11

The next morning I settled into my chair in the guest room that I was using as an office. I set my cup of coffee next to a jumble of wires that went with my printer and called Joe to catch up. We’d been sleeping in different places most nights. Each day he’d work fourteen hours at the office, then go to the Westgate to pack, make a run to the storage shed we’d rented in north Austin, then return to pack some more. He’d been sleeping on a mat on the floor in the condo to avoid the long commute back and forth to my mom’s house.

I could tell he was busy when he answered the phone; his voice sounded distant, like he was cradling the handset on his shoulder. A drawer opened and shut in the background. I’d debated whether to tell him about my latest read, but decided to go ahead and get the embarrassment over with.

“I bought a book the other day,” I said after we exchanged hellos. “It was actually a book about Christianity. I read it, too.”

“That’s great, sweetie! It did seem like you’d been more interested in religion lately. Glad to hear it.” I was surprised that he’d noticed anything about my changing views. I hadn’t said anything about it, simply because I had mostly forgotten about the subject in the months that passed between my middle-of-the-night revelation and when I found the Strobel book. The only thing he might have noticed was that I left a website about Buddhism up on the computer at one point, and another time I asked him if he thought humans had souls (and didn’t argue with his answer). Actually, now that I thought about it, that was a lot more than I used to do.

“The book wasn’t perfect,” I continued. “Some of their points were pretty weak. But, you know, overall, I didn’t hate it.” I waited for a reaction, but heard only the rustling of papers. “Actually, it’s got me wondering about Jesus. I think I might read some more about it.”

There was a pause, then the sound of a keyboard clicking. “Great,” Joe said, his voice trailing off while he finished typing. The background sounds stopped, and he turned his attention back to the call. “That is very cool. Really. I can’t wait to hear all about it. Now, if I send you the updated text for the estate planning page on the website, do you think you could get it up by noon? I have this online ad that’s about to drop, and I just realized we never finished that section of the site. Oh, and don’t forget to set up the email account for the new paralegal. He starts Monday.”

“Yeah—” I stammered, trying to catch up to this new course the conversation had taken. “Yeah, sure, I think I can get to that.”

“Thanks! Gotta run. I have to do another trip to the storage facility tonight, but I’m headed up there after that. Should be home before midnight.”

True to his word, Joe got home at 11:47. I met him in the kitchen and got to work heating up the leftovers from a crock-pot stew. Joe poured a glass of milk for himself, and as he moved, I thought I noticed a slight limp. The moving process was wearing him out.

He started on his bowl of microwaved stew, and I pulled up a chair next to him. We didn’t even bother to turn on the light above the table.

I let him have a chance to eat, then asked, “Could we go out to dinner tomorrow night? Maybe Guero’s? My mom said she could watch Donald.”

Joe finished another bite, leaned back, and wiped his hand on the bottom of his undershirt, which was so filthy with dust and grease that the new smidgen of stew sauce was not even noticeable. “I don’t really have time for that right now.”

“The condo is closing next week, and you should have more time to work after that. Could you take just this one night?”

“Okay. Sure. Is there something wrong?”

“I’m not sure,” I said. “I think I just need to get out.”

* * *

“It’s the Fulwilers!” a voice shouted as soon as Joe and I pushed through the double doors and into the high-ceilinged waiting area at Guero’s. A waitress came over to ask how the baby was doing, and the hostess came from behind the counter to give us hugs. I inhaled a long breath to savor the heavy aroma of spiced, slow-cooked meat.

Our usual table was taken, so we sat at the one next to the hatch door in the floor, unused since this building had been a feed warehouse. I sipped from the slender glass of margarita on the rocks, letting the rough salt crystals from its rim dissolve slowly on my lips. As I did, it was as if I was melting back into my real self.

So much had changed so quickly, I sometimes felt as if I’d been thrust into someone else’s life. Not that long ago I was a childless atheist who lived downtown; now I was a suburban mother who was reading about Jesus. It was a lot to process. Tonight was a chance to step back into my old shoes for a while, to go to a place I knew well, to think about the things I was comfortable thinking about. Immersing myself in the familiar smells and sights of this place was like easing into a warm bath. “So what’s the occasion?” Joe asked.

I took another sip of my drink like I was in a commercial for Guero’s margaritas. “Nothing, really.” I remembered his concern about losing work time for this dinner, so I quickly added: “Well, I mean, I needed a break. Badly.”

“You don’t like living with your mom?” he asked.

“The house itself is great, and my mom has been nothing but awesome. But it’s insanely hard to keep Donald quiet when she’s on business calls. He wants to run into her office every two seconds.”

He winced at the thought of it. “Yeah. Raising a toddler in a house where someone works from home is not going to be the easiest thing we’ve ever done.”

“Also, I don’t know anyone up there. It’s a forty-minute drive each way to meet my friends for lunch, which means that I basically never see anyone. And I can’t even imagine what we’re spending on gas for your commute.”

“It’s not ideal, but you have to keep your eyes on the vision,” Joe said. “Picture the grand opening of the Dallas office. Picture living in one of those houses that overlooks Town Lake. Picture doing all of this with a firm that actually helps people make their lives better.”

I nodded. I was going to mention being a little bummed that the vast majority of our worldly possessions had either been sold or locked in a storage shed, but I already sounded like enough of a whiner.

Joe sensed my lack of enthusiasm. “Maybe we should get back to hosting parties. We’re too maxed out right now, but we could aim to do it in a few months.”

“At my mom’s house?” Her house was nice, but it didn’t quite have the ambiance of a twenty-fifth-floor rooftop downtown.

“I doubt people would drive that far, but maybe we could do it at the office. I think it would be good for you—it would be a fun project, and help you feel a little less isolated.”

He was right. Joe and I had thrown parties regularly since the beginning of our relationship. Sometimes they were more along the lines of our hip-hop karaoke event where attendees were required to dress like their favorite rappers, other times they were low-key wine tastings, but they were always a great time. As an introvert, I was surprised by how much I enjoyed getting people together and helping them connect with one another. By the time Joe and I left the Westgate, we were getting weekly emails from people we didn’t know, asking if they could get on the invite list. Our last few parties had grown to the point that we’d had to hire staff to handle them, and our reputation as people who knew how to throw a good bash had become an integral part of our identity as a couple.

“You know, I would really love to get back to that,” I said. I’d already begun considering themes for the next shindig.

Joe was about to say something when a man approached our table. “May I use this seat?” he asked.

I looked up to see blues legend Clifford Antone towering above us. He’d been a Guero’s regular for months, and Joe and I ran into him almost every time we went there. We had spoken with him a few times before, but I was still star-struck every time I saw him.

He took a second look and said, “Joe and . . . is it Jennifer?”

“Yes, hi!” I’d been so anxious to respond that a wad of chewed-up food almost fell out of my mouth.

Joe motioned to the chair in Clifford’s hand. “You can have it, but do you want to sit with us?”

It was a quintessential Joe move. I would never have thought to ask a living legend if he wanted to hang out with us. This man had been friends with Stevie Ray Vaughn and John Lee Hooker. He’d hung out with B. B. King and Fats Domino. By starting the Antone’s record label and store, he single-handedly changed the face of blues recording and was instrumental in launching the Austin live music scene. The godfather of blues did not share tables with random Guero’s customers. But Joe didn’t see boundaries like that. One time we were at a function where we ran into a widely acclaimed author, and I wrung my hands while trying to figure out if it would be okay to say hello. Joe walked up to her and said, “My girlfriend loved your book and wants to take you out to lunch on Monday.” She accepted.

So, of course Joe asked Clifford Antone to sit down with us. And he accepted.

Joe took over the conversation by asking for Clifford’s opinion about a current controversy regarding city ordinances about downtown clubs’ decibel levels, and then the subject turned to business. Clifford asked what we did for work, and we told him about the law firm. I was surprised at the energy that filled me when I explained that, to us, this was more than just a job—it was our first big step toward our dreams for a fulfilling life.

Clifford nodded with a restrained enthusiasm. He had a baby face that was incongruent with his fifty-odd years, which gave him an aura of being both childlike and wise. “In a way, I’m right there with you,” he said. “My life has been one way up to this point, and now it’s like I’m starting over, trying to do it right this time.” We understood that he was referencing the fact that he’d recently gotten out of prison. Pretty much everyone in Austin knew that he’d served time for drug charges, since his arrest had dominated the local news five years before. “It’s not always easy, is it?” he asked, his smirk indicating that he assumed we knew exactly what he was talking about.

“No. No, it’s not.” It may have been the effect of the margarita, but I had to resist the urge to get teary-eyed as I answered. The stress from all the changes had been wearing me down, and the fact that Clifford Antone could relate to it touched me to a surprising degree.

Clifford glanced over his shoulder to make sure no one else was within earshot, then lowered his voice. He told us that he had recently been in a limo with a friend who was a well-known musician, and the musician and his crew started smoking pot. Clifford asked them to stop, pointing out that he could end up back in jail for this, since being around people doing drugs was a serious violation of his probation. His friend laughed off his request and continued smoking. Clifford had to ask the driver to pull over so he could get out, and he walked home alone.

“So, yeah,” he said at the end of the story. “You try to make changes, and everything gets tough. Sometimes you lose things, like friends.” He’d recounted his story casually, but there was visible hurt in his eyes when he spoke of what happened in the limo.

When it was time for us to go, Joe brought up one last thing. “My wife and I love throwing parties. We were just sitting here talking about how we could get back into that once the law firm is off the ground,” he explained. “Would you be interested in co-hosting events with us? Maybe we could start with a benefit for musicians, or a charity thing?”

I turned to Clifford, morbidly curious to see how he’d get out of this awkward request. Instead, he replied, “I’d love to. When?”

I was ready to ask what he was doing this Saturday, but ever-prudent Joe said that we needed to wait a few months until things stabilized with us. While he and Clifford batted around ideas for themes and charities, I thought of how the invitation would read: “Clifford Antone and Jennifer and Joe Fulwiler invite you to. . .” Or maybe it would be better to keep it more simple, to begin with “Clifford Antone and the Fulwilers. . .” I could hardly wait for the moment that some friend called to see what was new, and I could casually remark that I was changing the baby’s diaper, thinking about dinner—oh, and working on that thing we’re doing with Clifford Antone.

As the two guys brought the conversation to a graceful close, Clifford said, “Let me give you my phone number so we can talk about this some more.” Joe produced a blue ball point pen from his pocket, and Clifford scrawled a number on a napkin. When he finished, he handed the pen to Joe and the napkin to me. “This is going to be great. I look forward to it.”

We stood, and I said “thank you” about three times as I shook his hand. I wanted him to understand how much he’d brightened my spirits. The vision of getting back to hosting great events—and doing it with Clifford Antone—was exciting enough to make me willing to sacrifice just about anything to achieve it.

Joe walked me to my car, and we kissed and parted ways. He would go to the Westgate for one last night of moving work, and I would embark on the voyage back up to my mom’s house. Before I started the car, I pulled my purse onto my lap and slid the napkin with the number on it into the special compartment where I kept my house key. I looked at it one more time before I closed the zipper over it.