Gerry stood on the asphalt driveway, his mouth agape, throat dry, trying to fathom what just happened. Her touch lingered with a certain warmth as he slowly made his way inside. He slumped onto a kitchen chair near the fridge and stared idly at it as if entranced by its humming.
Karen. Wow. An incredible connection or chemistry; all that and more. Its power must have affected her, too. He tried to recall if they’d ever professed their love for one another. It occurred to him their relationship might have been unbalanced; maybe he’d meant far more to her than her to him.
And there was Nick. Gerry’s anger rose thinking about Nick gawking at them as he drove past. That wouldn’t just disappear. What did that look like from his point of view? Small town; small minds. What the hell was Nick doing here, anyhow?
Arthur wheeled into the room grasping a paperback in his strong hand. He waved it directly in front of Gerry to get his attention.
“Be a genaman. Caw Linna,” said Arthur.
He took a long look at his father, deciding it was certainly going to take some time to understand the man’s slurring diction. Gerry eyed the man’s rough gray whiskers, noting the more prominent red and blue veins in his face, likening them to insane roads on a map.
“Gentleman? I haven’t heard that term in years. I’ll have you know this gentleman’s desk was splattered by a cake she purposely smushed.” Gerry sighed and stood. “Maybe I’ll call her later, but first things first, I got to shave you. You look like a damn goat.”
Arthur gave him a poor imitation of a goat’s bleat, and they went into the bathroom where Gerry prepared him. The old man’s whiskers were as stiff as prairie stubble, requiring two frothy applications of shaving soap. The two were content to look occasionally into each other’s eyes until Arthur gripped Gerry’s forearm.
“You good stong mam,” said Arthur. “Yike I was.”
With Arthur’s slurring of words, Gerry found deciphering them made for a slower, if not more thoughtful, conservation. “No. Not like you, Dad. Everyone knew you. You were the man around here, a giant. Neighbors either loved you or hated you. You would have made a great judge.”
“Buh no hero wike you.” Arthur’s eyes shone proudly.
“Just doing my job. Like you did for thirty-five years at that mill in this crippled town.”
Arthur pulled away from the safety razor, his skin flushing red. “You be powd who you are, an where you f-f-fom!” He slammed his good hand down on the armrest. “Pemmy’a people wok hawed in this town.”
The reaction took Gerry aback. Foam dropped from the razor in a fat gob to the floor.
“I know they worked hard. Sorry, Dad, but I’m not particularly proud of where I’m from. Fernly is circling the drain. The education system barely gave respect to the heavy industries that used to be here, or to the boys who they knew would eventually work in them. Rising above it was challenging.”
Arthur shook his head a few times. Gerry finished the job, avoiding his father’s penetrating gaze and turned to the sink to rinse off the razor.
“I haff caws. On phone maseen. For you.”
“Huh?” Gerry took a moment to put the words together. “Yeah, Irene was saying. Must be old friends trying to get in touch.”
Arthur shook his head gravely. “No, no frens.” He grasped a face towel and clumsily cleaned up around his ears before wheeling away.
Gerry rinsed out the sink, his mind on whom might be trying to call him. He poured another coffee and went over to the front room window looking out at the lime green Plymouth Duster parked curbside.
Right behind Nick Modano’s red Mustang.
Both vehicles shone like hard candy in the sun.
The little blue Ford Escort in the driveway must be hers. The house, a white vinyl-sided bungalow, appeared to be in reasonable shape. Flowers overflowed window boxes.
A large man leaned against the Duster, his butt on the fender. Yeah, the memory coming in sharper; Branko Chelnick a.k.a. the Bronk, Bonk, Bronco, or the Mad Russian. The West Gate Eagles football team. Branko’s nose was large enough to be classed a wind splitter, his brown hair tied back in a short ponytail like Nick’s, de rigueur in the KKK. A gray streak, prominent enough to be seen even from five doors down, ran back along the left side.
Like Nick, Branko didn’t appear to have taken good care of himself either. A mid-section that once sporting rippled abs, ballooned into a rather large beer gut, giving him the facade of a much bigger man.
The roguish look, once attracting women years ago had taken on weight, sagging the cheeks, leaving him with a bitter, sour expression. Repugnant. The whole package was wrapped in a faded pair of blue sweats and a dingy yellow t-shirt proving he’d thrown in the towel surrendering to neo-couch potato.
Gerry shook his head thinking this was the man Karen threw her affections on for over twenty years. Opposites attract, and for sure, Branko and Karen were definitely that. Gerry felt an odd twinge of jealousy. He recalled Branko’s braying laugh carrying down the corridors of West Gate High, at award ceremonies and pep rallies. The Bronc. Cock-of-the-Walk. Strutting with the other frat guys sporting their colors like a school of red and white fish. Would Branko remember him? Doubtful. No reason to.
Gerry idly wiped dust from the windowsill as his mind wandered through a dusty doorway. One day he’d worn his purple AXE jacket to school and suffered the cutting looks Branko flashed him, almost as if the big man was stalking him. Gerry let out a puff of air thinking about it, at his own boldness and stupidity. Even Brian Tremblay, a fairly tough guy at West Gate, Nick Modano’s right hand man, had never worn it to school as far as he knew.
Actually, everyone at school gave Gerry funny looks that day. His classmates barely spoke to him as if he’d exuded some kind of stink. The looks he got from the red and white frat guys were of strained breaths through gritted teeth, vibes so tangible Gerry never wore it to school again, Nick or no Nick.
Gerry found out soon enough the red and white guys hated the AXE frat on sight. Wearing the jacket was akin to chumming the water for shark. They barely tolerated Brian Tremblay at school as it was, only because he stood near the top of the food chain and no one would try to take a piece of him because they knew Nick would be on them. With Gerry wearing purple, it doubled the presence. Matter of fact, the purple pissed off all the fraternities in Fernly.
Apparently, to start a frat one was supposed to go through some sort of official process; hold formal meetings, follow certain rules and protocols. Nick didn’t have the Frats-For-Dummies book, instead merely dispensed with the bullshit protocols and just gave out jackets, weed, and beer to his underlings or accomplices; fringe benefits with the emphasis on fringe.
Gerry watched Nick come out of the house, grinning, holding out a beer can for his buddy. How’d you like your breakfast—in a can or bottle? thought Gerry.
Nick Modano nodded a few times to Branko. Mr. Alpha Chi Epsilon president himself, buddy-buddy with Branko, another ex-president. Now, the KKK car club boys. The Dynamic Duo. Nick wore blue jeans and a gray golf shirt and finished off his beer with a long guzzle and can-crush. Gerry wondered, not if, but how well, Nick was manipulating the car club members. Both had their days in the sun; burning brightly in their teen years, their popularity and presence a short fuse long snuffed out. Glory days, man. Legends in their own minds.
Karen’s presence stayed with him like a ghost in the room, causing him to question what should and shouldn’t be happening in such a short time. The hug she initiated held not just a comfort, but a thrilling sexual buzz. He ached for a do-over. The lingering scent of her massage lotion was distracting and made him want to stay in the room. The unmistaken vibe he got when she spoke of her past, and of her husband, led him to believe something simmered just under the surface. Or was he misreading her? Could she be unhappy? An obsession sunk in its claws and he vowed to get a handle on it. Obsessions were bad enough, but on married women they were an entirely different animal.
In the bad old days, before he married Helen, he had a reputation as a drinker and carouser, bedding lonely women. It proved to be foolish. They quickly became too demanding, and one even stalked him. Getting married was a relief.
He straightened when he saw Karen come into the front yard, dragging a hose. She began to water flowers in the window boxes until Branko began yipping at her. She turned to him and he pointed across the street—right at the window where Gerry stood.
Gerry moved a half step to the side, out of sight, instantly wondering why he did it. An argument ensued between the two, ending when Karen dropped the hose and retreated up the driveway.
After twenty years of marriage, some dissatisfaction was bound to set in; impossible to stay like new lovers for that long. The empty nest syndrome? Her kids were of age, beginning their own lives, and she found herself at a new stage of married life, a crossroads.
Then again, Branko hanging out with Nick and barking at you with his booming voice for over twenty years—seven thousand days—would take its toll. Yeah, at the very least, she’d definitely hitched her wagon to a slob with a flashy car.
A voice carried across the living room pulling his attention from the window. He turned to see his father at the phone clumsily working the playback on the answering machine.
“Gerry, Gerry, you’re contrary. Put the old man in a cemetery.”
The scratchy voice sounded as if the person spoke through cellophane. The words hung in the room.
The words were like a punch to Gerry’s midsection.
He tried to hide his initial shock by cocking his head and narrowing his gaze at the machine as if trying to ID the caller, although he knew he didn’t have a hope in hell.
Arthur’s finger rested on the button as he measured his son’s reaction, his head at an exaggerated slant. His gaze demanded a response.
“It’s nothing, Dad. Just some pranksters.” Beads of sweat formed on Gerry’s temples. He pushed a finger heavily across his scar, wondering who could be messing with his father’s head or his own.
Arthur shook his head. “They now you ome.”
“Everyone does!” Gerry threw up his hands, thinking of his picture gracing the Fernly Post, all the readers trying to place him, their minds reaching back. Who wants a piece of the hero?
The phone rang, making him jump. He glanced at Arthur hoping he hadn’t noticed—he had.
It rang four times before Gerry answered it. “Yes?”
“Hi, Gerry. It’s me, Linda.”
A brief relief. Talk about spinning in circles. He was glad for the distraction, not having to deal with his father just then. “I’m sorry for not calling you, but I’ve been really busy here.”
“You sound flustered. You okay?”
“Yeah. It’s just some of this hometown shit gets to me. It reinforces why I left the place.”
“Who was that woman who answered the phone before?” A note of suspicion was evident in her tone.
“She works at a bakery and she’s real mad at you,” he said, in a snide tone.
She paused. “I’m sorry about the cake, Gerry. I thought you’d be over it by now.”
The echoes of his men laughing rang in his head. “I’m not sure…it’s not just the cake.”
“Then what is it?”
He drew in a deep breath. “Us. The engagement talk. Everything.”
Gerry could hear her breathing.
“I only mentioned that because I believe we should move forward,” she added.
That was it exactly, but her move forward would grind to a halt in little time. Gerry stared at the floor. He wasn’t sure his heart could beat for her the way it maybe should, the way she wanted it to.
“Gerry?”
“I don’t really want to move forward, or anywhere else, right now, Linda. I’m not ready yet to make us what you want us to be. Dating is just fine for now.”
She ended the call abruptly. He wondered if she’d be calling again after that. One thing about Linda, she always knew when he was out of sorts, like a sixth sense—her strength. At times, she could lay the compassion on too thick. Lately, when the blues rolled in, just being alone or with his daughter was enough to vanquish them. His dependence on Linda was waning.
He hadn’t noticed his father leave the room. Arthur had wheeled to the kitchen and fallen asleep in his chair. Gerry shook off the phone call and took the opportunity to duck into his dad’s bedroom and rummage through the drawers, checking his clothes, making a note to drop the size a few notches to make up for the weight loss. He checked out the fridge, cleaning it out, making a mental list of groceries, figuring on a few stir-fry meals, maybe some chops or chicken on the barbecue.
He threw together some soup and sandwiches for his dad’s lunch and cancelled the Meals-On-Wheels delivery for the week. He drove to the Northgate Mall where more than a few people gave him looks as if they had a sixth sense about aliens. At first, he thought his fly flapped open. He checked his reflection in a store window making sure no zit had erupted on his nose. This undue interest might be expected in some one-horse town, but Fernly’s population was almost 40,000 people.
The creepy feeling made him half expect a ghost from the past to jump out and confront him about breaking old Mrs. Jelchuk’s window back when he was eleven or twelve. Or abandoning Tony in a coal car on the rail siding of the mill…
Or, worst of all—imagining being braced against a wall, a cop clicking on handcuffs.
The attention began to make him paranoid, so he quit browsing and focused, picking some clothes that would hopefully fit his father. He went into a music store for a couple of light jazz CDs, but the store only stocked Top 40 music—heavily marketed and vaguely talented. So much electro-pop. The school dropouts working there never heard of Sanchez, or Tom Scot or Cannonball Adderly. There were only five artists in the Blues section. The lone CD he’d brought from home would have to do for the duration unless he found a decent FM station.
He parked along the Fern River, ate a sandwich, and fell asleep in the car with the door open and the smell of green water slipping past. Dirty clouds blocked the sun as he awakened refreshed an hour later.
* * *
Arthur complimented Gerry on the spaghetti dinner he threw together and asked him to check out his car in the garage. After doing a basic check of hoses, belts, tire pressure, and oil, he drove it to the nearest supermarket to load up on toiletries and food for the week.
Halfway through his grocery list; he saw her.
Karen examined a bag of pasta, turning it in her hand before dropping it in her cart and moving on. Gerry backed around the corner, choosing to observe her from a distance, comparing the girl she was to the lovely woman she had become. The hug they shared in the driveway came back to him, warming him. He drew in a deep breath, almost shuddering. As she drew nearer, he noticed her furrowed brow, her body stiff with underlying tension which was evident in her green eyes. Probably not about the price of pasta. She didn’t appear to be having a good day.
“Pardon me, ma’am,” he said, lightly bumping the cart into her thigh, startling her.
“Oh my…hello again,” she said and smiled, the tightness on her face vanishing.
“We keep bumping into each other.”
“Yes, we certainly do.” She smiled. “Isn’t that something?”
He nodded. “After twenty years, it really is.”
They regarded each other for a long moment, neither quite sure how to proceed. Right here and now; Gerry realized this was the crucial moment. If one of them didn’t strike that match, their chance meeting would be a mere simple hello between old friends.
An old woman with a small child pushed between them breaking their gaze. Karen pushed her cart to the side. “Well…” She lifted her brow.
Gerry felt the pull of attraction this morning, and he felt it again, looking into her eyes. “I was just thinking how fast you passed on my lunch invitation and well, if you got a few minutes, there’s a café…”
“Sure, but only for a few minutes.”
He paid for his groceries, settled into a booth at a café at the end of the small, strip mall and ordered a coffee. Not a soul in the place. Subdued lighting made the place seem more like a lounge. His window table looked out across a parking lot broken by long evening shadows. Karen walked across the parking lot and put her groceries in her car trunk. She came toward the café, the setting sun giving her figure an orange cast.
He glanced around and noticed the café had a jukebox—a Wurlitzer. He got up and dropped some change into it, selecting some oldies she’d recognize. Pleased to see the beautiful Billy Paul tune, he punched it three times, figuring to set a mood.
Outside the door, she surreptitiously glanced around before pulling it open. She wore a green sleeveless blouse and black denim that clung nicely to her thighs. Her only jewelry, except for the ring, was a cluster of small silver flowers piercing each earlobe.
Gerry waved and stood as she made her way to the table. She smiled at him and glanced out the window.
“Everything okay?” he asked. “Expecting someone?”
Her eyes widened. “God, no. I hope none of my husband’s friends see me here.”
“Aren’t you allowed to drink coffee?”
She chuckled as she slid into the booth across from him and set her small black purse on the seat. “Branko is a possessive guy, and he can get quite upset. He may think this means something more.”
Gerry signaled the waiter, holding up two fingers and pointing to his cup. “You mean like a date or secret rendezvous?”
She nodded and peered out through the café curtains again.
“Would he have reason to think that?” he asked, leaning toward her, resting his forearms on the table, eyeing her wedding ring.
“No. Actually, it’s the first time I’ve ever done anything like this.”
“There’s always a first time. And how does it feel so far?”
She looked at him for a long moment, eyeing his face as if deciding something important. She drew in a deep breath and let it out in a long sigh through her nose. Her shoulders fell with the release. “Just fine. I might even begin to enjoy it.”
“I already am.” He pushed out his cup for the approaching waiter to fill. “The evening would be perfect if this was a ritzy surf-and-turf restaurant atop a classy hotel, slow dancing to a small jazz combo.”
“And you wore a tuxedo. I’d have on a slinky royal blue evening gown with a string of pearls around my neck.”
He closed his eyes taking in the image and grinned. “Yeah…that’s good. I like your line of thinking.” He moved his hands from the cup and toyed with the sugar bowl between them, inching his hands closer to hers. An image of firefighter Bruno, the womanizer, came to him. What strategy would the big womanizer use to win over this woman?
They talked about her life in Fernly and his, on the west coast, sharing a few yuks; their hands doing a peacock mating dance; keeping their distance at first, but then gravitating toward each other. Gerry told her how her skin tone gave her a summery, outdoorsy appearance. “I always liked your voice…it’s got a sexy, purring cadence.”
Karen glanced through the sheer curtains again. “You’ve changed so much, taller, stronger. If not for your dimpled chin and the way your eyes crinkle when you smile, I could pass right by you on the street.”
“That’s what gaining thirty pounds and three inches will do, I guess. Now, if I passed you on the street, I’d lure you into my truck with some candy.”
She laughed. “Not an old rusted heap with big mud flaps, I hope.”
“I may be from out west, but my truck has leather seats, aluminum mag wheels, and a Bose sound system, unlike the Vancouver metrosexuals.” He paused and studied the air for a moment. “Remember Bob Gilbert’s wreck with those vinyl bench seats?”
She chuckled. “And his floor mats covering the holes in the floor. I think you’re still the Gee I knew. I’m glad to see you’ve kept your spirit. You still laugh at the same things we used to. People in this town are bitter and unhappy.”
“Can’t say I blame them with the economy around here. Not much to look forward to.”
Billy Paul’s poignant lyrics washed over them, about having a thing goin’ on.
A sensual mood enveloped them. Gerry wanted this perfect moment to last forever. Life could end now, and he wouldn’t mind. He glanced out the window taking in the orange twilight settling over Fernly and placed himself outside looking in. It made him think of an old movie he’d seen; the male star caressing the beautiful actress’s hand while the camera panned out and up away from the café. He didn’t remember the actors or the name of the movie, but never forgot the poignant moment of romance in that shot.
But it was the final scene.
He moved his own hand slowly toward hers and ran his index finger around her ring. She didn’t pull back as he thought she might.
Her eyes met his.
Her knee moved against his.
Gerry immediately felt blood warming his head; almost like a swoon.
Billy Paul knew it too, singing about how the attraction was so strong.
“Damn shame we can’t have that fancy dinner.”
She looked at him coyly, a mischievous light in her eye. “I’ll go home and change.”
He laughed and in a quantum leap of boldness, moved his hands over hers, resting them there. She didn’t retreat.
“This is how it usually starts, doesn’t it?” He looked at her deeply, wanting more, much more. “A chance meeting. Old friends.”
She drew in a light breath. “Yes, I suppose it does. Around here it’s typed words on a computer screen. A few women have left their men like that. Not much romance on a computer.”
“Or chemistry. Like the man says,” he cocked his head up to the ceiling speaker. “We got a thing goin’ on here Karen.”
She listened and responded; slowly caressing his hands. A rosy glow warmed her cheeks. Her pupils dilated as if the lights had dimmed. He recalled the Capitol Theater on Main Street and its dark balcony where they used to make out—Frenching and cuddling.
“S’cuse me, café’s closing.” The tactless waiter placed the bill on the table and walked away.
Karen’s hand quickly pulled away as if her mama caught her with a hand in the cookie jar.
The man yanked him out of his bliss and Gerry flashed him a laser look. The waiter scuttled away. Gerry realized he’d been holding his breath. He let it out and noticed darkness had almost fallen outside. Harsh lights flicked on in the parking lot.
Karen’s hands moved to her lap; her face slightly flushed. She glanced at her watch. “Oh my. Nine-thirty. The market closed at nine. Branko will be wondering where his ice-cream is.”
Stress edged her voice. The light left her green eyes. She quickly slid out of the booth, stood, and took two steps to leave. Somewhat flustered, she went back to retrieve her purse.
Gerry rummaged in his pocket for change, silently cursing the waiter who ruined their moment. No tip for you, pal. “I’ll walk you to your car,” he said to her, giving the waiter a departing look of displeasure.
At the door, she protested his offer, but he insisted.
She walked briskly to her car, forcing him to take long strides to keep up with her. She reached into her purse for the keys and pressed the wrong fob, beeping the horn. Once behind the wheel she rolled down the window and looked up at him, searching his face. She opened her mouth to speak.
Gerry feared her next words would either end the evening with a promise or destroy any faint hope for another meeting. He leaned inside, his chin grazing against the top of her head, taking in her scent. “Thank you, Karen. That was a wonderful date. You know, I’ve thought about you all day.”
In the side mirror, he saw her eyes close. She lifted her head slightly, pressing against his chin. He wanted to run his hands around the back of her neck, rub her shoulders with the pungent massage oil she used.
She put two fingers on her lips as if silencing herself and started the car. Gerry stepped back as she engaged the shifter and idled away without saying a word. He found himself surrounded by shopping carts under a darkening sky, as she wheeled around and out of the lot. His armpits were damp, his hands moist.
When Gerry got home, he packed away the groceries and checked on his father in the bedroom. He cracked a beer and moved out to the veranda to sit, enjoying the warm evening air, his eyes monitoring Karen’s house hoping she’d appear. He smiled to himself, thinking about Branko slurping his melted ice cream from a straw.
When it became very late, he ran out of hope and went inside, wondering if he’d imagined tears welling up in her eyes before she drove away.