Mind Tryst

  “Kemp, huh? Oh well.”

  Brad shook my hand, introduced me to his wife, Jennifer, and said this was the first time he’d made the “Showing the Colors” party. I asked him if he was a visitor and he said sort of, he was a newcomer.

  He and his wife had a place up the road, right between Coleman and Pleasure, the county seat. He’d moved from D.C. to Colorado for those typical reasons I’d heard repeatedly: good place for the family; clean and healthy and beautiful. He did some consulting research for a government agency, he said. He could commute, doing the bulk of his work out of his home. Jennifer, he said, was a freelance writer.

  “Kids?” I asked.

  “Two teenage boys... although they’re going to boarding school this winter, not far from here. We seem to be running a halfway house for burned-out cops who want a little fishing.”

  “Sounds like fun. How is the fishing, Brad?” Mike asked him.

  “Doesn’t matter,” Krump said, “as long as we’re always having a good time.”

  Mike’s eyes were twinkling, which was often the case, making it appear he had a perpetual secret. We parted company with the Krumps and Mike took my arm, walking me away and whispering in my ear.

  “Oooooh, op-er-a-tive,” he said.

  “What?”

  “I think my old buddy Krump is doing undercover crime work for the feds.”

  “Come on, you’re nuts.”

  “No way, Jack. He wasn’t married three years ago, and when he left LAPD, he went to the FBI.” He giggled. “Consulting work, what a crock. Hey, was that guy the shrink?”

  “Yes. He’s all stirred up again. He’s upset to find me here with you. He acted like the lover betrayed. That sort of thing really pisses me off. Who the hell does he —”

  “Aw, ease up. Let’s two-step.”

  We danced. We ate some more; we drank beer and wine. We told stupid jokes with the gathering at Roberta’s table. We saw a fight, broken up by Sweeny; when Sweeny was pulling one of the thugs away, he accidentally gave him a left hook to the jaw, causing the poor man’s knees to buckle. I heard Sweeny say, “Aw, shucks, did you trip there, Clyde?” We decided to walk back to my house at midnight, during which time Mike announced he had a bad case of flatulence. As we were leaving, an ambulance complete with lights and sirens drove out of town. “Uh-oh,” my ex-husband said. “Too many corn dogs.”

  When I lay in bed that night, Mike crashed on the couch downstairs. I tried remembering the faces and names of everyone we met, everyone we talked to. I had, because of Mr. Energy, had a panic of fun and met some people who had potential as friends. I found myself in a whole new Coleman.

  ***

  The next morning, this Coleman was overflowing with fairgoers. The day was long and gritty; there was noise, food, art, demonstrations, a parade, prizes, dancing troupes. The sculptures, paintings, woodworking, leatherwork, and metalwork were fabulous. Mike and I became noticed as something of a couple — I found myself hoping these people would understand my autonomy when he left, because I was already looking forward to his return this winter with Chelsea and the little girls.

  And there were men. I was caused to remember the day that I considered there weren’t any besides Tom. There were many unattached men moving through the crowds, some of whom I was introduced to by... oh yes, my ex-husband. Pete Salado was a painter who lived up on the eastern rim. Walt Mattingly, a nationally acclaimed long-distance runner, lived near Wellsville, a tiny town of 250 people twenty-five miles southeast of Coleman. He’d picked Colorado as a good place to train because of the altitude and hills. Buck Nording was a single chiropractor from Hartsel, a town on the north side of the valley, who was hooked on the Sierra Club, Greenpeace, and backpacking.

  “And it isn’t like you don’t have your degenerates and crazies,” Mike pointed out. We did; no question. An old chronic alcoholic called Indian Joe who was no more Indian than I was; he wore some mighty old feathers on his vest and lurched through town night and day. We had some homeless who could have been confused with campers; they lived in the woods as opposed to the streets. We had squatters; Bodge would occasionally have to run them off private property. We seemed to have something akin to a red-light district on the far edge of town, but it didn’t seem as seedy as the big-city hooker-domes. I considered telling Mike about the crossing guard whose pecker kept falling out of his zipper and the churchgoing Protestant who almost had to wear women’s panties on his head.

  Instead, I let Mike tell me, show me. No wonder he’d become a good detective — he could root out everything and everyone.

  At some point during the afternoon we learned from Bodge that the reason for the ambulance had been the shocking event of Tom Wahl cutting his pinky finger off at the second knuckle. The how and why was sketchy; he’d been helping someone clean up a booth and a dumpster lid had fallen on his hand; a sharp metal edge had sliced the pinky off clean. I felt a spasm of guilt, source unknown. I felt sorry for him, I guess. I wondered if what I’d said so upset him he’d been careless. I thought about visiting him in the hospital and then rejected the idea immediately.

  It was late again when we headed for my place. We were not as tired as the night before and Mike fiddled with my stereo, finding music. “Jack,” he called to me. I had gone upstairs to freshen up. “Any fat or cholesterol in scotch?”

  “Good idea. Make two.”

  Patsy Cline was singing her greatest hits when I came downstairs and was handed a drink more darkly golden than I would have fixed for myself. One sip told me it was not watered. We each sat on one end of the curved sofa. He talked about the people of the town, the mountains, the air, the food. “Coleman’s got potential,” he said.

  “Bring Chelsea and the girls this winter?”

  “You bet; you did the right thing here, Jack. The change has been a little tough on you, huh? Don’t worry about it. These are good people. Might be a guy here, too.”

  “How’d you find Chelsea?” I asked him.

  “Come on, Jack; I couldn’t find anything that good. She found me.”

  “So... how?”

  “We had a blind date and I was an asshole; didn’t pay her much attention and probably insulted her. So she did the sensible thing — she called me. She asked me to come to her apartment for dinner, and since I just couldn’t believe it, I went.

  “She told me I was a loser, I drank too much, I wasn’t concentrating on my potential, I was probably going to fuck up my whole life. ‘Course she didn’t say ‘fuck.’ Then she gave me a good meal, one glass of wine only, and asked me straight out how many women I thought I could thoroughly piss off before I found myself all alone and miserable.” I couldn’t help it — I laughed; I believed every word. “I told her I wasn’t sure how many. She said she wasn’t going to be one of them.

  “Now, I’m a long time in figuring her out, right? I left her place without getting lucky. For about a month I try to put this uppity bitch out of my mind. I mean, you’ve seen Chels! Is she a dish? No way; she’s kind of round and soft and has the most beautiful skin and the deepest, kindest eyes. When you first meet her, you think she is absolutely the sweetest, most docile woman...

  “So I called her for a date and she said no. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to go out; she wouldn’t go to a bar and restaurant with me and my friends. Dinner alone in a nice place, conservative drinks, that she would do.

  “Again and again I punished her by not calling her. Again and again I caved in and had to get close to this woman who could be so tender and not take any shit. It took around six months before I said, ‘Okay, I give up.’ Now I’m forty years old, a father again... two little girls just as soft and pigheaded as their mom. And you know what the sweetest smell in my life is? It’s that smell I come home to of steam and spray starch, Lemon Pledge, roast beef or tuna casserole, bathroom cleaner and crayons and paste. It’s Chels, betting on me.” He sipped his drink. ‘I don’t know how it happened. I used to work so hard to avoid good breaks.”
/>
  I listened quietly. The powerful scotch was bound to make me agreeable if not sleepy. In the background I heard Patsy sing of “Sweet Dreams.”

  “Us,” he said. “I have to say a couple of things, Jack. I’m sorry I put you through what I put you through.”

  “It wasn’t just you. I couldn’t have done what Chelsea did; I wouldn’t have known how.”

  “This isn’t going to the bank or anything, but for my conscience I want you to know — I was tit over ass in love with you. I probably never said so. I was, though.”

  “No kidding?”

  “No kidding. You’re gorgeous. You’re still gorgeous; those long legs on a tiny little rump; that golden, strawberry hair, those eyes, that grin. You’re holding up good, too, despite all you’ve been through. You never did know you were a dish.”

  “I’ve never been a dish,” I said.

  “Oh, yeah, that’s right. You’re a lawyer. Come on, Jack; you were always the only one who didn’t know you’re smart and sexy. Don’t waste your time on any schmucks; you’re going to end up with a good man and be as happy as me. Maybe happier. Have a fam –”

  “No,” I said.

  “It isn’t too late.”

  “It is. I shut it off. When Sheffie was seven; I had my tubes tied. That’s okay; I had never planned on children. Sheffie was a legitimate surprise.”

  “You’re not running away from that because of the hurt, are you? I mean, I could understand, but are you?”

  “It bears thinking about; another drink?”

  He nodded and I took his glass to the kitchen. I wasn’t sure this scotch and conversation was a good idea. I hadn’t been alone with him in years. He talked while I was in the kitchen. He was saying things about Sheffie, about taking him places, about having him help polish the car. Oh, I didn’t want to do this.

  When I brought him his drink, he pulled me down beside him. He remembered how proud Sheffie was that he could ride a two-wheeler. He took his dad to elementary-school open house and showed him all his artwork — some of it was awful, but Mike made a big deal. Sheffie wanted to know how many sets of grandparents he totally had... Could he call Chelsea Mom too?

  I felt a lump grow in my throat. “Did he call her Mom?”

  “No, because Chels said she could love him that much, take care of him that much, and spank him that much — but only you were his real, true mom... So they made up a special name for Chels that meant ‘mother.’ He called her Madre. The girls started calling her that, too.”

  “God, she’s something,” I said. “It’s as if she’s the most secure, confident woman in the world, with no ego. She’s an old soul; she’s wiser than people who’ve been dead a thousand or so years.”

  “If I hadn’t been this lucky, Jack, if I hadn’t had two great women in my life, I couldn’t have gotten this far. I wouldn’t have known my own son. I wouldn’t have a good life. I wouldn’t be here with you now.”

  A couple of tears spilled over. I attempted to drink my scotch. My swallow became a gulp and Mike lifted the glass out of my hand, putting both our glasses on the coffee table.

  “I can’t do this,” I said, crying. “I can’t talk about him like this.”

  He put his arms around me and let me cry onto his shoulder. “I’m not doing this to you to be mean, Jack. Even though a whole bunch of people cried at the cemetery, it was me and you who lost him. We managed not to talk about that too much; I had Chels, see, and the girls. But he was ours. It was me and you who lost him.”

  He laid his head down on mine, he stroked my back, and he also cried. Not as dramatically as I did; he sniveled and let his face get wet. I gasped and snorted. In addition to crying, we talked through tears. We talked about my parents, his parents, Sheffie’s foibles and accomplishments, the funeral, the accident.

  I still felt rage. I told him how dark, how black, those days and weeks and months had been. I told him about how furious I was that people worried I would commit suicide — I thought it was my private prerogative and no one, no one, had the right to try to change my mind. I told him about the times I couldn’t get out of bed, couldn’t drive the car, couldn’t move. I talked about the long days of crying without stopping, taking only brief respites to gather enough strength to go on crying. And then the days of what felt like absence of feeling; a blank, cold, hard wall between my mind and reality. I told him how my body had died for a while; my soul had become dull and suspended and had no pleasure, no hope, no life. I had been sure it would never pass.

  There were things I hadn’t known. Mike had been so angry and overwrought, he tried to hunt down the driver of the armored car. Chelsea stopped him, though he wasn’t sure how. He wanted to sue; there simply wasn’t a lawsuit in there. He was afraid, for a long time, to let me know how hard it hit him; he thought he would appear self-pitying and ungrateful since he had a wife and other children. He had experienced the black days, too; helpless crying, an explosive temper, some drinking binges. Chelsea took him off to counseling and made him sit in group therapy.

  “Did it help?” I asked.

  “I don’t know. For a long time all I could think about was how bad I wanted to take his place. You know, I took two bullets on two different occasions and barely got hurt. Then my boy goes across the street when it says ‘Don’t Walk’ — and my life feels as if it’s over.”

  “Mike, does he stay eleven in your head?”

  “Yeah,” he said, surprised. “Does he for you?”

  “Yes. When I want to imagine him at thirteen, fourteen, I can’t.”

  “That’s one of the things we lost, Jack. We don’t get to see how we did... how he did.”

  “Why are you doing this with me?” I asked him.

  “It’s the last stop, the breaking point. We never talked about him, about it. I want you to clear it all out and get on with your life. You’ve been through the shredder; I know you’ll never stop missing him and neither will I. I wanted to tell you how grateful I am for those few years I had him; I wouldn’t have if you hadn’t been so damn good about it. After the way I ignored him when he was a baby, I didn’t have the right.”

  “Thank Chelsea,” I said. “She set it up.”

  “I did thank her. I didn’t thank you. You let me be his dad; you had every right to tell me to fuck off.”

  “I do usually find an opportunity.”

  “Don’t joke; you never have done that to me seriously. You’re just kidding around... It’s our ex-joke that you call me an asshole and I call you a frigid bitch. We don’t either one of us —”

  “You call me a frigid bitch?”

  He shrugged and pulled the drink napkins off the table so we could wipe and blow. “I never mean it. Seriously, I thought you and me should have a chance to get this out... about us, about Sheff, about where we’re going.”

  “Chelsea made you do it.”

  “Well, yeahhhh ... She said since I was here I should tell you some of my feelings and listen to some of yours. This is the first time we’ve ever been alone together since the day you told me we should get a divorce.”

  “We were alone together in the hospital once.”

  “No. Sheff was there.”

  “That’s right,” I said, and I snuggled up to him. He held me. I held him back.

  “I want you to know that I love you. Not like a sister or a wife or a lover. I love you for being the woman who let me have a son, helped me be a dad, and was with me when we lost him. I love you, and I want you to be okay. Whatever you need from me, you got it.” He kissed my forehead.

  “I love you, too,” I said.

  “You don’t have to say that.”

  “I know. And thank you, too.”

  “What for?”

  I looked up into his wet eyes. “For giving me Sheffie. And for turning into a sweetheart.”

  We were quiet. Patsy Cline had stopped singing. There was only one lamp lit and the ice in our scotches had melted. We held each other.

  “I thought of
something, Jack.”

  “What?”

  “I think maybe Sheffie would be proud of us.”

  Maybe he would. He couldn’t grow up... but we had. Hard as it was.

  12

  September held for me one more act of horror, one more brush with hysteria. I might have packed and left then. I was somehow persuaded, or persuaded myself, to stay. I think it wouldn’t have mattered — I don’t think running away would have worked. I’ll never know.

  Sunday morning I cleaned up after Mike while he showered. There were glasses and dishes, shoes and dirty socks. Disorder was his natural state and Chelsea had been picking up after him. I started the coffee, wiped off the counters, and went out for the Sunday paper in my bathrobe. Far down at the end of the street I could see cars already circling the main streets looking for parking places for the last day of the fair, and it wasn’t yet seven a.m.

  My newspaper was always folded in half with a rubber band holding it together. I had tried giving the paper carrier a generous tip and he still couldn’t get it to the top step; I had to walk almost to the sidewalk to retrieve it.

  I put it down on the kitchen table and poured myself a cup of coffee. I sat down, got comfortable, and hoped Mike wasn’t going to talk nonstop all morning. I liked slow, indulgent Sunday mornings. I popped off the rubber band and unfolded my paper.

  I began to scream. I pushed away so hard that my chair fell over behind me and in backing away, I was shoving a felled chair across the kitchen. I screamed again and again. In the fold of my paper was a withering, bloody finger.

  After a few seconds of paralyzing horror, I ran to the stairs. Mike was coming down, holding the towel at his hip, and by now I was shaking and crying. “The paper!” I said. “There’s a cutoff finger in the paper!”

  Mike ran past me and looked at it. He was stunned speechless for a moment. “Jesus. Jesus Christ. Maybe it isn’t real,” he said in a breath.

  “Don’t touch it!” I ordered.

  “This is sick,” he said in disgust. “Calm down. I’ll call what’s-his-name.”