Traveling Light

by Lynne Branard

  He was marrying a girl from Greensboro, Hillary something. She was pretty, with long blond hair, big brown eyes. Perfect, of course. They met at college, Wake Forest. She had just finished her degree and was going to graduate school to become a pharmacist at the time they got engaged. He runs an insurance company; or he did. Like I said, I didn’t keep up with him after posting the wedding announcement.

  The bride was wearing a white satin gown with a ruched empire bodice and crystal detail. The bridesmaids were all in matching short teal V-neck halter dresses. The groom and groomsmen wore Vera Wang two-button gray tuxedos. After the honeymoon in Costa Rica, the couple will be residing in Winston-Salem.

  I remember typing the piece, Daddy eyeing me from across the room.

  Suddenly I sit up.

  “How are you able to read his timeline postings?”

  She slides her teeth over her top lip and glances away. These are telltale signs that Blossom is guilty of something.

  “He friended you? He doesn’t even know you.”

  I am surprised that Phillip would just confirm a request from a girl named Blossom from Tennessee; but what do I know about men and Facebook?

  “Actually, he friended you,” she says.

  “What? When?” I have thrown my legs over the bed and am now facing her. “That’s not possible.”

  chapter fourteen

  “HOW can you not be on Facebook?” she asks. “Aren’t you, like, a newspaper journalist? Aren’t you supposed to be all savvy about the computer and these social media sites?”

  “I don’t want to be on Facebook,” I answer her.

  I set up a site for the paper a couple of years ago; it’s good for business. But I never created a personal account for myself. I always thought the amount of time that people devote to those sites is ridiculous. James William spends more time posting his workout accomplishments and photos of plates of food he’s ordered at some restaurant than he does promoting sports stories for the paper.

  “Blossom,” I ask now, “what have you done?”

  She won’t look at me.

  “Your profile picture is a really good one,” she says sheepishly.

  “From tonight? You posted a picture you took tonight?” I can’t believe this girl. I close my eyes and try to remember when she took a photograph of me.

  There was one with James and the band, one of me holding up my drink; wasn’t I making some face? She took one of me standing next to a statue of Johnny Cash. Were there more?

  “You already have twenty-five friends and it’s not even been three hours since I set you up.”

  I fall back down on the bed.

  Well, it doesn’t matter. I’ll just close the account tomorrow. It’s not such a big deal. I blow out a breath. I’d be mad if I weren’t so sleepy. I make a note to myself to check Twitter, too. There’s no telling what this girl has done when I wasn’t paying attention.

  “Somebody named Dixie likes your photo,” she says. “She posted, ‘Have fun, Al! We miss you.’”

  I roll my eyes. Now Dixie will show this to everybody.

  “Actually, Phillip responded pretty quickly,” she tells me, as if this information will mean something to me. “He must have been sitting at his computer. I’m guessing he doesn’t have much of a social life.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” I say, turning away from her.

  “Of course it matters,” she responds. “He was the love of your life.”

  “When I was twelve,” I answer. “That’s a lifetime ago.”

  “A guy named Ben wants to know if your father is aware of your drinking problem. Why would he ask that?” She pauses. “Oh, that’s right, I made a little album of the pictures.”

  I start to get up to erase it all now, but I hear her close up her tablet and slide down in the bed. In a few minutes the light from the lamp on the table between us goes out.

  “You want to talk about it?”

  “About my drinking problem?” I ask, sarcastically.

  “No, about Phillip.”

  “No,” I reply.

  There’s a pause and I think, Finally, she’s going to shut up.

  “What happened?” she asks softly. “Why did you break up?”

  “Blossom, it’s late. I just want to go to sleep.”

  “Fine.”

  I hear her sheets rustle.

  I’ve hurt her feelings.

  I wait a few minutes and then I roll over to face her direction. I can hear the traffic from the highway and Casserole snoring between us. Somebody is checking into the room next door to ours.

  I close my eyes and still feel a slight spinning from the alcohol. It feels nice, actually, this little bit of buzz. I lie still and think about what it was like when Phillip came to the door the night of our senior prom.

  He was so handsome in his rented tuxedo, his shiny patent leather shoes; so sweet standing there, holding the box with the wrist corsage he had bought. Small pink roses with just a stem of baby’s breath. His hair was all slicked down and his face was cleanly shaven. He was wearing contact lenses and I thought he looked a little like Jimmy Fallon.

  I remember just for a second taking my eyes off of him and glancing down the driveway to the limousine parked on the street in front of the house. I could see the driver, with his black jacket, skinny black tie, even the hat, waiting by the car. I could hear the others in the back, laughing and talking, yelling for Phillip to hurry up, that they were going to be late for dinner. And it was easy to see that it was going to be a special night for everybody.

  “There was no breakup,” I reply, breaking the silence. “Blossom, you still awake? You hear me?”

  “Yes,” she answers quietly.

  Since I wasn’t going to the prom and Daddy was at the office composing the cold type for the next day’s edition, Sandra made me answer the door and she waited until she knew he would be right at the bottom of the stairs before she made her grand entrance. She timed everything perfectly, choreographed it all down to the last second.

  And I have to admit, it was grand; she was beautiful. Even as upset as I was, she captivated me, too. She wore a short pink taffeta dress with ivory silk piping that she had seen in a magazine and made Daddy order from New York. She’d bought silver sandals at the mall and she had a French manicure and matching pedicure. She’d had her hair and makeup done in Raleigh by real professionals. And, of course, she even had music playing while she walked down the steps, something she had downloaded onto a CD, a country ballad: “I Just Want to Dance with You” by George Strait, a singer and a song I will remember forever.

  She had been playing country albums all day, searching for just the right song. Tim McGraw, Faith Hill, Randy Travis, Shania Twain. And she found exactly what she was looking for. And it was spectacular. She was spectacular. Standing there at the top of those stairs, she looked like a young Audrey Hepburn. She looked like our mother.

  And of course, at the time, Sandra was only a freshman, not even supposed to go to the prom; but she’d figured out how to make sure she got there. And that was with Phillip Blake, the boy she claimed she didn’t know that I’d loved from the time I sat beside him in homeroom in sixth grade, the boy she’d put under her spell so that she could go to prom and find a way to get close to Tommy Laughlin, the one she really liked, the captain of the football team, the most popular boy in school, the one she ended up coming home with.

  Phillip Blake turned out to be just a means to another one of my sister’s ends and I can’t remember now whether I was angrier over the fact that she stole him away before I actually had a chance to have him, or that she broke his heart without even a thought. She walked down the stairs, took the corsage and wrapped it around her small wrist, grinned at me, and headed out the door. That damn CD playing over and over and over. Sandra wins again.

  Of course, none of tha
t matters now anyway. She dated Tommy Laughlin for a semester, became Homecoming Queen, went to the college in Chapel Hill, and married her wealthy tycoon in Asheville. And Phillip Blake left for Wake Forest University, married a pharmacist from Greensboro, and moved to High Point.

  “There was no breakup because we never even went out.”

  And just like that, a wasted tear rolls down and across my cheek and I remember now why I hate country music.

  chapter fifteen

  “RISE and shine, new friend of mine!” Blossom pulls open the curtains and I am immediately blinded by the sun that is now streaming across the room. I bolt straight up in the bed.

  “Would you look at this day!”

  “Where am I?” I whisper, falling back down.

  “You are in Music City.”

  “What?” I have lost my vision.

  “It’s a beautiful day in Nashville!”

  How can she be chatty all night and then this perky in the morning? If I could see her I’m sure I would kill her.

  “The sun is shining and the roosters are crowing!”

  I will go to prison, but I don’t care. I am going to kill her.

  “Okay, okay,” I say, making an attempt to rise. I fight with the sheets, knock over the lamp on the nightstand beside me.

  “Oh, my,” she says. And I hear her walk over and return the lamp to its original spot.

  “Could you just close those until I can see something other than colored spots?” I cover my eyes until I hear the curtains drawn.

  The glorious darkness descends once more and I blink a few times, trying to make out where she is standing so I can get my hands on her.

  “You’re not really a morning person, are you?”

  I don’t answer.

  “Well, that’s okay, most people aren’t, I’ve learned. My dad put the television and a small refrigerator in the garage for me so I wouldn’t bother him on Saturday mornings. And the hippies made me pitch my tent on the other side of the river from them because I am such an early bird. They got used to me, though. You will, too, I think.”

  This is our first morning together, and she’s got a lot to learn about what I will and will not get used to. The first thing being that I will never get used to any early bird. It has been a long time—a very long time—since I woke easily in the morning.

  “Blossom,” I say through clenched teeth, “I do not like the light when I first wake up. I do not like noise. I like easing into the day. I like quiet. I like lying in bed for ten or fifteen minutes and thinking about getting up before I actually do anything about it. I do not like being called from my sleep with a high-pitched greeting and the assault of sunlight.”

  She is quiet for a second.

  “It’s okay,” she assures me. “My grandmother is kind of slow in the morning, too.”

  “I am not slow,” I say, throwing off my bedcovers. “And I am not like your grandmother.” I’m making my stand. I may like to sleep late, but I refuse to be compared to anybody’s grandmother.

  “Uh-oh,” she replies, acting as if she has finally detected the meaning behind the tone of my voice.

  I still can’t see because of the sun spots, but I hear scrambling noises.

  “Casserole and I will just take our little walk, do our morning stuff, and give you time to wake up.”

  I don’t respond. When I turn to face the door, near where she was standing when she yanked open the curtains, she has already departed with my dog, leaving me alone in our dark hotel room.

  I yawn and fall back into bed. I blink a few times and can see the clock on the nightstand. It reads seven thirty. I think about what time it was when we finally quit talking. Three a.m. I do the math: four and a half hours of sleep. I am tempted to pull the sheets over my head again, but she’s going to return in ten or fifteen minutes and I will be forced to go through this bright-light assault again.

  I clear my throat and sit up, rub my eyes, and glance around the room. There is just enough light coming from the crack in the curtains and from under the door so that I can see. I get up, stretch my arms above my head, exhale, and shuffle over to the bathroom. I do not turn on the light.

  When I come out I glance over at the table where I plugged in my phone. I walk over to it to unplug the charger. And that’s when I see I have seventy e-mails.

  I sit down and scroll through the list on the tiny backlit screen. Dixie; James William; Tim Justice from the bank; Mary Dalton, the girl who cuts my hair; Ben; reporters from Garner and Smithfield; Patty Lewis, the librarian—they’ve all friended me, now that I have my own Facebook page. And they’ve all left me messages.

  Look who’s finally made it into this century!

  Welcome, Al! We’ve been waiting!

  What are you doing in Nashville and why are you drinking sissy drinks?

  Your dad says hi!

  Did you do the folo for the graduation story?

  Say hey to Reba!

  Stay out of the karaoke bars!

  What are you doing in Tennessee?

  Do people just stay on Facebook all day? I shake my head in disgust and stand up. I’m about to put my phone down and get dressed when I read the last posting.

  Hi, Al, how’s it going?

  I sit back down.

  It’s from Phillip Blake.

  Blossom wasn’t lying; he friended me and he wrote a message. I sit down at the table, turn on the lamp, and go to Facebook, the password already remembered on my device. I forgo the news feed and click right on my page. What information about me could Blossom have posted? We’ve known each other all of two days.

  Alissa Wells, Clayton, North Carolina. No age, no birthdate, no extra profile material. She did remember that I worked at Clayton Times and News, but she listed me as a reporter instead of assistant publisher. That’s actually okay. And truth be told, the picture she chose isn’t too bad.

  It’s the one of me standing under the Tootsie’s sign, before we went in, before I got all sweaty and before the piña colada. I’m smiling and I have to admit I look happy. It’s not so awful. She’s even created the background using the night scene on Broadway, the flashing lights, the crowded street.

  Blossom set my page up so that I appear kind of cool. It’s better than anything I could have done. I decide not to close my account. Not just yet.

  I stare at Phillip’s posting. It’s on my timeline, out there for everyone to see. He didn’t send me a personal message. Phillip Blake has written me, and everyone knows he has written me.

  I click on his name. And it seems that Blossom was right about him after all. It does appear that he and Hillary are not together. Phillip Blake is single again and he posted on my timeline.

  Maybe I’ve been wrong about Facebook. I may actually enjoy it.

  I rise from my seat and walk over to the window. I hold the curtains and take in a deep breath. If I was wrong about Facebook, maybe I am also wrong about mornings.

  I yank open the curtains once more, letting the early sun stream into the room, and then, eyes closed, quickly draw them together. I take two steps back and fall into bed.

  I am not wrong about mornings.

  chapter sixteen

  “LOOK in the HFR file,” I tell Dixie when we’re on the road. Blossom is driving, and I point out the sign to the interstate while I’m holding the phone to my ear. We’ve checked out of our room, had our breakfast, and are making our way to Memphis.

  Dixie called just as we got into the car.

  “Hold for release,” I add, rolling my eyes. Dixie has been with the paper long enough to know what HFR means. “It’s where we put the material that can’t be used until it is released by the source.” Daddy hired her when I was covering a beat out on the cotton farms last summer. I didn’t have a say in this personnel addition. She’s sweet, but as Ben says, she’s about a
s sharp as a marble.

  “Or at some other designated time,” she calls back to me.

  Well, what do you know? I guess she does remember the orientation.

  “I see that written on the folder. Did you tell me about this?”

  Or maybe she does not.

  Ben’s trying to find the information about the sale of a string of warehouses just west of Clayton. Everybody knows Reynolds Tobacco Company bought them months ago, but it’s not supposed to go public until the purchase has been finalized. Toby Hillard, the real estate agent handling the transaction, asked Daddy not to publicize it until he had the contract in hand. From Dixie’s questions, I assume the contract is in his hand.

  “Oh, there it is!” Dixie exclaims. There is a pause. “Wait, you told me about that HFR file, didn’t you?”

  “I did,” I answer.

  Blossom is driving because she reminded me that she was the most awake this morning. She let me sleep another hour before she started packing and making a lot of noise.

  It’s fine with me that she’s driving, though; I’m hoping I can actually take a nap as soon as I get off the phone with my colleagues. I’ve already learned that Dixie is only the first one with questions.

  “Hey, Al.” It’s Ben. “You still in Nashville? I saw you on Facebook. Good picture of you with Johnny. Did you see my post?”

  “I did. And no, to answer your question on my timeline, I didn’t write a follow-up about the increase in our graduation statistics. James William was supposed to do that after he verified the numbers from the superintendent.”

  “James William?” There is a pause. “He said you were going to do that.”

  I lean my elbow on the door and rest my head in my hand. If I had a dime for every time I’ve had this exact same conversation.

  “No, wait; he’s nodding his head. He says he’s working on it.” He moves his mouth away from the phone. “Okay, ’bye, then.”

  Meaning James William forgot and he’s now left the office to do what he was supposed to have already done.