by J. J. Murray
It’s her name, isn’t it?
Jack and Jenny. It has a nice ring to it.
You think too much.
One of us should! Now, was your leaving the phone in a place where she could hear what those church folks said a coincidence or a choice?
I don’t want to think about it.
I think coincidence causes the choices we make. What do you think?
I think…we think too much.
33
Diane
I was stuck at the circulation desk all day, so I didn’t have a chance to look up the accident involving Jack’s wife and son. I know it’s a nosy (and morbid) thing to do, but I can’t just come out and ask a man to relive his pain, can I?
If I get to know him better, though, I will ask.
Once again, I float through my house when I get home, avoiding the cake in the fridge and vowing to make a few New Year’s resolutions. One, I will lose fifteen pounds. If I could pinpoint where I want the weight gone, I would choose my caboose. There has to be something out there to reduce a caboose. I wonder if they sell “caboose reducers.” If they don’t, I’ll invent them. Two, I will read all the books I’m supposed to review all the way through. I won’t be able to review as many, but I’ll feel better about it. Three, I will give Jack Browning a chance with me.
I’m going to give Jack a chance.
I’ll have to tone down my cynicism some and I may even have to compete with his dead wife for a while, but I’m willing if he’s able.
But his wife is what keeps me holding back so much. During that hug, I could have held him tighter, but what if, in his mind, he wasn’t really hugging me? What’s that called, transference? I know the man just wants some human contact, but how can I be 100 percent sure that he’s holding or even kissing just me? I have to know that he’s hugging, holding, kissing, squeezing…
Whoo! There I go again, getting all sweaty in the hands. Should I even care? I got a hug today, and no matter what was going through his mind, I got a nice hug.
The phone rings.
It’s Jack! “Hello, Jack.” I didn’t say, “Hi, Jack,” this time.
“Hello, Diane.”
“I was just thinking about you.” How lame is that? I know that line was in some movie or another.
“I’ve been thinking about you, too.”
Silence.
“Um, I sold the car today.”
“That’s good, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, it is.”
“That wasn’t the car that…”
“No, no. We had a van.”
“Oh.” Shoot. I don’t want to sound nosy.
“And I got another review, this one on-line.”
Oh no! It posted already? That was fast! “Was it, um, was it a good review?”
“It was a fair review, the most accurate so far.”
I’m holding my breath. Maybe it wasn’t mine. “Uh, where can I read it?”
“At Amazon.com. Someone named ‘Nisi.’”
It was mine.
“It’s the only review on there so far, so Wishful Thinking is officially a one-star book. My agent and publisher are trying to have the review removed, but I don’t care.”
I do!
“At least someone actually read it and assessed it properly,” he says.
She didn’t actually read it, and though Jack has complimented Nisi—I mean, me—I don’t want that! I want that review evaporated immediately! “What do you mean by ‘fair’?”
“She basically called it a farce, among other things, and it is.”
Should I tell him now? He doesn’t seem too upset. But if I do, then he might ask, “Why didn’t you tell me this earlier?”
I don’t have an answer for that one.
I have to change the subject. “Um, how’s the new book coming?”
“I haven’t written a thing today. I’ve mainly been cleaning up the house.”
I smile. The man is serious about starting over, and I’ll bet his house is a wreck. “Is that one of your New Year’s resolutions?”
“Not really. The house needs to be cleaned. I haven’t thought about any resolutions. Have you?”
Do I tell him? “Well, you know, the usual. I’d like to lose some weight.”
“From where?”
Excuse me?
“I mean, you look…fine.”
“I have a caboose.”
What in the world am I saying this for? If I read what I just said in a book…Maybe I’ve read so many of those books I’m starting to repeat their stupid lines in my conversation, and Jack’s silence proves I said something stupid.
“Jack?”
“I like your caboose.”
I’m holding my breath. “You…do?” Lord, I’m about to get horny.
“I’ve never said that before. Is that what you call your, um, your—”
“Booty?” Whoa, I’m using all the nasty words tonight.
“Yeah.”
He can’t say it. He’s so shy! “I’ve had this thing following me around since I turned twelve, and no matter how much I walk”—or do other, unladylike things like butt crunches—“it’s still there.”
“But, it makes you…you.”
“Are you saying that my booty defines me, Jack?”
“No, no.” He laughs. “Your beauty defines you.”
Oh my. Breathe, Diane. “I’m not that beautiful.”
“Yes, you are. And to be honest, well, the first time I saw you, I really didn’t see you as beautiful, mainly because I didn’t see all of you.”
I was sitting down. He didn’t see the caboose that first time. A man actually likes my booty? Where has he been all my life?
“I mean, you had a nice smile and bright eyes and soft hands—they were beautiful. But until I saw you walking around in the reference department, I didn’t realize you were beautiful all over.”
I’m going to cry. This is…this is so unbelievable. No one has ever said that to me.
“Diane?”
“I’m here.” I think. “Anyway, I want to lose at least fifteen pounds this coming year.”
“And I’d like to gain at least…forty or so.”
I smile. “I can give you at least forty.”
“No, no!” He laughs. “There wouldn’t be anything of you left to…” He stops.
Don’t stop! “Left to what, Jack?”
A long pause.
“Jack?”
“I was going to say left to love, Diane.”
My turn for a long pause.
“But we’ve only just met, and it’s way too soon for me to say that, so…I’m sorry I said it.”
“Don’t be.” My voice is so tiny.
“I say the wrong thing at the wrong time sometimes. It just…gets in my head and spills out before I can stop it.”
“I’m glad you’re so…honest, Jack.”
“I’ll try to restrain myself from now on.”
No, don’t! It’s refreshing! It’s new! A man who expresses his feelings and says what he’s thinking! “Don’t restrain yourself on my account, Jack. I like hearing these things.”
Silence.
“Jack?”
“Just talking to myself some. I do that a lot. I’ve been holding a conversation with myself since July.”
That’s a bit…odd. Well, I talk back to books, so it’s not that odd. “What do you say to yourself?”
“Do you really want to know?”
Do I want the chance to get a rare glimpse of the inner workings of a man’s mind, especially one I’m starting to care about? “Sure.”
“Okay, um, when we were talking about your caboose, for example.”
“Say ‘booty,’ Jack.”
A pause. “Okay, your…your booty.”
Whoo, and my booty’s warming up.
“Part of me was…fantasizing, and the other part of me was saying, ‘But you’ve only just met her.’”
I catch my breath. “You were fantasizing about my booty?
”
“Yes.”
“Can you tell me your fantasy?”
“I could. Part of me is saying, ‘Tell her now! She wants to know!’ But the other part of me is saying, ‘What will she think of me if I do?’”
I like the first part of him better. “So, you don’t feel comfortable telling me this fantasy?”
“Overall, no.” A pause. “This is a strange conversation, isn’t it?”
The strangest. “A little.” We’re like amoebas sending out little probes or something. “I have a fantasy, too, Jack.”
“You do?”
I don’t, but I want to hear his, so if I tell him mine…“My fantasy involves your…” I wince. What part of him would I fantasize about? I like his eyes and smile, but those aren’t fantasy material.
“My what?”
Pandora’s box is about to be opened. “Your…No, I can’t say it.” Because I don’t know what “it” is!
He sighs. “You have a voice that tells you to hold back, too?”
No, I have a voice that tells me, “Quit making up stuff!” I laugh. “To be honest—and don’t take this the wrong way—but I was only going to make up a fantasy so you’d tell me yours.” And now I’m being honest. Hmm. But was that too brutal? “I mean, I think about you, Jack, but I just don’t think about you that way.” Don’t leave him hanging. “Yet.”
“I like the ‘yet’ part.”
My fingers tingle. They like the “yet” part, too. I can’t believe I’m flirting so much, and over the phone! “We’ll have to see how things develop…tomorrow night, okay?”
“Okay.”
Some nice silence as I do a little chair dance on my bed.
“Will I hear from you tomorrow, Jack?”
“Sure.”
“Let me give you my cell phone number.” I give him the number. “Call me anytime, okay?”
“Okay.”
“I’m looking forward to tomorrow night, Jack.”
“So am I, Diane.”
“Good night, Jack.”
“Good night, Diane.”
He loves my body. I don’t even love my body, but he loves my body.
I don’t think I’m going to need Mr. Tickler tonight.
34
Jack
Two cell phone numbers in one day!
Why do you have to be so loud?
I’m primal, that’s why. I’m supposed to urge you to splurge on your urges.
I wish I could purge you.
What fun would that be?
I actually said the word “booty” to a woman. I’m so embarrassed. I could barely say “butt” to Noël!
Noël had a nice ass.
Shut up! You’re talking about my wife!
It’s late, I’m tired, and though much more needs to be cleaned up—and written—I have to get some sleep. And tonight, I’m going to sleep in Noël’s bed.
And it scares the hell out of me.
I know it shouldn’t. It’s just a bed that squeaked on her side, not mine. We had to “do it” on my side so we wouldn’t wake Stevie. I lay on top of the comforter on my side, a little throw pillow between us, I mean, in the middle of the bed. The little pillow was for her protection, because I have a tendency to “fly” in my dreams.
You thrash.
Shh. I don’t need any company tonight.
Noël liked to spoon without us having sex—
But it often led to a good shellacking.
Cut it out! It wasn’t a…shellacking. We were making love.
Right. You were making love so loudly that half the bed squeaked.
We weren’t that wild…were we?
You had your moments. Remember “morning surprise”?
I liked a little “morning surprise.” Those didn’t happen too often, but when they did…I’d go in to work exhausted—
Happy.
Okay, I went in to work happy. It was so hard, at first, to face those kids knowing that only an hour ago I was—
Giving Noël a good shellacking.
Go to sleep, all right?
I look behind on the headboard and see all the flavors of candles she liked to light, like Very Berry, Vanilla Crème, Lemon Chiffon, and Honeydew. Most have been burned down to the bottom. Sometimes we only used one candle, and other times, we’d light them all. We even played this tape…. I have forgotten about the tape! I had made it for her to play in her car so she could think about me wherever she went. It wasn’t in the…van. I wonder if it’s in the Mustang?
That kind of music clashed with the Mustang. It was too romantic.
She liked it. She even brought it into the house when she was in the mood.
You went out and got it a couple times, too.
Yeah. It might be in the tape player under the bed.
With all the dust bunnies.
Don’t remind me. I’ll be sweeping and dusting all day tomorrow.
Why don’t you see if it’s in the tape player?
I don’t know.
I’ll bet it’s there. Then you can play it.
I won’t be able to sleep, not that I’m having any luck right now. Did we make love the night before she died?
It was that morning.
Yeah. It was a morning surprise.
During Good Morning, America.
I should have listened more closely to the weather report.
Let’s not go over that again.
Right.
I remember that Noël had to take two showers that day, her usual long one, and a quick one after we…after we finished. She said there was something about the way I was sleeping that turned her on.
Your mouth was probably open and searching for flies.
Yeah. I had bed head, bad breath, and no shower at all, yet she loved me that way. She loved me that much.
She was horny, Jack.
Maybe. Maybe she was, you know, working on making a little girl. We had talked about having another child.
A boy for you, and a girl for her. The American Dream.
But it’s the talking afterward that I miss most. We could hear Stevie snoring in his room—
He had your nose.
And we talked about…nothing really: her day, my day, the cost of gas, plans for the weekend, Stevie’s minimile-stones, what Stevie said, my writing. They were tender nothing moments bathed in candlelight, the ceiling fan cooling us down.
I hope you dream of her, Jack.
I hope I do, too.
35
Diane
It’s New Year’s Eve Day (what a mouthful), and I have to work. It’s not so bad. There’s hardly a soul in here. Everyone must be getting ready for tonight.
Tonight. I have a date tonight.
But first, I have to know more about Jack.
I use my morning break to read the Roanoke Times story of Jack’s wife and son’s deaths on a microfilm reader. I had been bracing myself for the horror of it, but the story was straightforward and detached. Jack’s wife had attempted to cross a bridge over a “swollen stream” during a heavy downpour, lost control, and was swept down the creek. Attempts to revive her and her son failed, and they were pronounced dead at the scene. The story ends with a quote from some deputy: “It’s always dangerous to cross through water since you can’t gauge how deep it is.”
The picture beside the story shows the van half out of the water.
What a horrible way to die.
I scan ahead to the next day and the obituary section. Nothing. I scan to the following day and see…
I know her. And I recognize her son.
I mean, I’ve seen them before. She was “Nice Lady,” and he was “Quiet Kid.” I have nicknames for many of the parents and children who arrive Saturday mornings expecting us to entertain them, nicknames like “Snot Nose,” and “Mrs. Whiner” and “Super Brat.” Jack’s wife and son were so…nice. They used to come to nearly every Saturday morning reading, and both sat in the front row together, him leaning back on her legs. He was
quite a giggler, his eyes focused on the book, but I could never get him to answer any of my questions. “Do you know what’s going to happen next?” I would ask, looking mainly at him, and the boy—Stevie—would only shrug and giggle while the other kids shouted out answers.
I focus on her picture, and it had to have been taken at Glamour Shots. She is so pretty, with a slender nose, defined cheekbones, blond hair, and…
She is so much prettier than I’ll ever be.
I knew looking this stuff up would depress me, but this…pretty picture depresses me most. What is Jack doing with me?
So, I get into a funk and watch the clock from the circulation desk in this ghost town of a library, thinking about the ghosts in Jack’s life, which are now in mine. Lord, how You cross people’s paths with each other. I’ll bet You plan the coincidences You throw our way. I’ll bet I checked out those books for Jack’s son, and my fingerprints were on those books in Jack’s home for six months, until he found them and brought them to me when…I touched him. It hurts my head and heart to think about it.
But mostly my heart.
Why me, Lord? Of all the…blond-haired, blue-eyed women in this town, why did Jack choose me? Or, why did You have him choose me?
“You’re deep in thought.”
It’s Francine, who has to be as bored as I am. “Just watching the clock.”
“Do you have plans for this evening?” she asks.
“Yes.”
Francine sits on the counter, something Kim says we should never do. “Are you going out on the town?”
I smile. “Yes.” But that’s all I’m going to tell you, Francine.
“Who’s the lucky guy?”
I see Kim coming down the stairs from the reference section, and so does Francine, but she doesn’t move off the counter. Kim eyeballs Francine, and Francine slides off the counter.
“What’s up?” Kim asks.
“Diane has a date,” Francine says.
“You do?” Kim asks.
I’ve been dying to tell someone about my date, but I don’t want to share my business with the people with whom I work. I don’t want my life to be the subject of gossip.
“Yes,” I say.
“Anyone we know?” Kim asks.
“I doubt it,” I say.
Francine raises her eyebrows. “So, what will you and your mystery man be doing?”