Providence: Once Upon a Second Chance

by Chris Coppernoll

  “Mitchell, hang in there. We’re going to get you to a hospital.” I held his bloody hand and squeezed it. He didn’t squeeze back.

  “Mitchell!” I shouted, but his eyes were unresponsive. I prayed for the first time in years. Oh, dear Lord, please don’t let him die!

  I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Mitchell! Hang in there. Please don’t die!

  Mitchell turned his head toward me and spoke, his voice a mere rasp. “It’s all right.”

  “Mitchell, I love you like a brother. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry about tonight.” I cradled his head in my arms, whispering to him as the car neared the ER. “It’s all right, Mitchell; we’re almost home.”

  I was watching Mitchell’s life passing before me, and you know what I thought of? Tossing a football back and forth with Mitchell when we were just kids. His dad had just bought it for me. An official-sized, officially licensed leather football.

  “Do you remember that football, Mitch?”

  His body was resting against mine, and I brushed the hair from his face. When we pulled into the bright ER bay, the black stains on his clothes and the seat turned crimson, and his eyes stared directly into mine. He spoke only one word.

  “Time.”

  It was his last word.

  ~ TWENTY-SIX ~

  Coming up close

  Everything sounds like welcome home

  Come home.

  —’Til Tuesday

  “Coming Up Close”

  I went back to Providence to untangle my wearied head. I’d missed sleeping in the wrought-iron-and-wood bed I bought a year before the book came out. I’d missed seeing Mrs. Hernandez, Providence all decorated with Christmas lights, and just being home. Since I’d given Bud a break, I figured I’d grant one to myself.

  After dropping my luggage back at the house, I headed toward the Old Village district and parked the Jeep on the gas-lantern-lined streets of West Providence. There’s a Christmas tradition here at Shafford’s department store, one of a handful of downtown stand-alones that, like Duroth’s, has survived the onslaught of suburban malls. The store does most of its business between October and December when customers are in the market for elegant gifts and treasured traditions. Here, people can touch the past, since Shafford’s hasn’t changed much in the past year, or in the past forty.

  A small silver bell rang when I opened the door; the same checkered brown and white linoleum that’s been there forever greeted me. I bought a bag of wrapped caramels at the candy counter. It had been years since I’d last been in Shafford’s.

  “Can I help you find something?”

  I turned toward a beautiful dark-haired saleswoman in her early forties. She wore oval glasses with brown frames securely fastened on a silver chain.

  “I’m looking for something special for Christmas,” I told her.

  “Something for your wife? Children?” She asked ordinary salesclerk questions, but at Christmas they just reminded me of my singleness.

  “Coworkers,” I said.

  The woman stepped from behind a window display she’d been rearranging, brushing a wrinkle from her skirt where she’d been kneeling.

  “I’m looking for one item I can give to a number of people, something memorable. A sort of keepsake.”

  “Do you have a price range in mind?”

  “No, just something nice, appropriate for both men and women.”

  I followed her to a display case with a glass counter in the corner of the store. “You’ll need more than one? That narrows choices a bit. How many are you looking for?”

  I counted aloud. “Let’s see … There’s Arthur and Aaron, Peter, Nancy … Mrs. Hernandez and Raymond … Six I’d guess.”

  The woman removed her glasses, and they hung in front of her blue sweater.

  So familiar. Have we met before?

  “If you’re looking for something distinctive, this may interest you.” She pulled a box from the display case and set it on the counter. Opening it, she lifted out an exquisite clock—a crystal timepiece. She set it on a plum velvet display cloth as gently as you’d free a newborn kitten.

  “This is a Swiss timepiece by Louis Demler. It’s not antique, but it’s very high quality. It’s handcrafted, assembled in Boston and layered by hand. If you look, you’ll see the many layers of enameling on the clock face.”

  I’m not getting the face; the voice … maybe.

  “The works are Swiss quartz, guaranteed to last a hundred years.”

  “That’s longer than I’ll be around,” I said, and she smiled.

  The bell at the front door rang again, and I glanced over my shoulder to see two white-haired ladies shuffle in from the cold.

  “It’s very nice.” I said. “If you have enough, I’ll take them.”

  “We have two here, but I can check and see if more are available.”

  “Thanks.”

  She punched a number on the speed dial. “It’s kind of uncommon, getting everyone on your Christmas list the same gift,” she told me while waiting for the other line to pick up.

  “I usually pick out something different for everyone, but this year—and maybe this sounds ironic—but it just seems more special this way.”

  Would you like to know what they cost?” she asked.

  “Not really,” I said, sounding garish, not as I’d intended. Her eyebrows raised, and I suspected I’d come across like a card-carrying member of the leisure class. I quickly added, “But you’d better tell me anyway.”

  “They’re twelve hundred dollars apiece.”

  “That’s fine,” I said. I didn’t care what they cost. I could imagine one in Arthur’s study, next to his twenty-year-old bottles of scotch, Peter setting his in his curio at work, and Mrs. Hernandez gushing when she saw hers for the first time. “Do you still offer gift wrapping and delivery?”

  “Yes, it’s usually extra, but I’ll wave the costs since this is such a large order … Hi, Jill; this is Jennifer at Shafford’s in Providence. Can you check on an item to see if you have it in inventory? Yes, thanks.” She paused again.

  Jennifer.

  “Yes, I’m trying to find four Louis Demler timepieces. I have an item number for you.” She began to rewrap the clock, nodding to me that they did indeed have what I needed. I pulled out my Visa card and slid it across the glass countertop. “Can I call you back in ten minutes and give you the shipping information? Thanks, Jill.”

  She hung up the phone. “Well, this is your day. If you’ll write down the delivery addresses on this sheet, they’ll be delivered directly from our store in Indy.”

  “Well, you’ve made shopping easy. Thank you.”

  “You’re quite welcome, Mr. Clayton. Helping someone find what they’re looking for is my favorite part of the job.” She picked up my Visa card and swiped it through the reader.

  “You know my name?”

  “I read it on your card, but we’ve met before. Come to think of it, I’ve also read your book, so I’d know you any number of ways.” She smiled, deepening the mystery. “I don’t suppose you recognize me?”

  “You look familiar, as cliché as that sounds. Where did we meet?”

  She extended her hand to shake mine. “I’m Jennifer Shafford, but before I was married, my name was Jennifer Carswell. I used to live across the hall from you in an apartment on Alder Street and Thatcher.”

  “Oh my gosh!” I said, instinctively reaching across the counter to hug her. “I haven’t seen you since freshman year.”

  “It’s been awhile. I suppose you heard through the rumor mill, but I left school that year to have a baby. He’s twenty-one now.” We shook our heads in disbelief.

  “Well, I feel old.”

  “And Roger and I have a daughter who’s fifteen.”

  “That’s amazing. I’ve thought of you over the years, wondered what had happened. Looks like you’ve done well for yourself.”

  “I came back after Jason was born, finished my degree. And while I was here, I met Roger and got
married.”

  The register printed the sales receipt, and she tore it off but kept it in her hand. She seemed to be stepping back in time, back to 1985.

  “It was a tough decision, you know, whether or not to keep the baby.”

  I listened, aware that no one else was in earshot.

  “Now I can’t even imagine the alternative. Jason’s such a great kid, but at the time …” Jennifer’s voice quieted like a parishioner’s in a confessional booth.

  “A girlfriend of mine walked with me through the entire pregnancy when my parents were confused and heartbroken … and disappointed.”

  I reached out my hand and rested it on hers.

  “She was so strong in her faith in Christ. I came to know the Lord too, like I guess you did.”

  Her dark eyes stared into mine, not romantically, but held by a thread of connection that links people who have shared a moment in time.

  “Yes, I came to Him later too.”

  “I kind of figured that from your book. You’re different from the person I remember in the old days. It’s funny how the Lord changes everything for the good. New creation, the old things pass away.”

  “Yes,” I agreed.

  “I was in Delton for two years raising Jason, going to church, studying the Bible. I just trusted God and hoped He had a new life for me. He did,” Jennifer said, then returned to her work, handing me the receipt. “Have you ever thought of where you’d be right now without the Lord?”

  I had. There were half-opened boxes full of the person I used to be warehoused in the thinker’s loft.

  She laughed a happy, carefree laugh. “He brought me through the pregnancy, brought Roger into my life. Even my working here in this store is His miracle.”

  “How’s that?”

  She became exuberant. “My degree is in retail merchandising, and I’d always wanted to travel to Europe as a buyer. But with Jason, I didn’t see any way that could happen. I’d thought about moving to New York and working for the big retailers.” She shook her head. “Well, Roger goes to London every year to buy for the store …”

  London …

  “Every time the wheels touch down at Heathrow, I say a little prayer, thanking the Lord for how generous He’s been. He put the broken pieces back together again.” Her face glowed as she recounted the blessings the Lord had stored away in her heart.

  I left Shafford’s and headed for the Jeep, Jennifer’s words still echoing in my mind. She was a flesh-and-blood reminder of Providence past. However brief our season had been that summer of 1985, seeing her again left a powerful wake of vivid memories.

  I hit Big Bad Burger on the way home and got takeout. Back in my home office, I started up the iMac and opened a new document. I continued writing my tales of woe and wonder, transferring my memory into the computer’s memory. Once again I traveled back to the land where the ghosts inside my head climbed out of their boxes, dusted themselves off, and remembered me back.

  ~ TWENTY-SEVEN ~

  When you go you’re gone forever.

  —Culture Club

  “Karma Chameleon”

  The funeral was held on a Monday. It was at the graveside where I finally saw what Mitchell had been trying to tell me. If I live to be a thousand, I’ll never forget Jenny and Erin wearing black mourner’s dresses symbolizing not only the end of Mitch’s life but the end of college, and the end of our innocence.

  Afterward, at the reception, I sat on the back porch listening to the muted, humorless voices of my mother, Marianne, and my uncle Carlton coming from the kitchen. Then Jenny’s voice sweetened the bitterness like cream in a cup of black coffee. After working her soothing effect on the kitchen conversation, I heard the back-porch door creak open, then felt her gentle hands behind me.

  “I am so sorry about Mitchell,” she breathed, pouring out words to still my shattered heart.

  She crouched down and put her arms around me. My head fell to her arm, but no words came. I felt a guilt that made me sick. I might as well have pulled the trigger that killed Mitchell. I reviewed the mental videotape of Mitchell’s last day over and over again in my mind, looking for some supernatural portal I could reach through and pull him back to safety. This was not supposed to be.

  “Do you need me to do anything for you?” she asked.

  “I’m finished with Chicago,” I said, the words falling out of my mouth like broken teeth. A cool breeze blew into the yard from the farmland, a short green crop waving beneath an unseen hand.

  “I killed him, Jenny. I killed Mitchell. He should never have come to Chicago.”

  “No, you didn’t, Jack. Don’t blame yourself for this.”

  “I made him go! He didn’t want to, but I made him. I’ll never forgive myself for this. God will punish me.”

  Jenny shushed me like a child. With the strength of her character and her intimate knowledge of the Savior, she said, “God doesn’t want to punish you, Jack. He loves you. And He loved Mitchell.”

  We sat together, alone on the back porch in the quiet of the day. “Jack, I want you to come back to Providence with me. I want us to be together. To be … a family to one another.”

  “Mitchell,” I said, unaware. “Mitchell, where are you?”

  “Jack, look at me.”

  “Mitchell. I’m sorry, Mitchell. I’m so sorry.”

  The digital clock read 7:35. It was dark, and I didn’t know where I was. The cool breeze of a brewing storm blew in through an open window. It was all reminiscent of a night at the beginning, a thousand years before. The door cracked open, and a narrow sliver of light poured in. Jenny entered, crawling into bed with me in the dark.

  “Are you all right?” she asked.

  “Where am I? What’s happening?”

  “Your mother’s downstairs cleaning up the house. You’ve been sleeping for a couple of hours.”

  “Sorry I’m such a wreck. Thank you for staying with me.”

  “Jack, I love you, and I promise, no matter what happens, I will always stay with you.”

  I wrapped my hands around her thin waist and pulled her on top of me. Her lips and mine met in the darkness. She pushed sweat off my forehead with the heel of her hand. Her heartbeat tapped against my chest.

  “I remember the first day I saw you,” I said. “You were walking up Augustine Hill to your dorm in those beige leggings, that tan skirt, and corduroy shoes.”

  Jenny laughed.

  “I fell in love with your face. Did you know that?” I asked, seeing that moment clearly in my mind. “You had something I thought I could never reach from my world.”

  “Shh, Jack,” she said, perfect words in perfect moments. “I don’t want you to insult the man I love.”

  Downstairs the dishwasher rumbled and spit, cleaning crumbs from the good china and chocolate frosting from rarely used dessert dishes.

  “I’m sorry you can’t sleep here all night.”

  “Me, too.”

  “I would do anything to be married to you right now,” I said. And I meant it. “To be able to sleep with you until the sun comes up. We could watch it rise over the elm trees in the window.”

  Jenny laid her head on my chest and let out a contented sigh. “Do you know what you’re going to do tomorrow?”

  “I’m going to go over to Mitch’s house. Did you know he had a Harley-Davidson motorcycle?”

  “Yeah. He was going to sell it, right?”

  “Mitch’s parents want to give it to me.”

  “Why?”

  “His dad said he thought Mitch would want me to have it. I said no, but they want to give it to me anyway.”

  “Do you think it’s their way of saying they forgive you?” Jenny asked.

  “I don’t know. Mr. McDaniels spoke to me at the funeral, but his words were measured, like he was just going through the motions. He admitted they were still in shock, and still upset, but that they understood—whatever that means.”

  “They’re just trying to work through this … We
all are. I’m sure they’ll forgive you in time—”

  “How could they?” I said, interrupting her gentle ministering. “What’s happened can never be undone. I don’t deserve their forgiveness, and I don’t want Mitch’s motorcycle. But I guess I have no choice. I’m picking it up tomorrow.”

  “Do you want me to go with you?”

  “No. I need to face them by myself.”

  “What else did you say to Mr. McDaniels?”

  “I told him how sorry I was, not that those words mean anything when you’ve done what I’ve done, but I said them anyway.”

  “And what did he say to that?”

  “Nothing. He tried to smile but failed. He just dropped his eyes and turned away.”

  At this Jenny was quiet. Her compassion may have prompted consolation, but she knew I had done something wrong and that Mitchell had died because of it. My best friend, Erin’s fiancé.

  None of us knew how we’d live with the loss, or the guilt, or the shame. But at that moment, I didn’t want to live at all.

  “What are you going to do with a motorcycle?” Jenny asked.

  I felt like we’d had this conversation somewhere before.

  ~ TWENTY-EIGHT ~

  You broke the bonds and you

  Loosed the chains

  Carried the cross

  Of my shame

  Of my shame.

  —U2

  “I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For”

  The pages describing Mitchell’s death inched out from the printer. I faxed them to our working office in Chicago so Bud would find them when he came in, and I wouldn’t have to be there while he read them. I called Howard Cameron and asked if he would have time to meet with me before Christmas. Howard invited me up to Mike and Tessa’s the next day.

  On Christmas Eve morning, I left Providence for Indianapolis, the same route we’d all traveled that first Christmas after my first semester at college. I pulled into the drive next to a sporty Lexus, a minivan, and a pickup truck. Mike and Tessa’s home was just as I remembered it, except the maple and birch trees had doubled in size, and the yard had been landscaped.