Intermission

by Ashley Pullo

  Her email is from last night. We have eight hours, 6,000 miles and two continents between us. If I close my eyes, I can see her radiant smile. I can smell her lavender shampoo. I can hear her explosive laughter. I can taste her peppermint tongue . . .

  But, I can’t fucking touch her. I can’t feel her. I can’t hold her. Je n’ai pas rien.

  1815 hours

  “You up for chow, Fisher?” I ask while playing Tetris on my bunk.

  Fisher jumps out of bed and puts on his shoes. “Homey, I’m always ready for chow.” He digs in our Rubbermaid dresser and tosses a present on my lap. “I wanted to get something special for the dumbfuck in my life. Open it!” He sarcastically squeals and claps his hands.

  I remove a cardboard box from a plastic bag and shake my head. “A fake Rolex? It will look divine with my black boots.” I reach in the bottom drawer of the Rubbermaid dresser and throw Fisher a very similar plastic bag. “Merry Christmas, motherfucker.”

  Fisher opens an identical box and laughs. “A fake Rolex? And all I wanted for Christmas was a Red Ryder BB gun,” he whines as he slides the shiny gold watch around his wrist. “Now we’re like watch buddies! C’mon, let’s get some ham and sweet potatoes.”

  “You know what? There’s something I need to do. I’ll catch up with you later.”

  “Shit Parker, I thought we had a no whacking-off policy in our bunk?” He jokes.

  I wave him off as he puts a sock on the outside door handle before joining some more guys in the hall. “Parker needs some private time.” Idiot.

  I sit down at the small desk built for a teenager and begin to write the first of many letters. It’s kind of surreal actually. Love letters are from a bygone era – from desperate men relaying the brutal honesty to anyone that would read it. But I think soldiers actually wrote letters as insurance, documenting their love and life as if it were their last. And there was always a last letter, either upon the safe return of a changed man, or to be packed away in a box of memories.

  Whatever my destiny, Natalie deserves my loves letters. And the last letter better be epic.

  December 25, 2002

  Ma femme,

  My first night on base, I looked to the sky and claimed the brightest star. I made her mine and gave her a name. Natalie winked at me. Natalie laughed with me and Natalie reminded me that stars are always present.

  Sometimes the night is too dark. Other times, the heavens are filled with ominous clouds. The daylight likes to play tricks on a wanderer’s eye – the blinding sun demanding all the attention.

  But stars are relentless. Constant. Endless. Truthful.

  Natalie is my beacon calling me home.

  Do not be sad, ma femme. I will come home to you.

  Love,

  Zacharie

  2002-12-28

  1130 hours

  Label, scan, pack. Label, scan, pack.

  “Yo Parker.” Fisher knocks on the glass window outside my monotonous mountain of never-ending doom. “Hoops! Champ-ions,” he chants.

  “Dude, you have like the easiest schedule on base. I’ll be there in an hour – go practice your sorry ass layup.”

  Fisher spins the basketball on his middle finger until it comes crashing down on all my boxes. “Oh, fuck,” he laughs.

  “Jesus Fisher, you idiot. Get out!” As soon as Fisher leaves, I sneak back to my sanctuary.

  Break time. Closet. Chair. Laptop. Emails.

  To: cooter01@yahoo.com

  From: patricia19@yahoo.com

  Re: Re: Thank you

  Hey Zach! I’m so glad you enjoyed the cookies! I followed one of Claire’s recipes and I hope I didn’t screw it up. Just so you know, the recipe called for two sticks of butter! Only the French.

  The PDR book was a great little find. She highlighted all the douche references – be sure and check that out. Claire was such a character back then! I found a box of her stuff in a downstairs closet and I had a blast looking at all her oddities. There’s a peculiar glass bowl, either a bong or a beaker that you will get a kick out of!

  Stay safe Zach and take lots of pictures! Uncle Bruce and I love you very much and we know it kills you to be away from your mom.

  Love,

  Aunt Patty

  To: cooter01@yahoo.com

  From: chloe7478@aol.com

  Re: I’ve got a secret

  Hi Zach! I’m Chloe, the awesome cousin to the amazing, highly hysterical, Natalie LeGrange! First off, those earrings are the shit. How did you guess Nat would like something so carbon-y? Secondly, I’m single and looking . . . catch my drift?

  Natalie likes you. She really, really likes you. And you make her incredibly giddy and for that, I really, really like you!

  I will try to email you as much as I can. I can talk about almost anything – the more random the better!

  Be safe.

  Love,

  Chloe

  To: cooter01@yahoo.com

  From: natalieL@MMeventsNYC.com

  Re: Dropping the Ball

  Zachy Wacky Poo,

  You know what this country needs, besides a legitimate hockey team? Boxing Day. How is a girl supposed to buy a fabulous spring wardrobe when the only things left on the shelves are gloves and ugly sweaters?

  I had to stop by work today because my clients fired their NYE caterers. Seriously, does it matter what the food tastes like? Just keep the champagne flowing and the slutty girls blowing . . . party success. Speaking of crazy parties, I think I’m going to host one in the apartment for New Year’s. I need to be surrounded by people and mindless distractions.

  If I haven’t told you, I miss you. You should be here kissing me when the ball drops. You should be here cuddling with me on the couch when Season 2 of The Bachelor starts. You should be here with me to build an anatomically correct snowman.

  I understand that you can’t, but it still sucks.

  I love you, Zach Parker.

  Come home to me soon.

  XO

  Natalie

  I quickly check the time stamp on her email and write her back.

  To: natalieL@MMeventsNYC.com

  From: cooter01@yahoo.com

  Re: RE: Dropping the Ball

  Natalie, my sexy, snarky siren,

  I want nothing more than to cuddle with you on the couch and watch the most repulsive show in television history. It’s the thing I dream about most.

  The Rangers are fucking fantastic, do not doubt US hockey.

  Party? Yes, go for it – invite everyone you know. My survival depends on your happiness so plea|

  “Lieutenant Parker? Sir?”

  I hear Michelle’s voice outside the closet so I hastily shut down my computer and pretend to organize boxes. She opens the door and I smile.

  “Hi Michelle, what’s up?” I say as nonchalantly as possible.

  She looks past my shoulder to the chair, so I move from the closet and shut the door.

  “Oh, um, you have a phone call. Captain Thomas is waiting for you in his office,” she says.

  Fuck.

  “Thank you,” I think I say. Everything is a complete blur as I follow Michelle through the medical unit. I see Captain Thomas standing in front of his office and as I approach him, his stern expression changes to compassion. He places a hand on my shoulder and smiles.

  “Lt., I’m very sorry. Please feel free to use my office for privacy.” He ushers me in and then shuts the door behind me. I look around at the sparsely decorated room and pick up the waiting receiver.

  “Lt. Parker,” I say nervously.

  “Zach, she’s gone. Claire is gone,” my father sobs into the phone. I cannot, I will not listen to him cry. Our pain is different.

  “Thank you for letting me know. Goodbye.”

  “Zach! I—” he howls as I place the receiver down on the desk. I walk slowly out of the office and nod at Michelle – she’s the only person on base that knew about Mom. Captain Thomas looks confused as he places a hand on my shoulder.

&n
bsp; “Lieutenant, would you like to see a counselor? Major Jackson of the Army is an expert with grief therapy.”

  “No thank you. May I go to my barracks?” I ask.

  “Yes. And Lt., consider making an appointment with Dr. Jackson,” he says.

  “Okay, thank you. I’ll be in tomorrow to finish up the shipment.” I walk back to my office dazed and bewildered. I knew this moment would come – I’ve actually prepared myself for her death for the past year.

  It’s early morning on the East Coast, so I grab my jacket and laptop and head back to my bunk to start the necessary round of emails.

  To: natalieL@MMeventsNYC.com, mollyM@MMeventsNYC.com, judyndaveLeGrange@aol.com, patricia19@yahoo.com

  From: cooter01@yahoo.com

  Re: Claire Dumas Parker

  Mom found her salvation.

  -Zach

  2003-1-3

  1600 hours

  “Lieutenant Parker, congratulations! You hold the record for the most mail in one day! Is it your birthday or something?”

  “No, it’s nothing like that.” I shake my head and shrug my shoulders, not fully sure of how to react to the questioning. The officer on duty hands me a stack of cards and letters and a single package with Natalie’s handwriting. I smile awkwardly and back out the door.

  Once I’m settled in my favorite spot near the canteen, I gaze up at the dozens of stars flickering in the night’s sky. Stars have always amazed me, not in the physical sense – they simply remind me that there’s always more.

  I open a few condolence cards but they’re all the same, the same underlying message – that I should have been home for her funeral. People don’t get it. They don’t understand that the easiest things are not always the right ones – it’s accepting the difficult tasks that make things right.

  I open Natalie’s letter last. Her letters will always be my last.

  December 30, 2002

  My dearest friend,

  Dr. Claire Dumas Parker died peacefully in her home at the age of sixty-three- years old plus or minus one. She was the epitome of feminine strength and courage and her accomplishments will forever be remembered. She is survived by her tennis-playing husband, Raymond Parker of Greenwich, Connecticut and her handsome, evil-genius son, Zacharie Pascale Dumas Parker of Kabul, Afghanistan. (Obviously, this is my interpretation.)

  Zach, you are so amazing. So selfless, so loving, so . . . bad at lying.

  It took me a few minutes to actually put my finger on it, but when I saw the large photo of you and Claire with identical crooked smiles, it all became very clear.

  From the room full of pink flowers and “Ma Vie en Rose” playing in the background, there was absolutely no way in hell Raymond Parker arranged that funeral service.

  That’s when I decided to ask Jack.

  Your trusted attorney sold you out! Granted, I can be extremely charming, so it was rather easy to get all the details.

  This is what I know:

  Sometime in the month of September – for fun, let’s pretend it was the day we met on the train – Jack paid a visit to your house. During this visit, funeral arrangements were made as well as the inception of the most creative coup in the history of “what the fucks?” Did I mention how brilliant you are?

  So on this day, prior to our fantastical meeting, Claire signed a document giving you 60% ownership of Parker & Parker . . . and then you sold it. You’ll be glad to know that as of 10:00 p.m. last night, Parker & Parker has officially changed to Parker and some drug research company in Jersey City. Raymond is going to be PISSED!

  Representatives from the 9/11 Memorial Fund and the Pediatric Cancer Unit of Mt. Sinai Hospital sent lovely bouquets and representatives to honor their most generous donor, Dr. Claire Parker.

  Well played, my friend, well played.

  After the funeral, Aunt Patty hosted a gathering of close family and friends at your house. Oh shit, some of the stories I heard nearly made me pee my pants. Did you know Claire was a model during med school? Like a nude model? Like she hung out at Studio 54, NUDE? Wow! We spent the night passing around photo albums, drinking wine and sharing charming stories of the great Claire Dumas. And maybe I was plastered, but I just know she was somewhere laughing with us.

  All and all, you would have been very pleased. Never apologize for not being there, Zach Parker – you were everywhere.

  I love you.

  No regrets,

  Nat

  PS- Chloe has this thing with records. And if there is some sort of investigation to its whereabouts, Chloe is the one that shanked it.

  I can’t believe Jack spilled all the info, but Nat is extremely tenacious and almost always gets her way. I take the square package and flip it over in my hands. My finger traces over the return address, thinking about the events of the past few months.

  I rip open the package and pull out the record I know so well. The cover is worn and faded and there is a large rip near the opening – but it tells a story. I find a large Post-it note stuck to the backside with Nat’s horrible handwriting and a pencil drawing of us completely naked.

  From the sardonic wisdom of Edith Piaf:

  “After it’s all over we’ll go out and have a drink together.”

  XO

  Nat

  I look up at the dark sky filled with giant, laughing stars and immediately know what I have to do.

  I flip over the Post-it and scribble down the date, but then I quickly scratch through it. This isn’t a dated love letter, I’ll write that later – this Post-it is my last letter . . . my safety net. I tap my pen against the Edith Piaf record, thinking of how to express future sentiments when my journey comes to an end. Either in the arms of the girl I love, or buried in a box of memories, this note will be the last.

  Ma femme,

  Je ne regrette rien, because I found everything.

  I love you.

  July 4, 1996

  8:58 p.m.

  “Do you even know where you’re going, dipshit?” Tango shouts from the backseat. As if being the designated driver for the night wasn’t enough, I’ve listened to Tango and Jeff fight like twelve-year-old girls over the radio for the past two hours. A normal drive from Buffalo to Toronto can be quick and painless, but these two drunk fuckers have made it unbearable.

  “Yep, ’cause I’ve been to your cousin’s cousin’s friend’s house a dozen times. How about you put away the 40 and give me directions? Jesus, Tango – you’re not fucking Ice Cube,” I taunt.

  Jeff lights a cigarette and switches the radio to a scratchy country station. “Yeah Tango, you piece of shit – tell our driver where to take us. Amarillo by mornin’.” Jeff rolls down the window and tosses his beer can at one of the street signs.

  “What the hell, Jeff? You can’t just litter in another country – we’ll be exported or exploited or whatever,” Tango barks.

  “T, you’re a fucking idiot. Do I turn here – Dwyer Street?” I ask, signaling left before he answers.

  Tango leans forward and perches his head on my seat, quickly changing the radio and slapping the back of Jeff’s head. “Country music is for hicks that litter. Turn left.”

  Back at the lake, it was a pretty normal Fourth of July. We were having a great time barbecuing and enjoying the cool weather. My entire senior class was piled around a bonfire, celebrating our last hoorah together before going our separate ways. The entire day had been spent flirting with girls and drinking beers on the dock – I was content. But then Tango opened his mouth.

  “Let’s go to a house party in Canada,” he said.

  “Canadian chicks are hot,” he said.

  “It’s a rite of passage,” he lied.

  I’ve known Tango since kindergarten and he’s only been right about two things: Mr. Belvedere was better than Benson and girls with tongue rings give amazing head.

  “Listen you asshole, there better be some smokin’ girls at this party or I’m gonna—”

  “What, Jeff? Whatcha goin’ to do, Big
Perm?” Tango asks as he flicks Jeff’s ear. They start a slapping match and I pull over to stop the car.

  “I swear to God, I will physically yank you assholes from my car and leave you in Toronto. I could be nailing Samantha on a paddle boat right now, but instead, I’m in a car with two butt fuckers that need to grow up.”

  “Yeah, Tango – grow up,” Jeff whines.

  I reach across the car and punch Jeff in the shoulder.

  “Man that fool just playin’ man, I ain’t trippin’,” Tango laughs.

  I let out an amused sigh and start the car. “Can we just get to this party?”

  “Hell yeah, motherfuckers! But I’m gonna get you high today,” Tango starts.

  Jeff snorts and we continue in unison. “’Cause it’s Friday; you ain’t got no job . . . and you ain’t got shit to do.”

  “For reals, playas! There it is – that house on the right with all the fly honeys.”

  I park three houses down from the party and shove my beeper into my shorts pocket. The spare key comes in handy for times like this, so I carefully hide my keys under the visor and place my spare in my pocket.

  “Yo, wait up.” Tango puts his arms around me as we walk toward the house. “Don’t go to the bathroom – I mean, don’t go with someone to the bathroom. That’s an invitation to snort coke. Now, let’s get us some Canadian beaver?”

  Outside the suburban house, a group of guys linger by the front door. I slow my gait, taking my time to accurately assess their purpose. The largest of the guys is wearing a polo shirt and khaki shorts. He’s not drinking and judging by his nervous body language – this is his house.

  I pull Jeff and Tango back with me and stop at the curb. “T, do you have a name of anyone here?”

  “My cousin’s name is Margie, she should be here. Oh wait, no, she’s in Florida.”

  “Goddamn it Tango! Okay, let me do the talking.”

  “Of course. Smooth-talking Adam, saves the day,” he quips.

  We walk casually to the door and the guys immediately cross their arms and stare us down. I stare back, evaluating each member of the bouncer committee. They’re just dudes like us, trying to have a good time while keeping things under control. What would I want if three guys I didn’t know came to my house party?