A Forty Year Kiss

5

They zippered their jackets and walked out into the night. It was cold, but not too cold, and the wet evening air felt good in their lungs. He reached again for her fingers, and she reached for his. They squeezed hands and held on, and if that was all the night was, he might have been thrilled. It had already been so much more than he could have ever expected, ever dreamed. If this was his last night on earth, it had been a miracle, and he could lie down in his bed and close his eyes and know a final complete happiness, a warmth and solace that could carry and guide him anywhere. She had already done that for him. But now here they were, out on a walk, strolling along Bridge Street down a slight incline towards the Chippewa River. He did not feel like a man over sixty years old. He did not feel any age. All he felt was love. Promise. He tried to tamp down his emotions, but it was almost impossible.

They passed over West River Street to a new park built right along the river. This part of the city had changed so much from his memories of it that there was a real moment of confusion, of cognitive dissonance. There was the river and the dam, and the dam was all lit up. Strobing lights of red and yellow and the electric company’s logo above it all—NSP—also in yellow. These lights were doubled on the water where they blurred and rippled nicely. There were fishermen at the foot of the dam, talking, and smoking marijuana, but he could not quite hear what they were saying.

I’m sorry, she said, but I should probably head home soon. Melissa will wonder.

Melissa’s your daughter? he asked. There was so much to learn about her, her path had branched off, again and again, leading to other generations, whereas he realized sadly, he had created nothing. No one would mourn him when he was gone. He felt some nervousness just then, about meeting Melissa and her children. He worried that even if he’d comported himself well tonight, there were still opportunities ahead to ruin everything, to ruin the perfection of this evening.

Yes. She’s a good kid. Just a little lost maybe.

Well, we’ve all been there. Like I said, I never had any kids myself, but that’s the advice I used to give the younger guys on the railroad. Be patient. Success looks different for different people. Folks find themselves at different times. It’s not always so easy to know your purpose. To know what’ll make you happy. Even if it’s right in front of you.

That’s true, she said quietly. Should we maybe turn back?

No, he said. Let’s walk a little more. Just downriver a little more. A block or two.

Okay, she sighed. A little longer then.

They didn’t say a word, but their shoulders were so close they were like two trees growing together. He didn’t dare utter a thing, so afraid was he of ruining all this.

Finally, they stood in front of an old bar, the Sheeley House Saloon. There were three men inside, drinking, staring up into the blue of a television mounted above them.

Want to go in? he asked. We could have one more. For old times’ sake. A nightcap?

This place is supposed to be haunted, she said, turning to smile at him. Do you believe in ghosts?

I don’t know, he said. Then he said, Yes, I guess I do.

Really, she said. Why?

He looked up at the night sky. There were a few handfuls of stars, the brightest ones anyway, burning against the lights of the sleepy town. But he couldn’t find the moon.

I guess, he said unsteadily, that I want to believe in spirits, in souls. I wouldn’t have said something like that back when I was younger. When we were married, I suppose. But…you start to get—

Older? she put in.

Yeah, he said. You start to lose people. First your grandparents. And then your parents. Then it’s your favorite musicians and actors. Athletes and writers. Then it’s your friends. And you want to see those people again. At least I do. I miss those people. I hope heaven is a long party where I never get drunk. Someone just keeps passing me flutes of cold champagne, and I go from one room to the next seeing old friends, old relatives. But no one ever has to stop to clean the dishes. They just—disappear. A waiter brings you a new fresh cool glass. It would be like a reunion. One of those evening parties where time doesn’t matter. Where it’s dark as you walk into the party and dark when you walk out. I think that must be the trick of heaven.

When he was finished talking, he immediately worried that he’d gone on too long, said too much. He’d shared with her that his image of heaven was endless drinking, and now, he wanted those words back, even if it was his truth. He glanced at her face, but if she was bothered by what he had said, she betrayed nothing. Only the discomfort of the cold and drizzle.

The trick? she asked.

Yeah, the trick. There must be no time in heaven. No sense of time. Everything would have to feel like one scene. One beautiful scene. Otherwise, wouldn’t it get old? Wouldn’t you start to, I don’t know, almost want something bad to happen? Something disappointing. Wouldn’t you crave the mundane? Sleep? A rainy day?

Maybe there isn’t any alcohol in heaven, she said, smiling mischievously. No coffee, no fattening foods, no cheese, no bread and butter. No fried chicken. No steak. No french fries.

Maybe, he allowed. Maybe.

This is heaven, he thought. Right here. The cold of the night made her hand feel warmer, encouraged him to squeeze tighter. He wasn’t drunk, not even close, but the alcohol did take any edge away. The drizzle that fell to his face cooled his skin. Yes, this was heaven. There was rain in his eyelids. Rain tracing a path down his jawline. Rain dripping off the tip of his nose.

She smiled, squeezed his hand.

They began slowly making their way back in the direction of the bar. It wasn’t dew, of course, but there were tiny droplets, tiny diamond-beads of rain in her red hair, and her cheeks were flushed red with wine and the cold.

When they reached the Tomahawk Room, right where they started, he asked, Where are you parked?

They stood there in the wash of pink neon light, faint music issuing out. Crimson and Clover. He could hear it, the reverb of the guitar, the plaintiveness of the vocals. It wasn’t the song he would have selected if he could have soundtracked this moment, but there was something about the sound, the blurriness of the guitar, that fit like a missing puzzle piece, and he just wrapped her in his arms and breathed in her hair. He wanted so very badly to invite her back to his house, but knew that all of this should take longer, that he wanted both not to waste a second and to extend each possible moment as long as humanly possible.

He kissed her again and she kissed him back.

Can I call you? he asked.

You better call me, she said, smiling. Get a girl’s hopes up…

He felt like his heart was a dam about to be detonated with happiness and promise, about to burst. He hadn’t messed up, had in no way done anything to diminish the evening. He had said the things he felt. He had not drunk too much. He had been brave. He had been his best self, his best person. The man he should have been always. He wanted to be that way, for her, for the remainder of his days.

Good night, she said at last. She even blew him a little kiss.

He watched her open the driver’s side door of an old baby-blue Saturn pocked with rust. One headlight was out, and he hoped she wouldn’t be pulled over. He would replace that headlight the next time he saw her. In fact, he’d buy the light bulb tomorrow morning, before he could forget. The engine started and she checked her rearview mirror before giving him a wave and departing.

The instant she was gone, he wanted her back. He hadn’t felt so alive in years. Knew that he would not be able to fall asleep that night.

He drove home slowly. Very, very slowly. About seventy miles separated Chippewa Falls and Spooner, but the driving was easy and there was something calming, something therapeutic about taking the highway with no rush, headlights swimming past him. Passing signs. The steady, soft hum of the engine. The warm air issuing from the vents.

He was reliving the night. Like rewatching a favorite movie or dropping the needle again and again and again at the start of a sacred song. Now the lightest of snows was falling. Falling through the throw of the headlights, and he felt it was a blessing, a sure sign of good things to come. The first snow of the year.

His father used to wake him up on such nights. He’d feel the old man’s warm hand on his little-boy chest. The kind, easy command, Wake up, it’s snowing. And he would stand on the front stoop with his little brother in their pajamas, bare little-boy feet on the cold, damp concrete stoop, their hands out like paupers, like street urchins begging alms. Their mouths open to taste the snow. First snows were a magical thing. A new season. Life on earth, resting, pulling a blanket over its shoulder before a long, dark sleep.

He turned into his driveway, parked the truck, and unlocked his back door. Blueberry, his dog, stood there, tail wagging, mouth open in welcome. He made for the living room, built a small fire in the woodstove and sat down heavily in his favorite chair, his hand resting on the gentle rise of his dog’s head. He did not want to close his eyes. But he did. Minutes later his chin slowly sagged to his chest, and the dog turned a few lazy circles before slumping onto his shoes, there to fall asleep at his master’s feet as the fire died down to orange-black embers, then white ashes.