than I do.
She heads to the other room as I slip on the clothes, which are a little big, but nothing too noticeable.
"Better," she says. "But not enough."
She opens up a few more boxes before finding a dark blue blazer in a faded plaid pattern. It still has the tag on it.
"Mom bought it for Dad, but he must not have worn it."
I swallow my pride and try it on. Remarkably, it looks great. The odd plaid pattern simply ads a texture.
"Not too bad, Uncle Billy. Now go get laid."
"That's not what this is all about."
"No?"
"No."
"Whatever you say, but your chances are much better now than they were with that tucked-in polo shirt."
"Well, I appreciate it regardless."
She pulls the tag off the sleeve of the blazer.
"You don't want to look like you're trying too hard," she says. "Now if we could only do something about that beard, you'd be better off."
"Is it that bad?"
"Worse," she says, crinkling her nose. In that moment she looked just like her mom Jennifer, which makes me happy. Glad to see she is still inside her.
"Well, it's not going anywhere."
"That's too bad," she says, as I flip off the lights and head for the stairs.
I'm now running behind, but I need to ask her about what I saw in her room.
"I saw the book in your room," I say.
"I have a lot of books in my room."
"You know what I mean," I say. "The manuscript."
"Oh, that . . . yeah."
"Which one?"
"You didn't give it a title, but it's about the bus driver who has a heart attack with a full load of passengers."
I always wanted to call that one, Heart Stop Requested. But thought it was much too cheesy.
"It's good, Uncle Billy. I mean really good. The way you connected all the passengers before and after. I've never seen that before."
Heart Stop was actually one of my strongest draft novels; at least I always thought so. Monique, my agent, didn't feel the same, and thus it never saw the light of day.
"You shouldn't keep this one locked up like the others," she said. "People would like it."
"I think that ship has already sailed."
"Don't be so sure," she says.
"How do you mean?"
As we get to the top of the stairs, she ignores my question, deciding instead to announce to my mother, father and Gracie, "Doesn't Uncle Billy look good for his date!?"
Oh, boy.
"Date?" Mom asks, eyes wide.
Kendall gives me that, gotcha look and smirks.
"I'll explain it, Grandma, he's going to be late."
Damn, if that kid didn't just put my ass in a sling one minute, then save me the next.
"Have fun getting laid," she whispers to me before plopping down on the couch next to Gracie.
Chapter 24
The Wolfe Creek Lodge looks like a dive. From the freeway, there's a big sign that looks like it could be directing people to a seedy motel or forgotten ski lodge, not a nice restaurant. But despite its rough exterior, it's the best steakhouse within 50 miles of Spokane. They cook the meat on an open stone grill, surrounded by layers of thick salt that soaks up any drips of the juices. My parents used to bring Trevor, April and me to the restaurant, which has been open for decades. The cooks would let us stand right next to them as they turned the meat. If this was a backyard barbeque this would be a monumentally boring event, but for some reason, it's thrilling to watch here—at least it was when I was younger and that feeling still hasn't passed.
The gravel parking lot crunches under my truck's tires as Michelle and I pull into the parking lot. She's dressed in a long gray sweater, white infinity scarf, black leggings, and boots with knit socks poking out the top. Despite being completely covered up, she looks stunning. I'm quite thankful that Kendall gave me the quickie makeover before I left. I would have felt quite inadequate in my polo shirt next to such a stunner.
The place is packed, but the hostess seats us in a corner table hidden from most of the other patrons, which suits me just fine. I'd prefer to have her all to myself.
I didn't pick the Wolfe Creek Lodge at random. It's 10 miles east of Coeur d'Alene, Idaho, which itself is a 35 minute drive from Spokane. This is the where I took Michelle for dinner on our prom night.
"I haven't been back here since prom," she reveals after we each order a glass of wine. "It looks exactly the same."
"Hopefully the steaks are from this decade," I say.
She chuckles at my lame joke. Her bright smile seems to cast more light than the candles on our table. She's beautiful and happy. And doesn't stop smiling all through dinner.
* * *
The conversation flows easily from memories of our past to our positions in life today.
"After college at the University of Montana, I moved to Canada," she said.
"Exciting choice."
"For sure. If you think we've got Evergreen trees in Spokane, you've never seen a forest in northern Canada."
"I can't say that I have," I say. "Why Canada?"
"A man named Russ. Well, a boy. He was a contractor for an American lumber company, who accepted a position near Kamloops, British Columbia. I moved up there with him. It was a hub for lumber sales, and not really that far away from Spokane. You could drive back in one day if you had to."
Her voice seemed to falter on that statement, "if you had to."
"You sound like you had to," I say.
"Just once, that was enough," she says, taking a sip of wine. "Russ was a good guy, but we were both immature and stupid and should never have gotten married. I was bored and couldn't find a job locally because there were none. And besides I wasn't a Canadian citizen. Everybody thinks they are so nice, but not when you threaten their job prospects. They don't like that."
"So what happened?" I asked.
"He got offered a promotion—this time even farther north into Canada. No thanks. I had no interest in following him again. At that point I'd been in Canada for more than five years. I was practically a local. I'd made friends and even found work."
"So you wanted to stay?"
"Not exactly. I wanted him to stay," she said. "But the job was more important and he left. I didn't see myself living there alone, so I came back here."
"So you regret getting married?"
"No. It's not like that. I learned a lot. Is that bad?" she asks.
I can tell she wants affirmation of her decisions, but who am I to judge?
"No. Marriages don't always turn out the way you see them in romantic movies," I say.
"Is that what happened to you?" she asks.
"I made a lot of mistakes and have to live with the results of them."
"What kind of mistakes?"
"Too many to count."
The waitress arrives at our table with dinner, providing me the perfect opportunity to change the subject and enjoy dinner.
* * *
After dinner we head back toward Spokane, but stop in Coeur d'Alene first. City Park is one of the most popular places to visit in the entire area. It's huge and adjacent to Lake Coeur d'Alene, a well-used body of water with boaters, swimmers and events. The 18-story Coeur d'Alene hotel and resort—the area's anchor business—sits to the east of the park, overlooking the entire area.
The park itself is simple. It's treed with paved pathways, has large expanses of green lawns, boasts a castle-like playground structure, and a stage for concerts.
I've always liked the park and have visited it many times, which is why I suggested Michelle and I take a stroll through it after dinner. And, considering we'd come here together when
we were in school, it seemed to make sense to return.
We park in a lot by the resort and wind our way along the pathway near the beach. Every few hundred feet there are several concrete steps that lead into the sandy beach, which is empty except for several white lifeguard towers. The sun is just setting and with the autumn chill in the air, I'm glad I bundled up for this little trek.
Unfortunately Michelle didn't know we would be outside. I realize this after we reach the end of the park, just before the pathway leads to the campus of North Idaho College. Her thin cotton coat is no match for the biting breeze.
"Here, take my coat," I say.
"No, I'm fine," she says, teeth chattering.
"If you were fine I wouldn't be able to see the goose bumps through your coat."
She smiles as I put my coat over her shoulders, then she pulls me close to her.
"Now, I guess I'm required to keep you warm too?" she says playfully, wrapping her arms around my back.
She smells wonderful, like ginger or lilac. I can't tell if it's the scent of her hair or an intoxicating hint of perfume. Being so close to her feels good. New. Different.
"Yes, that was my plan all along," I say. "To freeze you into hugging me."
"Well, your evil plan worked."
She cranes her neck. And with the natural movement of longtime lovers, we kiss. Soft and tentative at first, then as the familiarity returns our mouths intertwine. She feels confident and strong, running her hands over my back and neck. Her body heat radiates toward me and I forget about the cold entirely as I focus my attention on her. The sun has now set and we're only illuminated by park lights. Just two people standing in the shadows.
"I've wanted to do that since the moment I first saw you," I say.
"That would have been super awkward in front of all those kids and parents," she says, pressing her cheek to my chest. "Good call on waiting."
I want to kiss her again. Well, more than that, but I wait. I don't want to seem too eager.
"I'm pleased to know my romantic tendencies are still sharp," I say, as we hold hands and start back the way we came. "You know, feed you a massive dinner of red meat, and then march you out in the cold of a public park. Nothing like that to get the romance started!"