Dropping Stones / Kingmaker SET

by Paul Cwalina

  “That’s wonderful. I’m happy for you,” she said.

  “Thanks. A presidential campaign is where the money is and, more importantly, will lead to a great job in the administration if he wins. Then, after the White House years are over, the job offers will be endless. If I’m lucky, I’ll do a tell-all memoir and really rake in some serious cash. That kid is going to have anything he wants.”

  “I see. Where will you be working?”

  “Well, DC, of course,” I said in a matter-of-fact manner. “That’s where the campaign headquarters is.” Strike two

  “Excuse me?” she said, her face becoming stern. I thought about what Diane had said earlier that day about the freight train.

  “What?”

  “You’re planning on moving to Washington, DC?” she said, setting down her utensils and wiping her mouth with her napkin.

  “Well, yeah, of course.”

  “And you’re going to just leave me here alone?” I hear that train a-comin...

  “Well, I...” I stammered. “I...don’t know what else to say. There’s not much of a choice.”

  “You have the choice not to take the position.”

  “Are you out of your mind? Turn down a spot on a presidential campaign?” I said almost with a laugh. “No, there’s no way I’m turning that down.” She cannot be serious

  “And what about me and our child?”

  “I’m not sure what to say here. I’m doing this for you and that kid.”

  “Spare me. We haven’t even entered your mind. You’re doing this for you,” she said, growing angrier.

  “Jen, be...”

  “Jennifer,” she interrupted. I stopped and looked at her to make sure she was serious. Silly me.

  “Okay...Jennifer, be reasonable here,” I said, on the verge of pleading.

  She exhaled and then put her elbows on the table and leaned forward some. “I don’t think you fully comprehend or appreciate my expectations here,” she said calmly but sternly. “Let me spell it out for you. You are going to be my husband and I am going to love you. I am going to be your wife and you are going to love me. Together, we are going to love and raise our child because that is what is in our child’s best interests. There is no more you and there is no more me. There is now only us.”

  Ooookaaaay...this woman is officially cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs.

  “Did you actually hear the words that just came out of your mouth? Are you serious?” I asked with incredulity. “You don’t just say you’re going to love someone. You meet, you date and fall in love and...”

  “Oh, really?” she said. “I say we have a better chance than anyone.”

  Cuckoo. Cuckoo.

  “Oh, this ought to be good. Go ahead,” I said condescendingly. I put down my utensils and folded my arms across my chest.

  “We have a common interest, something outside of and beyond ourselves. The couples you describe usually don’t. They’re operating exclusively on emotions that are fickle and that will fade,” she said. “Jeff and I met in college. We dated. We fell in love. We had a huge, ridiculously expensive wedding. And here I am having dinner and a baby with you.” Then she continued, “And you met Sarah...” She stopped when she saw the surprised look on my face that she knew about Sarah. “What? You didn’t think I was going to do some research on the father of my child? You should be worried what I know about you now, and you should be happy that I still invited you into my house.”

  I wasn’t happy. How dare she? I felt myself picking up a stone.

  She continued, “You and Sarah met. You fell in love. You got engaged. I bet you even fell hook, line, and sinker for that three months’ salary for an engagement ring trick, too, didn’t you? So, you and Sarah were engaged and planning a wedding...and now, here you are having dinner with me and our child.”

  Jennifer bringing up Sarah set me off, and when she continued, she just made it worse.

  “You see my house. It’s clean, isn’t it? You’ve tasted my cooking and you seem to like it. You know me intimately, unfortunately, and I think you’re satisfied. I’m educated and if you’re willing to have a conversation, I can hold it. Tell me why it wouldn’t work. Tell me, when the well-being of our child is at stake, why it wouldn’t work.”

  “I don’t know. It just doesn’t work that way,” I said, frustrated.

  “Why? Because movies and romance novels say otherwise?”

  “Just drop it. Just freakin’ drop it,” I said in a slightly elevated voice.

  “Look, God gave us this child,” she said seeking to calm me. It didn’t work.

  “Oh, don’t bring God into this. When it comes to that kid, you’re God. You get to decide whether it lives or dies. I don’t have a say in it. And when that kid is born, the courts will be God. And they’ll tell me when I can see that kid and when I can’t. The courts will run my life. I just sit here in limbo while you and the courts make all the decisions for me,” I said, my voice growing louder. Then I stood up and leaned forward, one hand on the table and the other pointing in Jennifer’s face. “I’m only a father because you say I’m a father. You can decide tomorrow that I’m not and just kill that kid. So forgive me if I don’t exactly have the warm-and-fuzzies about that kid. I have no attachment to it. And why should I? At any moment you can get rid of it and I can’t do a thing about it. And even after that kid is born, you can decide to move across the country with it and I have no say! So, spare me the ‘God gave us a child.’ That kid is yours!” My voice had risen to a shout.

  Jennifer shot up out of her chair. I saw her squint her eyes a little and I saw her purse her lips a bit. What I didn’t see was the swift movement of her arm and hand as they delivered a stinging, roundhouse slap to my face. It turned my head, rattled my teeth, and knocked my jaw to one side. Before I could even feel the first wave of pain, she had her finger in my face and yelled, “This is our child—your flesh and blood! Stop referring to him as ‘that kid’!”

  Strike three.

  I gripped the tablecloth with both hands to dissipate the pain as well as my anger. The gathering of the cloth in my hands caused our drinks to spill. We just stared at each other for an intense moment. Then I said, “I don’t need this.” I kicked my chair out from behind me. It slid across the floor a couple feet before toppling over. I walked around the table and stormed toward the door.

  Jennifer grabbed my arm. “Where do you think you’re going?”

  I ripped my arm from her grip and kept walking. Before reaching the door, I shouted, “Good luck raising that kid!” I opened the front door and walked out, slamming it behind me hard enough that I heard the mirror on the wall of the foyer fall to the floor. To put the cherry on top of the sundae of my anger, I kicked the bouquet of flowers, scattering them across the porch and walkway.

  I got into my car and tore out of the driveway, squealing the tires as I pulled away. I didn’t stop at the stop sign at the end of the road, turning right through it. A car coming from my left slammed on its brakes and I heard the horn blare as I sped away from the intersection.

  I had no destination in mind, other than I didn’t want to go home, and wherever I was going, I was going to get there quickly because my anger had the accelerator pinned to the floor. I turned on the radio and twisted the volume knob far enough to have the music shake the windows.

  Who does she think she is? Telling me that I’m going to love her. Telling me that we’re getting married. She wants me to turn down a job on a presidential campaign? She’s nuts. She’s crazier than the last one.

  I still had enough of my wits about me to know that I couldn’t keep speeding the way I was, especially as I drew nearer to the city. I came to a stop at a red light and took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Then I did it again and closed my eyes. Calm down.

  The sun was setting. I decided to go down to the river and see if the water could calm me. I parked in a lot near Santini’s. As I turned the corner to go toward the river, I noticed something strange about th
e door of Santini’s. It was covered in a long sheet of black paper. I stepped toward the door to get a closer look. In the middle of the door was a letter surrounded by photos. The letter read, ‘We are saddened to announce the passing of our father, Mario Santini. Our father passed away peacefully in his sleep sometime early Friday morning. Our mother, his beloved Angela, was by his side. Our father loved his family. He loved his country and this city. He loved his customers. He loved life. He will be missed. We will be closed until the 20th of this month. We appreciate your understanding and your prayers. Sincerely, Vincent Santini and Antonio Santini’

  Immediately to the right of the letter was a photo of Mario and me from two days earlier. We were standing side by side with an arm around the other. Mario had a wide smile and he was pointing at me with his free hand. At the bottom of the photo was a handwritten caption that read ‘Mayor’s first shave’. I smiled to myself and began looking at the other photos. From the corner of my eye, I saw movement inside and then saw Vincent look through the window. He smiled when he saw me. His face lit up and he waved to have me come in. He unlocked the door and pulled it open.

  “Mayor! So nice to see you. Come in.”

  “Vincent, I can’t believe this. I am so sorry to hear about your dad,” I said and reached out my hand to shake.

  He grabbed my hand and pulled me in for a hug. He hugged me tight and emotionally. Then, he pulled back and put his left hand on my neck. “You. You made my father so happy on Wednesday. He was so thrilled to cut the mayor’s hair and give the mayor his first professional shave. He was on cloud nine all day. He had ten more customers after you and every one of them heard about how he cut the mayor’s hair,” he said. “I cannot thank you enough. You made one of his last days his happiest.”

  I was overwhelmed at the thought. “I don’t know what to say, Vincent. I didn’t really do anything but sit there.”

  “Oh, we never know what impact we have on another’s life with even the smallest gesture. You may think it was nothing on your part, but it had such impact on him,” he said. Again, I was overwhelmed by what he said and the thought of playing such an important role in another person’s life without even realizing it. Vincent’s eyes were beginning to moisten. “I’m sorry, but I must go. I only stopped here to pick something up. Thank you, mayor. Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

  “Please let me know the arrangements for the funeral.”

  “I will. Good night and thank you, again.”

  I felt guilty accepting the gratitude for doing something as innocuous as simply sitting in a chair. I stepped outside and took one more look at the photo before continuing on toward the river. I crossed the street and walked up the concrete walkway to the top of the river bank. I looked down at one of my final accomplishments as mayor—the river walkway. We had secured a grant as well as private funding to build a small riverside plaza. There were twelve rows of concrete bleacher-style seating poured right onto the side of the bank of the river. Each row was about one hundred feet long. Next to the water was a wide concrete area where bands and other acts could perform, and a walkway stretched for a mile in each direction along the river.

  I walked down to the second row and sat, while resting my back on the seating behind me. The river was above average depth, maybe a little higher than normal. I just sat there and on top of the blowup with Jennifer, tried to process the death of someone whom I had just seen two days prior. I was right in thinking the river would calm me. It did. The slowly moving water was soothing, and I sat there and simply watched.

  A few minutes passed when I saw something in the river several hundred feet to my right. It looked like a canoe or kayak and it seemed to be empty, just floating in the middle of the river.

  It had either broken loose or was let loose from a dock somewhere up river. As it came closer,

  I could see it was a canoe. I fixed my eyes on it and just watched as it sailed aimlessly, completely at the mercy of the flow and currents of the river. At times the canoe was turned sideways, sometimes facing backwards. As it was passing me, it got stuck on something. The rushing water turned it around and the currents rocked it side to side until it finally was freed from whatever held it there. The canoe continued to drift toward the bridge to my left. The water formed rapids in front of the bridge and they again rocked the canoe harshly. When the canoe reached the bridge, the rapids had it almost on its one side as it hit the abutment and got stuck that way. Soon, the water began to fill the canoe at the far end. The weight of the water cause the other end of the canoe to rise and scrape against the stone of the abutment. It sounded like a groan. The canoe was almost upright and seemed to be fighting against its fate. The river, though, quickly filled the rest of the canoe, forcing it down until it disappeared under the water.

  The river won. The river always wins.

  The sun had slipped beneath the horizon and the light was quickly dying. I looked to my left and right to make sure no one was around. Then I put my head down and spoke out loud to the memory of my parents. “Mom, dad, I don’t know what to do, here. Some days I really wish you were still here to give me some advice and other days I’m so glad you’re not around to see how I’ve messed things up. I’ve been given such a great second chance with this job offer and do what I just know I was born to do. I have the chance to be a part of something big. But this woman…this woman I barely know is carrying my son or daughter…your grandchild. Who knows? This may be my only child and your only grandchild. You were always there for me and never abandoned me. I owe at least that to your grandchild. You would have demanded nothing less from me. But why won’t this woman see things my way? Why must she be so uncompromising? How can I be expected to just forget about finding someone I could truly love and marry someday, instead being forced into this?”

  Then I couldn’t help but think about Chelsea. “Yeah, I know. I had someone I loved and should have married and I refused to recognize it. Who’s to say that I wouldn’t do that again?”

  A cold breeze rose off the water and brought a chill to my skin. We were enjoying a mild winter, but it was still winter. I stood and gathered my coat against the cold, drew a deep breath, and exhaled before walking back to my car.

  Chapter Five

  After stopping briefly, again, at Santini’s to look at and trace the photos on the door, I took a slow, more somber drive home. My body was more relaxed, but my mind was still restless.

  When I arrived home, I hooked up my phone to the stereo speakers, slumped into my recliner, and listened to some music. I didn’t even care what was playing. I just wanted some background noise for my somewhat tortured thoughts.

  Despite the blowup with Jennifer, I found myself thinking mostly about Mario and the words Vincent said to me earlier that evening. I was awestruck that my simple gesture could have such an effect on another person. Vincent’s face was beaming when he spoke to me. Not only did I unwittingly bring some joy to Mario, but I also, in turn, had a similar effect on his sons. It seemed so simple, but it was revelatory to me. My thinking previously was influenced by politics and debates on the so-called big issues. Influencing people meant politics. Affecting the human condition meant grand gestures like laws, movements made up of thousands or even millions of people, and newsworthy events like marches and demonstrations. That’s how you change lives, not by getting a haircut and a shave.

  Yet I couldn’t deny what I saw, heard and felt from Mario Santini and his son, Vincent. We have no greater effect on the lives of human beings than when it is done person-to-person; one-on-one. And if such an innocuous gesture could have such a great effect, how much more so the interactions of a father and child?

  That, of course, led me back to thinking about Jennifer. Who are we kidding? We couldn’t even make it through dinner...twice. Nothing I could do would impress her. I bought her a bouquet of flowers that would have sent any other woman swooning. I spent hours looking for that bottle of wine. I shaved my beard and ditched the motorcycle for a car.
None of it mattered. They might as well have been dirty dish towels that I had given her. They didn’t mean a thing to her.

  It didn’t matter, anyway. After the fight that night, it was practically over. There was no reconciling from that. We were on two separate planes, with two completely different points of view. It was silly to try. I wanted to be a father, but not this way. This was just an unfortunate mistake. This isn’t really my child.