I'm Your Girl

by J. J. Murray

“It’s fine.” And it is. Kind of off to the side, not much traffic, nobody’s back inches from mine, a white candle in a red glass holder on the table.

  “Good. Enjoy your meal.”

  Jack leans forward after Mr. Bandini leaves. “It’s almost as if I did make a reservation.”

  “Good timing.”

  “Yeah.”

  We make eye contact, and Lord help me, I’m blushing. I never blush. I may feel embarrassed, but I never feel this heat in my face when I’m embarrassed. All I said was “Good timing,” and all he said was “Yeah.”

  “Do you want to share our meal like last time?” he asks.

  “Sure.”

  While we eat four kinds of pasta, I see, of all things, Lady and the Tramp running through my head. We don’t share a string of spaghetti, but we do share a bottle of wonderful red wine. Jack only sips his, which is good because he’s driving, but I have three glasses.

  “I’ll try to get reservations at Stephen’s for our next date,” Jack says, swirling his wine in his glass. “Maybe when I’m a famous novelist, I’ll be able to get a table anywhere.” He laughs. “I’ll never be famous, not even here in Roanoke.”

  “Oh, you never know.”

  He sits up straight so fast I think he’s having a heart attack! “I completely forgot to tell you something.”

  I hope he doesn’t forget much! That scared me.

  “It slipped my mind,” he says. “I guess I’m trying to block it out. The publisher wants to put my picture on the cover and send me on a weeklong tour, mainly of the East Coast.”

  I stifle my real reaction—“Are they crazy?”—and only say, “Really?”

  “It’s crazy.”

  My thoughts exactly. “Did they tell you why?”

  “They say I’m a novelty. A rarity.”

  Jack is going to take some abuse.

  “So, I have to get my picture taken soon.”

  I push both plates of pasta to him. “You’ll need to gain some weight first, so eat up.”

  “Thanks.”

  I look at his hair just…sitting there. “How long have you had that part in your hair, Jack?”

  He squints. “For…as long as I can remember. Why?”

  I could be delicate, but I can’t. The wine won’t let me. “Why don’t you change your hairstyle?”

  “To what?”

  I look at all that fine, blond hair. “Can I be blunt?”

  He smiles. “Sure.”

  “You’re a twenty-first-century author with an early twentieth-century hairstyle. You look like old pictures I’ve seen of F. Scott Fitzgerald.”

  He wipes his lips with a napkin. “At least I’m in good company.”

  “You’d look better if you, I don’t know, spike it up, make that part disappear, cut it even shorter. Something.” I lean forward. “I like a man with short hair. We could get you some gel.”

  He nods. “I’ll…get some gel.” He looks into my eyes. He’s always doing that, and while at first it made me paranoid, now it makes me feel…

  Nervous. It makes me feel nervous when a man looks into my eyes. What’s he trying to see in them? And why don’t I see anything in them when I’m applying some eyeliner?

  “Maybe you should go with me when I go to the photographer.”

  I look away. “Oh, I don’t know about that.”

  “You have nice eyes, Diane, and I’m sure they see things I can’t see.”

  I look back at him.

  “I mean, I’m sure you can make me look better for this picture.”

  “I can try.”

  He looks down at his plate. “Good.” He leans back in his chair. “I can’t eat another bite.”

  I look at a clock over the bar. It’s a little after eleven. “What’s next?”

  38

  Jack

  Yes, Jack, what’s next?

  Shh. I’m still thinking about what she said about my hair.

  Don’t give it another thought. She was only making a suggestion.

  Noël liked my hair.

  So does Diane!

  But…putting gel in my hair?

  Dan would do it.

  Dan would do anything to get into a woman’s drawers.

  It’s “draws,” Jack.

  Whatever.

  “Jack?”

  I look up at Diane. “Just thinking.”

  “So, where are we going?”

  I toss my napkin on the table. “We are going for a little ride.”

  She hates the truck, remember?

  “Just a short ride, I promise, and I’ll try not to hit any potholes.”

  She smiles. “Good luck in this town.”

  I pay for the check, help Diane with her wrap, take her hand, and we leave Bandini’s, weaving around an even bigger crowd than before. The air is cold and crisp, but I guess these folks don’t feel a thing, champagne bottles in abundance, several corks popping as we move by and cross the street to the parking garage.

  Where are we going, Jack?

  I don’t know.

  Diane’s eyes are sparkling, Jack. She must not be a drinking woman. You know what that means….

  It means that I will take care of her.

  We squeeze into an elevator filled with rowdy people, many openly drinking from wine and champagne bottles. I pin myself to a side and pull Diane close to me, her…caboose pressed hard against me.

  We like this.

  Yes, we do.

  You have your hands around her stomach.

  So soft!

  She’s backing into you, Jack. There’s room in front of her, and she’s—

  “Are you okay?” I whisper in Diane’s ear.

  “Yes,” she says, and she pulls my arms around her more tightly.

  She likes this, too.

  It appears that she does.

  We get out with several other couples on the top floor, and before I realize it, my hand is pressing on the beginnings of her caboose! I draw it back quickly, hoping she didn’t notice.

  She noticed.

  I was aiming for the small of her back!

  Right.

  I open her door. “Um, sorry about that, I was just—”

  She puts a finger to my lips. “You don’t have to explain.” She gets in.

  “No, really, Diane, I was just trying, I was aiming for your back.”

  She bites her lip in the sexiest way. “Your hand went where it wanted to go, Jack. And anyway, how do you know that my booty didn’t reach up and grab your hand?”

  Can she do that?

  Maybe she can!

  I take several cold, deep breaths before getting in the truck, and when I do get in, I’m almost hyperventilating.

  “Are you all right, Jack?” Diane asks.

  “Yes.”

  “What are you thinking?”

  I start the truck. “You don’t want to know.”

  She keeps me from shifting into reverse. “Yes, I do.”

  I rev the engine a couple times and turn the heater on low. “Okay, here goes. I like the feel of your booty.” Her hand drops from the stick shift. “You wanted to know.”

  She settles into her seat and puts on her seat belt. “Well,” she says, “I like the way your hand felt on my booty.”

  I rev the engine again. “It was an accident, I swear!”

  “Accidents happen.”

  I let the truck idle, and though I try not to let it show—

  It’s showing, Jack. She’s noticing.

  You heard what she said.

  She was talking about your hand accidentally touching her booty, that’s all. Don’t go overboard on this one, Jack. You’re having a good time.

  “I’m sorry, Jack,” Diane says.

  “It’s all right,” I say. “I have to be less sensitive.”

  “No, I shouldn’t have said that.”

  I sigh. “It’s okay, Diane. Really.”

  Shit. I really know how to ruin a mood.

  Shit happens. Relax. Go for
a drive.

  We leave the parking garage and join a light flow of traffic going from Campbell Avenue to Williamson Road to Franklin Road. Without thinking, I turn on Third Street, passing First Baptist, a sign announcing: “New Year’s Eve Service 11 P.M.”

  “It’s been so long since I’ve been to one of those,” Diane says. “I used to go every year when I was a kid.”

  We stop at the stoplight on Luck Avenue. “I haven’t been to church since the accident.”

  You said that word this time.

  And maybe if I say it enough, it won’t bother me anymore.

  “You should go,” Diane says.

  The light changes, but I don’t move. “Can I go now?” I point back at First Baptist. “I’m a member there.”

  Diane sits up straighter. “If that’s what you want to do.”

  A horn sounds behind me, and I turn left on Luck, drifting to the curb to let the car pass. “I don’t want to, but I know I should. But, we’re on a date, and we should be going somewhere to celebrate or dance or do whatever it is people do on New Year’s Eve.”

  She touches my hand. “You drove this way for a reason, Jack.” She looks out her window. “And it seems as if we’ve found a parking space. You also promised to take me for a walk.”

  She has a good memory.

  Yeah.

  I turn off the truck. “We don’t have to go in. We’ll just…walk over there.”

  “Okay.”

  I get out of the truck, open her door, take her hand—

  Kiss her!

  What?

  Kiss her, Jack!

  Why?

  For being so understanding! For looking so nice! For feeling comfortable enough to tell you that your hairstyle sucks!

  I look into her eyes. “Diane, I…Thank you.”

  She steps closer. “For what?”

  She’s waiting, Jack.

  “For understanding, and for—”

  Diane kisses my cheek. “Let’s go for a walk, Jack.”

  She kissed you! She kissed you because you can’t get your shit together!

  I take Diane’s face in my hands and kiss her firmly on the lips.

  Tongue! Use the tongue!

  No.

  I pull back, her warm face still in my hands. “Let’s go for that walk.”

  We walk hand in hand across Luck and up Third Street, weaving around a telephone pole, smiling, listening to honking horns colliding with the strains of the organ music inside. We stop at the bottom of the steps to the main sanctuary, and I slip my arm around her shoulders.

  “Are you cold?” I ask.

  “A little.”

  Get her out of the cold, Jack. Take her home.

  “We could just…sit in the back for a while.”

  She nods. “I’d like that.”

  We start up the stairs.

  You’re taking her to church? On a date? On New Year’s? Are you out of your mind? What if Noël’s parents are here? They’re members here, too!

  I open the door and see…candles everywhere, at the base of every window, and in the hands of nearly everyone inside.

  “It’s beautiful,” Diane whispers.

  Think of all the candles you can be lighting back at her place, Jack! Don’t go in!

  We step into the foyer, the door shutting behind us, and Mr. Highsmith, one of the regular greeters, hands each of us a small candle. A children’s choir is singing “Silent Night.” Stevie used to sing in that choir. I feel a tug on my hand.

  “Let’s go in, Jack,” Diane says.

  You don’t want to go in there, Jack. The last time you were here, there was a funeral with two caskets. One big, and one small. Don’t you remember?

  Wait for us outside. We won’t be long.

  39

  Diane

  Jack’s taking lots of big steps tonight.

  Okay, we both are. I kissed him first. Yes, I took the initiative. But his kiss back to me…my lips are still buzzing. We were in liplock and in eyelock, and if he kisses me every time like that—I intend to get many more later—I won’t be able to talk to anyone without adding the letter Z to every word.

  We light our candles using a huge candle sitting in the first window, and now we’re in the back row of the church holding hands and listening to the singing of several choirs. I try not to look at Jack’s tears, focusing instead on my candle, the music, our hands laced together, the kiss, and the fact that there are a few black folks in this church. I wish I could help Jack more, but this is something he has to do on his own. I was raised to believe that when you go through any tragedy, no matter who is there to help, you go through that tragedy alone, and only you can work it all out. Jack’s working it out, and though this isn’t what I expected would happen tonight, I’m glad I’m here.

  Lord, he loved his family, I pray. Please let him have some love left over for me. Amen.

  At midnight, in addition to car horns honking outside, we hear all the choirs singing “Joyful, Joyful We Adore Thee,” and I get severe goose bumps, especially when they cut out the piano and organ and sing it a cappella. We’re not kissing at midnight, a tradition I’ve never had happen to me, but our hands are kissing. In fact, they’re getting downright nasty with each other. As soon as the song ends, we hear the benediction, blow out our candles, and leave the pew. We don’t speak to anyone on our way out, but Jack smiles and nods to several people, and the whole time he has his hand in the small of my back.

  I can get used to this attention, oh yes I can!

  And when we get inside the truck, I kiss him, holding his face in my hands. “Thank you, Jack.”

  He turns and starts the truck. “For crying during church?”

  “No. For loving your family.”

  More tears form, but he blinks them away. “Yeah.” He turns on the heater and revs the engine. “Where to?”

  “Wherever you want to go, Jack,” I say.

  He nods. “We’ll go to my house, then, so I can make you a disk.”

  “Okay.”

  Though it’s dark when we get to Jack’s split-level house, I can tell his house had lots of love in it. There are four huge flower beds hugging the house, the dirt dark and the flowers gone now, but flower beds have always been signs of love to me. Anyone who can tend the earth and cultivate color has to have love for other people, which is why I know my daddy loves me. And if she died in July—and I’m sure those beds were bursting with color then—Jack had to have tended them, even cutting them down in the fall during his most acute grief.

  Jack parks in front of the house, because the Mustang is still in the driveway, and we walk past a square flower bed in the middle of the yard. He said he sold that car, but that car is still here. I don’t bother him about it. “What grows here?” I ask.

  “Tulips in the spring,” he says, “and whatever we could find cheap at Home Depot after that. Sometimes pansies, sometimes whatever was most colorful.”

  He leads me to a small concrete porch covered with brown carpeting. Everything about this house is brown, from the dark brown shutters to the light brown siding. “What about these beds along the house?”

  “Daylilies, hostas, roses, mums—you name it, it will come up.”

  He opens the door, and we go in and stand on the landing, lit up by a beautiful glass lamp hanging from the ceiling.

  And it dawns on me that I am in a dead woman’s house.

  This is her house.

  Oh, I know it’s Jack’s house, too, but from the second I see neutral white carpeting on the stairs, white walls, and modern, overstuffed furniture in a room downstairs, I know I’m in her house.

  “Pardon the mess,” Jack says, turning on a light and leading me downstairs.

  But I don’t see a mess! It’s like a museum. A cream L-shaped sectional sofa hugs the far walls, two large framed pictures of flowers centered over each section. The sofa faces a widescreen TV, a stereo system, and a bookcase holding…kid’s videos and DVDs.

  Ouch.
/>
  “Um, sit anywhere you like,” Jack says, going to a white computer workstation under a long window. “This will only take a minute.”

  “Is that where you write your books?” I ask. I’ll bet the sun shines in here all day.

  “No,” Jack says. “This is Noël’s computer. My, um, office is down the hall.”

  Noël’s computer. I want to tell him that it’s his computer now, but I don’t.

  I sit in a rocking recliner, drinking it all in. This room is huge. I’ll bet his son was tearing it up down here. I see a few tiny white Legos here and there, and it makes me sad. I don’t know what I’m supposed to feel, but it’s kind of scary.

  And my bladder is feeling full.

  “Um, Jack, may I use your bathroom?”

  He turns to me. “Um, the upstairs bathroom is the cleanest. Just go up the stairs, turn left, second door on the left.”

  I go upstairs, turning on a hall light and seeing…pictures, a whole wall of them dedicated to Noël and Stevie. There’s only one family portrait, with Jack standing behind Noël, who is holding Stevie as a baby…and that’s the only one of Jack. He was so much more handsome then! I mean, he had a full face, a tan, and some substantial arms and chest. Lord, why does death suck so much life out of the living? Jack must have taken most of these pictures. Noël and Stevie at the beach. Noël and Stevie at the zoo. Stevie alone on a swing. Noël in her garden. I try for the life of me to, you know, superimpose myself into these pictures, but I can’t.

  I glance into a living room where an overly decorated Christmas tree stands in front of a bay window. There isn’t room for even another strand of tinsel, but it’s beautiful and beats my Charlie Brown tree to death. Jack still put up a tree, after all that has happened to him, yet…there aren’t any presents under it. Oh, I’m sure he got some. He just put them away.

  I count two doors down and enter a bathroom that definitely says “female.” Fluffy rugs in sky blue and orange pastels, matching toilet lid cover, seashells on the wallpaper, fish swimming across the shower curtain and matching window curtain, and blue and orange towels of every shape and size hanging off hooks and bars. The off-white marble sink is spotless, a huge orange candle in the corner, an orange soap dish holding an unused bar of Dove, a sky blue toothbrush holder—

  Two toothbrushes, one long, one kid sized. Two tubes of toothpaste, one Crest Dual Action Whitening, the other Crest Sesame Street. This is their bathroom, and Jack hasn’t changed a thing or done a thing in here. No dust on the sink base, though. He cleans up in here but leaves their toothbrushes and toothpaste?