by M. J. Pullen
What Rebecca had told Jake and Marci was technically true: Alex was not returning her calls or texts. What she preferred not to say was that there was a strong possibility she had brought this on herself. The morning she left for Atlanta, and found Alex’s note on her suitcase, she had panicked. Instead of waiting to talk to him, as a normal person might do, she had sent him a hurried text before pulling out of the driveway. “Thank you for last night. You’re an amazing friend.”
Even though she had intended this to be a noncommittal half step forward, the hours that clicked by that Saturday without a response from Alex made her realize her text may have sounded a bit dismissive. When she had not heard from him by midnight, she debated texting again to clarify what she meant. But what had she meant? What did she want from Alex? It seemed like too much to work out at midnight, and too late for a follow-up text.
So she had waited. Sunday morning had turned into Sunday afternoon. As she unpacked, laundered, pressed, and prepped to resume work Monday morning, she checked her phone every ten minutes. She vacillated between being irritated with Alex for not bothering to get back to her and annoyed with herself for being romantically inept. And also, completely terrified. Either Alex would get in touch and they would move forward, or he would not and she might never see him again. Both ideas scared the hell out of her.
35
The week after Suzanne’s wedding, Rebecca sat with Valerie at a Chili’s in the St. Louis airport, pushing a salad around her plate.
“Val, do you know anything about Southern Air?”
“A little. Why?”
“I was just curious if you knew anyone who worked for them.”
“A few. They seem like a good airline, but they don’t do much from Atlanta. Most of their crews are based in Birmingham.”
“I know. I was considering a change of scenery.”
“To Birmingham? Why?”
Rebecca shrugged.
“For that guy? What’s his name? Alan?”
“Alex. And, no. Not for him. At least not entirely. I just feel I need to try something different for a while.”
“He lives in Birmingham?”
“Not exactly. He lives a half hour away.” It was more like forty minutes, she knew, but why quibble?
“Be careful, kid. Give up too much at the front end of a relationship, and a man will walk all over you.”
“I don’t even know if there is still a relationship there to give anything up for,” Rebecca said. “He hasn’t called me in weeks.”
“So you’re thinking of changing jobs and moving cities to get closer to a guy who you’re not even dating? I know I said you needed to make yourself more available, but this is a little extreme, don’t you think?”
Rebecca laughed. “Well, not just that. I think I’ve needed a change for a while. I feel like I need a fresh start.”
Her mentor stared at her. “This doesn’t sound like you, kid.”
“I know. But, maybe that’s a good thing.”
Valerie took a bite of her hamburger and chewed thoughtfully. “Well, what the hell do I know anyway? I’ve been married six times.”
“Six? I thought it was more like four.”
“Well, I guess you weren’t technically wrong. Two were to the same man so that could count as one, and one of them wouldn’t be legally recognized in most countries anyway.”
“You are going to have to tell me that story sometime.”
“Our break is way too short for that, doll. Maybe if we get put on the route to Indonesia we’ll have enough time to kill in the air that I could cover it. Before you move to Birmingham, that is.”
“I didn’t say I was moving there. I said I was thinking about it.”
“Fair enough.”
They finished their meal in silence, and Valerie excused herself to the ladies’ room before preboarding started back to Atlanta in fifteen minutes. Rebecca saw that she had missed a call from her dad earlier in the day and dialed him back.
“Hey, Rebecca,” he said. He sounded tired. She realized he had not called her Rockstar in a while.
“Hi, Daddy. What’s up?”
“I just wanted to let you know that I put a check in the mail for you today.”
“A check?”
“Yeah, I thought about it, and with me and Sonia getting married, we both decided to try to wrap things up financially, you know.…”
She did not know. “Sure?”
“With all the work you did on the house, when your mother and I sold it last month, we decided you should get my half. It’s not much, but I think you should have it. Neither of us needs it, and I would feel better knowing you had some money of your own. You shouldn’t have to rely on anyone.”
“Oh. I don’t know what to say. Thanks, Dad.”
He’s passing on the fatherly stuff he doesn’t want hanging over him, she thought. This is money he never had to spend on a wedding.
“The other thing,” he went on, “I wanted to let you know that Cory’s record will probably be broken next Friday night.”
“What?”
“Yeah, they’ve got this kid, Holden Murray, who’s really good. The coach called to ask if I could be at the game next week, because they’re thinking he’ll break the record then unless he gets injured or something. It’s also homecoming.”
How appropriate, she thought. “You’re going?”
“Yes. They’re going to give Cory some kind of posthumous award. I wondered if you would like to accept it with me?”
“Sure,” she said. “I’ll check the schedule. Do you think any of Cory’s teammates will be there?”
“I’m sure Roger Simon will, and John Boozer is still in town.”
“What about Alex Chen?” She tried to sound casual.
“Not sure. I haven’t talked to him since he moved,” her dad said.
“Moved?”
“Yeah. He finally got a job he’d been waiting on for over a year with the Birmingham PD. It’s better pay, and he’s closer to his daughter in Leeds. I thought you guys had sorta become friends. You haven’t talked to him?”
“Not recently,” she said. Her dad didn’t need to know the details, she decided.
“Well, yeah. He sold the Pickney Place a couple of weeks ago to a big family with a bunch of kids. Let me know if you can be there Friday.”
“Okay, Dad.” She started to hang up, and then thought of something. “Hey, did you call Mom?”
“Yeah, honey. I did. I don’t think she can make it. I’m sorry.”
“No, that’s fine. Probably for the best.”
When they hung up, she went to the terminal by the nearest gate to pull up her flight schedule and verified that she was off the following Friday and Saturday. She glanced at the clock and saw she had just enough time to call her friends before preboarding began.
Late that night, when she finally dragged her wheeled carry-on bag down the hall to her apartment, Rebecca was surprised to find a large package outside her door. She had not ordered anything recently, and her heart jumped as she thought immediately of Alex. Could it be a peace offering in their silent standoff?
It had been nearly five weeks since she left Alabama with a text message. What had begun as uncertainty on her part had now hardened into prideful stubbornness. By the time she’d been able to admit to herself—at least somewhat—that she’d screwed up her goodbye and desperately wanted to talk to Alex, he refused to answer or return her calls. His continued silence intensified her sense that a simple apology and explanation was not going to cut it.
But this could be something, she thought, as she carried the package through her door. This could be the gesture that he intended to end their stalemate. It was about two feet wide and almost as tall, just three inches thick. As she went to the kitchen drawer for scissors, she wondered what he could have sent. She found the edge of a canvas and pulled it out, bringing with it scores of little foam packing peanuts. Rebecca tried hard not to notice the mess they were making o
n her kitchen floor.
It took only a few seconds to realize that the package was not from Alex, but Rebecca’s eyes filled with tears anyway. The painting was on a sixteen-by-twenty-inch canvas, and she recognized the image immediately. She had come across this photograph while cleaning her mother’s house.
Rebecca had been about five years old, she guessed. Her hair was still streaked honey blond, before it had become a true uniform brown a couple of years later. Sunlight glinted off her hair and she was surrounded by the greenery of the backyard.
In the original photograph, which was presumably snapped by her father, you could see that she and Cory had been playing with a garden hose. Cory seemed to be chasing her with the hose; his seven-year-old boy face was beaming with mischief in the nearby background. But Rebecca had run, squealing or laughing or both, into her mother’s arms. The shutter had clicked just as she reached sanctuary, and caught both of them in profile. Rebecca’s face wore the uninhibited joy only a child can experience, and her mother’s expression was a subtler version of the same emotion.
Lorena had painted a masterful close-up of this section only, just their two faces, so that it was hard to tell if the two figures were actually touching in the space beyond the canvas. Rebecca tried to envision the original but could not remember whether their arms were linked, or if they were still reaching for each other. The portrait was unsigned, but on the back frame, her mother had painted a tiny inscription. “You are my sunshine. Always. Love, Mom.”
Even though it was nearly 10 P.M., Rebecca decided the neighbors would forgive her eventually. And if they didn’t, she was never here anyway. She left her suitcase in the middle of the floor and went to find her hammer and level to hang the first piece of custom artwork she had ever owned.
36
It happened within the first two minutes of the game. Holden Murray caught the snap, took a few unobstructed steps backward, and threw a pass forty-seven yards downfield to break Cory Williamson’s record by thirteen yards. Jake squeezed Rebecca’s hand on one side, and Suzanne—fresh from her honeymoon and disgustingly tan—on the other. Marci sat on the other side of Jake and covered her eyes when he threw the pass, as though it were a scene in a horror movie she could not bear to watch.
When the pass was caught, the crowd went wild, filling the stadium with a cacophony of sound for several minutes before the officials on the field could restore order. Holden Murray accepted high fives and chest bumps from his teammates, but otherwise seemed more interested in huddling for the next play than basking in his achievement. Without ever having met him, Rebecca liked him for this.
At halftime, there was a short ceremony on the field commemorating Cory Williamson as the holder of the record for nineteen years. Rebecca and her father stood on the field to accept a plaque from the principal and the athletic director, the latter of whom was also the head football coach. Behind them gathered about ten members from the 1996–97 varsity football team, most of whom were now showing signs of expansion around the middle. But they could still get into their old jerseys, and they stood at attention behind the folding chairs that had been brought to the field for Rebecca and Richard. They included Roger Simon, John Boozer, Will Caterman, and, she noticed at a glance, Alex Chen.
The principal made a short speech about Cory, with information apparently gathered from news clippings and old yearbooks. The athletic director unveiled a shadow box with one of Cory’s jerseys framed within, officially retiring number 22. He shook their hands quickly and thanked them for being there, and then hurried off the field to rejoin his team in the locker room.
A smattering of applause followed the presentation, but most of the crowd seemed distracted by the imminent appearance of the homecoming court, who were waiting for their entrance in shiny convertibles at the other end of the field. Rebecca turned to say hello to Alex, but found him engrossed in conversation with Will Caterman and John Boozer about some amazing play that had occurred two decades before. Roger noticed her, however, and gave her a perfunctory hug and invited her to join “the whole gang” at Dickie’s after the game. Then they were politely ushered to the sidelines and back into the bleachers.
There was no one Rebecca recognized among the faculty and staff present, except the band director Mr. Wallace, who had been at the beginning of his career when she played oboe as a freshman. For the most part, these people did not know her and did not remember Cory. Her dad waved stoically and shook hands with one or two friends who greeted him; a few older people wiped away tears or squeezed Rebecca’s arm as they made their way back to their seats.
She tried to catch Alex’s eye before he disappeared into the crowd, but he was gone too quickly. And whether intentionally or not, he never seemed to put himself where she might be in his line of sight.
When she regained her seat, Suzanne said, “That was just lovely, honey.”
“Suze is just excited because those girls over there asked for her autograph,” Marci said.
“You’re kidding.”
“Nope,” Suzanne said, barely holding back her delighted grin. “They recognized me from the wedding pictures in Country Today.”
“Good thing they didn’t recognize you from the incident at the museum,” Jake said. “I guess those pictures may not have made it out here.”
Suzanne glared at him. “Don’t hate me because I’m married to a handsome, famous superstar.”
All three of them groaned and Marci threw popcorn at Suzanne. It caught in her platinum hair and stuck to her sweater. It was beginning to get chilly now that the sun had set, Rebecca noticed.
“Are you guys ready to go?”
“Back to your dad and Sonia’s?” Jake asked.
“Well, yes, or there’s one other place we could go. Anybody want Buffalo wings?”
* * *
Dickie’s was more crowded than Rebecca had ever seen it. On top of it being Friday night in a small town, it seemed that more than just the class of 1997 had gotten the memo about the after-game party. Since Oreville High was running away with the game and it was getting cooler out, large numbers had already defected from the stadium to seek warmth and beer.
The four of them got settled at the only remaining booth, and sat enjoying the ambience while they waited for Kevin to appear. When he did, he called Rebecca by name, earning her an impressed eyebrow-raise from Jake. They ordered a large platter of wings, a pitcher of beer, and a Sprite with lime for Marci, who had agreed to be the designated driver with the caveat that she would be the final judge of when it was time to go home.
She saw Alex right after their food was delivered to the table. He was standing near the bar with the other guys in green jerseys, and they were lifting a round of some kind of purple shot in a noisy toast. His skin looked ruddy from the wind, his eyes shining. Rebecca’s heart surged, feeling as though she was seeing him clearly for the first time.
“Would you guys excuse me for a moment?” she asked, but did not wait for an answer before sliding out of her seat to approach him.
“Is that him?” she heard Marci ask Jake as she walked away.
For a few minutes, she had trouble reaching him in the crowd; once she did, she had to tap his shoulder a couple of times before he turned.
“Hi, Alex.”
“Hello.” The coldness in his voice should not have been surprising, but it stung nonetheless.
“I’m so glad to see you.”
“Yeah?”
“I’m here with friends from home,” she said, gesturing at the table. “You remember Jake, probably.”
Marci and Suzanne waved fervently, grinning ridiculously, while Jake gave a more sedate nod. Alex lifted his beer toward them in a perfunctory salute, neither friendly nor hostile.
She searched for what to say next. “I heard you got a job in Birmingham. Congratulations.”
“Thanks.”
“Alex.” She touched his arm and felt the muscles tense, and then pull away. “I am so sorry. Your note—I misunder
stood. Or maybe I didn’t, I don’t know. But I was scared, and I left, and I knew you were mad, and then by the time I found the courage to call, it seemed too late, and you didn’t call back. I didn’t think I had anything to offer, and—”
“You know what?” he said. “I’m just going to save us both some time here. You were right. It just wasn’t meant to be. I don’t know why I was fighting so hard to make something from nothing.” His neck was flushed and splotchy with anger.
“It wasn’t nothing. You were right.”
He ignored her. “And just because I’m taking some engineering classes now doesn’t change who I am. I want to be with someone who loves me for me: cop, lawyer, engineer, trash man.”
“I know, and I would. I mean, I … I do.”
Alex stopped short. He gave her an appraising look and swallowed hard. In a voice so low it was almost menacing, he said, “Today was nice, for Cory, and your family. It was good for the community. Let’s not tarnish the day by saying things we’ll regret. You wanted me to leave you alone and I have. Take care of yourself, Rebecca.”
With that, he turned and rejoined the conversation with the team. Feeling foolish facing the back of Alex’s jersey, Rebecca turned and made her way back to the booth with all the dignity she could muster. Her friends were kind enough to continue an ongoing conversation about football and the South, and to behave as though they had not seen the interaction. When she ordered tequila shots a moment later, they were kind enough to pretend that was normal, too.
When she looked up a few minutes later, the football group had dispersed somewhat. There were green jerseys in different parts of the room now, and some new people had joined the group at the bar. A petite woman with a bright-red manicure now stood next to Alex, and he had his arm slung around her shoulders. Her hair was no longer streaked with blond, but when she turned to laugh at something he’d said, Rebecca recognized Tanya Boozer.