Time and Chance

by G L Rockey

  She turned.

  I stepped closer to read, on the back, small print:

  This world is not conclusion;

  A sequel stands beyond,

  Invisible, as music,

  But positive, as sound.

  It beckons and it baffles;

  Philosophies don't know,

  And through a riddle, at the last,

  Sagacity must go.

  To guess it puzzles scholars;

  To gain it, men have shown

  Contempt of generations,

  And crucifixion known.

  See what I mean, this is not Kitten material.

  She turned back to me, “What’s the matter?”

  “Just wondered where your swimsuit was.”

  She had it on, showed me the top, amazing, rum brown color matched her eyes. She grabbed her purse, offered to drive, me backseat on her bike … no no, and we were off in Winston to my place to get a swimsuit.

  * * *

  She loved Winston and, arrived, adoring the quaint ambience of my apartment, she said, “Your phone machine’s blinking.”

  “Probably a wrong number,” I said.

  She pressed play and we heard a muffled ‘bastard’ followed by a loud click.

  She looked through me to Honolulu.

  I put on my tan boxer swim trunks, my favorite blue Eddie Bauer polo and got out my Igloo ice chest.

  “What’s that for?”

  “Guess.”

  We put Igloo in Winston's boot and headed for Percy Priest Lake. Driving northeast, shifting through Winston's gears, I looked at the brilliant blue of the sky and somewhere in the moment I was struck by the time we two were in. Aside from an assault rifle, Smith and Wesson, and straight razor, the time had futures written all over it, at least for me.

  * * *

  I stopped at a BP for petrol and, a twelve pack of Corona in mind; at Gillian’s “ah hum” request, got two six packs of Snapple (cactus tea and raspberry peach, her brands) and a bag of ice. She helped and we mixed everything in the Igloo cooler. I wondered about reconsidering the twelve pack of Corona. She said it wouldn't fit.

  Top down, Winston purring along, fresh air buffeting the cockpit, heading east on I-40, I couldn't believe it. Believe it.

  I heard her moving. Beautiful sound, her moving. I glanced. Holding her legs together, she swung her bare feet over my right arm, onto my lap, and rested her head back on the door. Her hair flowed in the wind.

  I paused, thinking, maybe this is too easy but, her legs brushing against me, I didn't care and wondered if this could last forever. At least a few days.

  She was saying something but with the wind in the cockpit, I said, “Can't hear you.”

  “What are you thinking?” She called.

  “Nothing.”

  “Loud.”

  I glanced at her, “Don't fall out.”

  After a few more miles, a lot of honesty or something, floating around in the swirling air, I asked, “What are you thinking?”

  After a moment she sat up and said, “I was thinking of you, wanting to be with you and wondering why you, and now. Wondering if you knew how easy I could read you. Wondering if my résumé would make a difference to you.”

  Lot of wind and philosophy in there. I had to ask, “What résumé?”

  “Later.”

  * * *

  Around some time later, at my secluded special site on the south shore of Percy Priest Lake I paused to take it all in—leafy trees, grassy slope down to the lapping water.

  Gillian got out of Winston first and, while I retrieved the ice chest from the boot, she spread the lime-green blanket on the grass. As I walked to the blanket she peeled off her shorts. I dropped the ice chest, “Ouch.”

  Next off came her T-shirt revealing a two piece bathing suit—breathtaking.

  I put the ice chest next to the blanket and laid down. She joined me.

  We moved together. Eyes open, our lips hung lips-to-lips like warm silly putty.

  I don't believe this, I thought.

  But it's true, her eyes said to me.

  Our lips parted and there was an instant there when I thought I had it all figured out. The ringing inside my head had stopped and I wondered if this was that you-can-be-plain-you time Jay Speaker sought. Our lips welded together again then parted.

  She said, “I like the way you do that.”

  “What?”

  “Breathe.”

  “I don't believe this,” I said

  “What don't you believe?”

  “You, who are you?”

  I noticed a blank stare, as if she had gone away. I had seen that look in her earlier, at her place, also at Felix The Cat. I didn't understand any of this and turned away.

  She touched my chin. “Let's go for a swim.”

  * * *

  Standing neck-deep in the water, I watched her swim around me like a Ms. Flipper. After a couple circles she stood in front of me. Water at her swimsuit top, tiny waves licking at my chin, she said, “Why don't you swim?”

  “I like to soak.”

  She hung her arms over my shoulders, I put mine around her waist.

  She said, “So, Mr. Carr, tell me about guilt and Saturdays.”

  I thought about saying, So, Ms. Phoenix, tell me about your slash and shoot ‘em up hardware but, the water so close to my nose, I thought better and said, “You don't forget much, do you?”

  “Only when I need to. Tell me.”

  “Goes way back to a Pentecostal Aunt, her pastor was a snake handler….” her eyebrows raised, I changed gears, “I've often thought Judaism had Saturday right all along … but then there's Easter Sunday, Christ a Jew … then there's the Pope and Buddha….”

  “Wow, you are screwed up.” She splashed water in my face, paused for a moment (lots of stuff going on behind her brown peepers) then said calmly, “I think I love you,” and dunked me.

  Caught in an open-mouth reflex, some water down the wrong pipe, I surfaced coughing.

  Laughing, she rolled over and backstroked toward shore.

  After getting my breath, I dogpaddled after her.

  Back on the blanket, I lit a Salem, she dried off, and, watching her, she said, “What are you thinking?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Thunderous.”

  “I don't get it … last night … now … us … being here … Marvel Comics wouldn't buy page one.” I took a sip of raspberry peach Snapple and she dried her hair.

  After some time, she said, “What are you thinking now?”

  “I was thinking this Snapple stuff would taste better with a little Jack Daniels in it.”

  “You drink too much and you smoke too much.”

  “Go together.” I dragged Salem.

  I don't think she liked that because she threw her towel in my face and turned her really beautiful back side toward me.

  I studied her back for a moment; unreal. Then I studied the sky, robin egg blue, white puffy clouds, and after a few minutes I said, “This must be that place you can be plain you and others can be plain them.”

  She turned to face me. “What's that all about?”

  “Someone at work, Jay Speaker, is looking for that place. I don't think it's a place though. I think it's a time … a time where you can be plain you and others can be plain them.”

  “This must be the place,” she smiled.

  “But it ends. It all ends. Time ends. The Saturday will end. You'll end.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You'll end.”

  Silence came on strong.

  I said, “There's something I don't understand.”

  “Tons you don't understand.”

  “This is moving too fast.”

  She sat up and stroked my chest hair number seven. “Who says things have to move slow? People meet, things happen and….”

  She paused and I noticed there was that distant look in her eyes, trailing off, and that drawing away.

  “It's already en
ding, isn't it, end it, forget it.” I said.

  She pounced her pretty feet on the blanket. “Will you stop acting like a spoiled brat. I told you no ‘forget it’s. It won't end. It won't. Now, now, now just cool it.”

  “Everything ends.”

  “Everything ends but you don't have to wallow in it.” She took my empty Snapple can (she was drinking cactus tea) and stood. Looking down at me, she said, “Do you want another?”

  “Let me try yours.”

  “No.”

  “Thanks. What about Snakebite?”

  “Jesus Christ! I'm trying here, ya know.”

  I stood and looked up into her face. “You're tall.”

  She stroked my hair. “Damn it, don't make it so hard.”

  I put my arms around her waist.

  She touched my lips with her fingers then my cheeks then my nose, like a sculptor molding clay.

  “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Loud.” She touched my nose.

  “Let's get married.”

  She stared at me with a calm look for it seemed like an hour, then said, “Don't fuck it up.”

  “Think it over, how about tonight.”

  “John….” She looked through me to somewhere near Tokyo.

  “What?”

  “You don't understand, you don't know me.” She looked for a reaction.

  Not a great one for history or biography, my own was so perfect, none of that was important to me. It was her voice and what I read in her eyes and I was really amazed at what they were saying to me. I said it again, “Let's get married.”

  “You don't understand….”

  “No then. Only now.”

  “You're serious, aren't you?”

  “Yep.”

  She paused for a long time. “No … I mean we can't, I … maybe….” She paused for another long time then said, “John, I have to tell you one more thing.”

  “You're a clone.”

  “I'm serious. Look at me.”

  I did.

  She said, “If we did and it didn't work out, I'd have to kill you.”

  “Maybe we need to think about this.”

  “I think we do.”

  She looked around, paused, looked around some more, thinking, then said, “We need to talk.”

  “How 'bout dinner.”

  She worked that around for a minute or so then said, “Okay, but it can't be in Dodge.”

  “Whaddaya mean?”

  She titled her head, “Felix The Cat, work, get it?”

  “I know a perfect place, nice drive.”

  * * *

  After packing up, on our way, Gillian needed to call Angelo from a pay phone so I pulled into a One Stop. She went to the pay phone and it looked like a lot of talking going on, then she hung up and made another call.

  That's interesting, I thought, and she has a cell phone in her purse.

  She came back, we sat in Winston and she told me about her call to Angelo: he was pretty upset when she told him she wasn’t feeling well, wouldn't be in tonight. Actually, she said, he was beside himself. She said, he said, “Snakebite is going to be pissed.”

  She said she told him she was still sick, she had checked in an emergency center when she left last night. Touch of salmonella. She said she told him she thought she would be okay by Monday night, would be in to work.

  While I was thinking what a skillful story teller she was, she kissed my cheek and said, “Everything is all set. Angel likes me, he'll handle it.”

  Ah oh, I thought. Then I wondered about the second phone call she made, but thought, don't bring that up, not now.

  CHAPTER 22

  Real Time

  5:02:35 P.M. CDT

  Peggy opened her eyes and, not moving her head, looked at the pink clouds on her bed's canopy. She put a foot on Stella's back, pushed her to the floor, and began screaming.

  Then, in white silk pajamas, floppy white high heel slippers, she staggered downstairs and began pacing the den.

  Stella, having followed her, slid in behind the bar, mixed a Bloody Mary.

  Peggy went to the bar, grabbed the bottle of vodka and took a swig.

  The Saturday afternoon humid, Peggy and Stella lounged around Peggy's pool. Peggy drank a martini. Stella drank soda.

  The poolside phone commenced ringing.

  Peggy tensed.

  Stella answered, said it was Berry, he wanted to talk to Peggy.

  Peggy kicked a chair in the pool, refused the call.

  At 6:00, Stella called Felix The Cat and talked to Angelo. She wondered, since Peggy would not be singing, if he would be okay bartending by himself. He told her no, he was short a Kitten, Gillian had called off sick.

  Stella slammed the phone and shot Peggy a hungry dog look.

  “What's a matter?”

  “Fucking nothing.”

  CHAPTER 23

  Jack’s Time

  The early evening full of futures, Winston's top down, Gillian and I headed off southeast on I-24.

  Tuning the radio, she stopped at a jazz station, sounded like Stan Getz, she turned up the sound and, as I drove, the wind, Getz, Gillian's feet on my lap, I was thinking about that theory, somewhere I read: in everyday life we tend to think of time the way Newton did, ascribing a universal time-order to events … believe that all events have a chronological order … believing that we don't perceive the short time needed for light to move around, Einstein’s relativity (186,000 miles a second) pops up and time gets confused, clocks run slow, people grow younger.

  I conjugated, hell, let's hurry up and slow things down.

  * * *

  Sunlight nearly gone, after around an hour drive, we pulled into the parking lot of the Island Cove Marina. The resort, north of Chattanooga, overlooked Chickamauga Lake, the dockside lights on, the lake flat and calm, reflected the early evening mood in a surreal shimmering like that famous Van Gogh night scene painting.

  At the entrance, the hostess didn't want to let us in, we were ‘beach bum’ casual, I explained, my wife pregnant, just married, passing through on our way to Atlanta, we were tired, hungry, and in need of a place to eat, rest the night.

  I think she liked that because she let us in, had sent to the table a bottle of pink champagne.

  Piped-in piano music in the background, window table overlooking the lake, candle, dinner, etcetera, we talked, and it got around to Gillian working at Felix The Cat. Concerned, what with all the whacking threats and sleazy characters, Angelo excluded of course, I wondered why she just didn't quit that dump, we could get married, move to the farm. I would work, she could grow tomatoes and beans, we could become golden whatever together. She looked like she liked the idea but there was something wrong.

  I said, “Okay, if it doesn't work out you can kill me.”

  She looked through me to Memphis.

  Then she told me, given everything, if Snakebite found out about us, one of two things could happen. He'd kill her, me and/or both of us. So, I decided, after thinking it over, if she didn't quit, given my current standing with Snakebite, I would kill him. She said, get real. Then I asked her what's the big deal, just quit that dump. She said she had to pay off some debts, negative cash flow, needed some time. I wondered how much. She said “later” and went from chapter three to six.

  * * *

  All in all, it seemed like a year or two, and everything sounding like more shades of Crayola crapola, over a second bottle of champagne, she told me again, “Long story.”

  “I like long stories.”

  “Trust me, later.”

  None of this adding up, I said, “So the jaunt to California, was that revisionist history, or what?”

  I don't think she liked that because she abruptly got up and went to the ladies room.

  Long few minutes later, back, she said could we please change the subject.

  “No.”

  She kicked (under the table) my leg.

  Amazing lady, and I didn't want to s
crew up a wonderful evening so we listened to the music and looked at each other.

  * * *

  We stayed overnight at the marina's Island Cove's Inn. Got up late Sunday, showered together for an hour, brunch/breakfast, drove back to Nashville. I suggested stopping at her apartment, she didn't want to so we stopped at my place. She couldn't get over the charming deck overlooking the parking lot, loved the quaintness, said my message light was blinking, “Ten messages.”

  I didn't hear her, changed into fresh Wranglers, white polo shirt, and got out my two Samsonite suitcases. She asked me what I was doing. I told her I was moving to the farm, she shook her head, no.

  * * *

  We got back to the farm sometime afternoon. She changed to jeans and a burgundy T-shirt. Barefoot, she made a pot of coffee, we sat on the front porch swing. The weather beautiful, we decided to walk around the farm. There was a little pond, we fed some ducks wild berries, then, rolling in some grass, we promised to live forever.

  Later, she wanted to take me for a ride on her motorcycle, get some groceries for supper. I said I didn't have a helmet. Looking through me to Pittsburgh, she said, “Get on the bike.”

  We took a ride on her bike—a red and black Harley soft-tail, lots of chrome.

  Sitting behind her, her hair in my face, holding on, arms around her, my hands cupping her amazingly hard stomach, I never wanted it to end.

  CHAPTER 24

  Real Time

  7:03:05 P.M. CDT

  Stella driving Peggy’s cinnamon apple Cadillac over the byways and highways in and around Nashville and Davidson County, Peggy repeated a foul oath, “Search the woods for that mother fucking Carr.”

  Going south on I-24, Stella held the speed at 55 MPH. Windows down, Peggy's head hanging limply out the passenger side window, her blonde hair flapped in the wind, Stella saw, four cars ahead, a motorcycle. She thought she recognized the two riders. She inched the Cadillac forward. Son’ bitch, she said to herself, Gillian and Carr.