36
Outside of Tanglewood, Mr. and Mrs. Simmons, the town jewelers, walk hand and hand toward the entrance. In their sixties and wealthy enough, I can only assume they’ve frequented this place as much as anyone else in town. As I stand there leaning on the back of my car, Mrs. Simmons sees me, stops and lets out a warm, “Heyya, Cash! How are you honey?”
“Good Mrs. Simmons, yeah. You both well?”
“Nothing to complain about!”
“Trying to hang onto summer!” Mr. Simmons chuckles.
“Yeah, aren’t we all?”
“You sure look cleaned up!”
She says cheekily, nearly bouncing in glee.
“Ah well. I don’t know.”
“Be good, son.” Mr. Simmons waves.
“So good to see you Cash.”
“You too. Enjoy.”
“Oh, we will honey.”
They walk in and I think how the entire essence of the American Midwest could be summed up in that simple exchange. Those two were still joyful in love after decades of life, striding toward the only supper club they’d ever need, and so full of kindness they could offer me some, free of charge. This place really is something to behold. I scruff my boots against the loose gravel, gray and ashy. The dust rises and floats off with the wind.
God, I could use a cigarette. I’m so nervous I’m actually shaking a bit. Fuck it. I pull one out, and I light it and breathe. That’s the stuff. I tip my head to the sun. The Simmons sure are the good ones, the real wholesome backbone of towns just like these. And you could say this about Johnston, most everyone had a kindness in passing. I heard that in some places folks would walk by one another on sidewalks and say nothing. Not even a nod. Well, that’s not Johnston.
I search up and over to the other side of the road. There’s a house straight ahead, with a rope swing out front, and a singed orange setting sun up above spraying light all throughout the sky as it departs. Complete serenity. No painter or artist could ever recreate it, though they’ll keep trying, I hope. The town is down a few miles to my right, and I’m fairly certain it’s from there she’ll emerge. God. What a beating heart in my chest. I itch the tip of my nose and purse my lips wet. Is there anything quite like this? I tap my foot on the gravel, a slow rhythmic sound. I take one more drag and then snuff the thing out. Right as the clock somewhere clicks seven, I see Rose pulling up in her jeep.
We’ve all been to the movies, and one thing they get right are those slow-motion moments when the heart stops. It’s really like that, ain’t it? Rose pulls that green Jeep into the lot and turns it off. She sees me through the glass of her window and smiles. The dust settles off the wheels and the muted music behind her doors fades away. She gets out and hits the lockhorn just once. Like a desert mirage, she starts walking my way, and I know I can’t shut up about her walk, but I swear Rose has discovered some sort of equilibrium on the planet floor. Perfectly balanced. It’s the first time that I’ve seen her with her hair down loose. In a multitude of waves, it falls to her shoulders. She wears a fresh white tank that collapses airtight around her body and a light black jean jacket over the top. She’s braless and blue-jeaned, wearing brown rugged low blocked heels. She has cleaned herself up, just like me.
Even from the closing distance I see her lipstick glisten and know I’m smiling like wild. From her left the sun sets and she’s gilded in it. In the land where it breathes and flourishes, she is magic. Something brought on by God’s most patient designs.
“You made it.”
“Yes, I made it.” She smiles and moves a few strands of hair from her face.
“You look very nice,” I say.
“Thanks. Not so bad yourself, all cleaned up.”
“Yeah, well, special occasions.”
“I’m honored. Shall we?” And I don’t know if my tongue will ever catch up to my mind, but I nod and say, “Alright.”
I open the door for her and then follow her in, magnetized.
The inside of Tanglewood is a minimally lit space with old red carpets and hanging lamps accented in bronze. Everything is ancient but well kept, in line. There’s a tremendous attention to detail about the place. Every napkin aligned, not a chair out of order. Soft jazz plays on speakers and quiet conversations happen everywhere. A retro, 1950s, true supper-club feel. There’s a small collection of tables and maroon booths flanking the long salad bar in the middle of the room. Jared, who I never saw anywhere other than here, is the bartender. He’s straight faced and efficient, silent and set up in the far back left-hand corner. Rose and I are greeted by Holly Peters, my mother’s old friend. She tries to keep it professional but can’t help herself.
“Cash, oh God, so good to see you,” and she gives me something of a bear hug. “So good to see you. When I saw your name on the list I couldn’t believe my eyes. Are you well?”
“All well, all well yeah.”
“Sorry, I’m Holly, I’m the host here.”
“I’m Rose.” They shake hands.
“I’ve known this one since he was a boy. His mother and I were very close.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Alright, alright.” I laugh. I know she’ll go a lot further down memory lane if prompted. Only in a Johnston supper club does the host hug you in front of your date and introduce herself.
“Ah, okay, I won’t embarrass him. Well, so nice to meet you. Follow me.” And she grabs a couple menus before guiding us over to the most private booth on the far end of the restaurant. “Arthur will be with you shortly.”
“Thanks Holly, great to see you.”
“You too, dear. Enjoy.”
Rose raises her eyebrows in amusement.
“Something of a celebrity around here, huh?”
“Holly knows everyone.”
“Cash, how are you?” Arthur approaches the table, black vested and tall, middle forties. He’s worked here as far back as I can remember. His cheeks are hollowed out and rest high on his exceedingly pale face giving him a sort of Victorian elegance.
“Hey Arthur, good man.”
“Can I get you started with anything?”
“Uh, yeah. Do you like wine?”
“I do.”
“Red?”
“Red is good.”
“Can you bring us a bottle of your cabernet?”
“We have a few, Cash.”
“Right well, whichever you recommend.”
“Will be back in a second.”
And he glides off in a seamless turn of a heel.
Rose, again with those eyebrows. “Celebrity.”
“It’s his job to know my name.”
“Whatever.”
“Do you like cabernet?”
“Cabernet’s fine.”
“Yeah. I don’t know. I can’t taste much difference from one to the next.”
“Well, you ordered it with confidence.”
“Right. I’ve ruined that now, haven’t I?”
“Completely.”
“Ah well, I had a good run.”
“It’s okay. I don’t know the differences either.”
“You’re not going to twirl it around? Smell it and comment on the legs?”
“Can’t imagine doing that seriously.”
“There’s nothing worse.”
She laughs and agrees. “Nothing worse.”
In the mood lighting her emeralds shimmer.
“Work today?” I ask. She takes a sip of water and nods, “Yeah, for a second. Saul’s been taking a bit more time off, little by little, starting to trust me I guess.”
“How’ve things been?”
“At Jimmy’s?”
“Yeah.”
“Not bad. It’s not exactly a riot, but not bad.”
“No, I suppose not.”
“But it’s work, ya know? I’m happy to have it.”
“Right, yeah. You and Saul get on?”
“Well enough, I think.”
“He’s a tough one.”
“Yeah, but he’s kind of soft deep down.”
“Very.”
“He speaks highly of you.”
“Really?”
“Well, as high as he’ll go.”
“Right.”
“ He’s a good guy . I think those were his words.”
“I’ll take it.”
“I would too.”
“Does he know you’re out with me?”
“Nope.”
“Nice.”
“What would he say?”
“I really don’t know. Probably nothing.”
“What would he think ?”
“I’d like to think he’d be happy.”
Arthur returns to our table and without a word he sets two wine glasses down. He balances the neck just over the brim, and smoothly pours the red from the bottle. He does this twice and says, “I’ll be back in a moment for your order.”
Rose grabs her glass by the stem, in between her ringed fingers, and spins the wine in the base of the glass. She leans her lightly freckled nose down to the aroma and breathes in it.
“Ah, just as I expected.” With a completely composed face she meets my eyes and tilts her head slightly to the side. It’s all I can do to keep it together. “And? Have you recognized its Italian aroma?” I smile.
“Oh yes, of course, the tannins.”
“Of course. The tannins.” And I follow suit, a quick swirl. I smell what I always smell, a potent, earthy sweet and floral scent of a million unidentifiable flowers or fruits. I smell wine. “And what tannins, exactly?” I ask.
“I have no idea,” and she laughs in the middle of the sentence.
“Me either. Cheers.”
“Cheers.” It tastes fine on the tongue. “So, where’s your hideout anyway?”
“Couple blocks off Main, on the corner of Pearl and Factory.”
“That red brick place by the water tower?”
“That’s right.”
“No way?”
“Yeah,” her eyebrows raise, “Surprised?”
“A little. I just used to know the kid that grew up there.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah, Brock’s his name.”
“Good kid?”
“Troubled.”
“How troubled are we talkin?”
“Ah. A few arrests.”
“He didn’t like, commit homicide in my house, did he?”
“No, he did not commit homicide in your house.”
I laugh.
“Good. I like the place.”
“Yeah, that’s a good spot. Good as any.”
“Yeah.”
“You’ll stick around for a bit, then?”
“Looks like it, not really sure where else to go.”
“Do you miss home?”
“Doesn’t feel like home there anymore.”
“Right.”
“So.”
“I think you’ll really like it here. Eventually. Place grows on you.”
“Yeah, I think you’re right.”
And Arthur comes back around. Though we haven’t even looked at the menus. We pick them up and find ourselves relaying our orders. I’m settling in a bit now. I know she’s given me something of a hard time over the past few weeks, but why shouldn’t she? I like that. I’m thankful just to sit across from her. To hear whatever it is that she wants to offer. I close my menu and set it back on the table. Rose tells Arthur what she’d like. She’s kind and respectful. All the world is behind her green eyes. The desire to move mountains for her rises in me, the longing to make her smile and laugh. She makes you earn it and that’s just fine with me. Arthur nods and moves away swiftly.
“And what about you?” She asks.
“What about me?”
“You’ve always been in Johnston?”
“All my life.”
“How’s someone come to live their whole life in Johnston?”
“Easy as any other place, I imagine.”
“Never wanted to get up and go?” From the corner of my eye, I notice Mr. and Mrs. Schultz shuffling out the front door, elderly and slow. I believe they too have spent all their lives here in Johnston. My heart grows fond for their long journey. “I wouldn’t say that. I’ve thought about leaving. Here and there.”
“Just never happened?”
“Nah, never did.”
“Why’s that?”
“Ah I don’t know. Guess I always thought that one day I would. Day just hasn’t come yet.”
“Right.”
“Maybe looking for a reason. A real one anyway.”
“Hm.”
“And Johnston has treated me fine.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. I love it. I really do. The people, ya know. It’s a family, in a way.”
“Your parents still in town?”
“Nah. They’re not.”
“They move on out?”
“Something like that.”
“Right. See them much?”
“Not really.”
“That’s tough.”
“Can be. You been alright with all that?”
“My mom?”
“Yeah.”
“I don’t know. Not really. Good days, bad. That’s a cliché but, yeah. You know it wasn’t a shock or anything so, ya know, it was such a slow fade kind of thing. She was fighting for years, so, by the time it came, she had just been coming to terms long enough.”
“Does that help?”
“What’s that?”
“Having it happen slowly.”
“You mean instead of a tragedy or something?”
“Yeah.”
“I think so. I don’t know. I’d imagine so anyway.”
“I’d imagine too, yeah.”
“But that’s why havin Saul nearby is nice. He’s all the family I got now.”
“I can tell he’s happy you’re around.”
“Yeah, well, it’s something. It ain’t all that much some days, but he is my brother.”
“Yeah, I hear you.”
“After my mom died it made me think more about family. What it means.”
“Mhm.”
“Not that I didn’t think of it before, but it feels different now.”
“Yeah. I agree.”
“I do feel a little alone sometimes though.”
“Me too.”
“But everyone loves you.”
“Everyone knows me.”
“Yeah, yeah whatever.” Her lips on the glass hypnotize me.
“They must miss you in Ryland?”
“Maybe. But I had to go.”
“Won’t ever move back?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think so.”
“Johnston it is then.”
“Johnston it is.”
And she takes another sip. I do too. It’s a rich sort of wine that I’ve already forgotten the name of. It couldn’t matter to me less. I have a fervent warm feeling in my chest just hearing Rose talk about anything at all. Like me, I can sense she has sky-high walls built like gates to her heart. To summit them will take work and resilience. Each bit of reflection she offers is a gift that somehow climbs its way over those walls and reaches me. And what gifts they are. I begin to lament my decision to not tell her the truth about my parents, since she has spoken so honestly about hers. Well, another night. I just haven’t talked about them for a while.
She sets her glass down and says, “so, what is it you do, Cash?”
“What do I do.”
“How do you survive?”
“It ain’t easy.”
“Never is.”
“Ahhh I don’t know, little of this, little of that.”
“What’s this and that?”
“Well, I paint houses, mostly.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah, been doing that for some years now.”
“How’d you get into that?”
“Ahhh I guess I grew up painting, mostly with my mom. She was always real artistic, ya know? So, always loved that kind of stuff. Music, art, all of it. So, I’d paint with her every now and then. It ain’t so hard painting plain walls and stuff, so, yeah, I do it from time to time.”
“What else?”
“What else? Um, I used to do construction. I help people move sometimes.” “Like their houses?”
“Yeah.”
“Coulda used you a few months back.”
“I’da done it no problem.”
“Really?”
“Free of charge.”
“Damn.”
“Anyway, yeah. I do some of that. I also help out on some farms doing odd jobs. I’m kind of all over, like I say, little of this, little of that.”
“And what else?”
“Well, that’s it, pretty much. I write sometimes.”
“Ohhh, you’re a writer?”
“Why do you say it like that?” I laugh.
“I’m not saying it like anything. I really like that.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t know if I’d say I’m a writer.”
“No?”
“Used to say I was, when I was younger. Used to write all the time.”
“But not anymore?”
“Not nearly as much. Sometimes. Haven’t finished anything in years.”
“That’s okay.”
“Yeah I’ll pick it up again.”
“Someday.”
“Yeah.”
“I’ll find you on a bookshelf somewhere.”
“Wouldn’t that be somethin?”
“And for fun?”
“What do I do for fun?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, all the rest of it’s fun.”
“Hm. I love that.”
“What about you? What do you do for fun?”
“I like to play guitar.”
“Really?”
“Mhm.”
“You’re a musician?”
“In the same way you’re a writer, I think,” she smiles, a little bashful for the first time.
“How long have you been doing that?”
“Taught myself as a kid. On and off since.”
“I’d like to hear you play.”
“I don’t know about that.”
“Someday then.”
“Someday, maybe.”
“See you up on a stage.”
“Don’t get carried away.”
“Can’t help it.”
And after a few more minutes Arthur is back and he sets down our plates. We’ve both ordered the steak. “There’s nothing in the world like a tenderloin,” my father used to say. Well, he was right about that. Can’t tell ya the last time I went out and ordered myself a good steak. I know the evening is gonna cost me a decent sum, but I don’t mind in the slightest. I don’t remember the last time I took a woman out and wanted to spend everything I had on her. The flame charred meat still sizzling on the iron plate reminds me of my father. It smells, how he put it, like nothing else in the world.
“This looks incredible,” she says.
“Best in town.”
“I believe it. It’s been a while since I’ve been to a place like this.”
“Me too.”
And something about this similarity is special to us. A flicker of the lamp off a clean fork and knife. A shared smile and a gratitude for life. The steak is hot and medium rare, it nearly melts in my mouth, and in between bites, Rose and I further explore the little intricacies we both seem to like most about life.
“It used to be my parents’. I like fixing it up, keeping it in order.”
“You love living out there huh?”
“Yeah, I do, the freedom of the country. There’s nothing like it, all that land and God, it’s the best right now.”
“The trees changing colors.”
“Exactly.”
“It’s my favorite time of year.”
“I love driving through it all. Some nights I’ll hop in around sunset and just go.”
“I do that too.”
“Just drive for hours playing music all night.”
“The best. Windows down, cigarette.”
“You smoke?”
“Sometimes. On drives like that I do.”
“Yeah.”
“Or when I’m drinking.”
“Always when I’m drinking.”
“You love drinkin, huh?”
“How’d you guess?”
“Ah, I can tell.”
“Well yeah, I do.”
“What do you love so much about it?”
“I don’t know. Everything.”
“Hm.”
“The taste. The freedom, nostalgia.”
“All the above.”
“The romance.”
“Romance. You think so?”
“I do.”
“That’s nice.”
“To a point. Too much of anything, not always good.”
“Yeah. Not always.”
“What about you? You agree at all?”
“I do.”
“I knew it.”
“You knew I’m an alcoholic?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“What’d you know?”
“That you saw it same as me.”
“You think I do?”
“Do you?”
“Maybe.”
God, her smile lights me on fire.
“My dad used to say it ain’t gonna drink itself,” I say.
“I’m sure my dad loved that one.”
“It all started with my father, yeah.”
“He’s a big drinker?”
“You could say that.”
“Maybe we aren’t so different, you and me.”
“No, maybe not.”
“We share that, anyway.”
“Suppose so. How’s the steak?”
“Unbelievable.”
“Right?”
“So good.”
“It might sound crazy but sometimes I feel closer to God when I drink.”
“What do you mean?”
“All the noises turn off, you know? They go quiet. It’s just that hum. And sometimes, I just feel like I can really listen, or I can really see. And I get inspired or I tap into the real feeling. Sometimes I’ll write for hours, sometimes days. Sometimes I just stare at the sky and listen to music. It’s crazy but it could be anything.”
“I don’t think that’s crazy.”
“No?”
“Not at all. I’m the same.”
“Really?”
“Really, yeah. Always been. I remember I would sneak some outta my mom’s cupboards during school years and I’d hide away in my room or run off outside somewhere and do it. I was so curious about it. Like a science experiment or something at first. I just wanted to know.”
“Same.”
“Some nights I’d stay up playin my guitar softly in my room or out by the field. Drinking, dreaming. I thought that maybe I was strange. A bit of an alien.”
“Not at all.”
“I don’t know, I loved it though.”
“I’d really like to hear you play.”
“Okay.”
“Okay?”
“Okay. Someday. Not tonight.”
“Alright.”
“I don’t play for just anyone, ya know.”
“That doesn’t surprise me.”
And it’s almost unbelievable, I’m tellin ya, but Rose is looking at me differently now. She’s more happy and free, starting to trust me. “You’re different than most of the guys I’ve met around here.”
“Different how?”
“Just different.”
“Well, you aren’t the only one who feels like an alien sometimes.”
“Yeah?”
“I never really fit in, not fully—”
“Me either.” The words land and we feel it, that moment you see your reflection in another. I knew it from the second I first saw her, but I’m more sure of it now. We drink our wine and enjoy the taste, whatever mysterious tannins are inside it.
Before long, we finish our plates and Arthur takes them away. Rose’s chest is rising and falling, her cheeks are a little red, as are mine. I’m sure they’re warm to the touch, soft. I know we both have much more to share. Her forest green eyes. I know they see right through me. I’m exposed. I know it, she knows. So it goes. So it goes. She taps her fingers on the table.
Radiating, she asks, “So, what now?”
And I have no chance to hide the wide smile that plays obvious across my face.
“You wanna keep seein me?”
She smirks so fine and silly and says, “Yeah dummy, I do.”