11. It Probably Wasnt Stalking
Chapter eleven
It Probably Wasn't Stalking
Paul
While I should have been paying attention to every detail at the farm expo the next morning, my mind was still stuck on seeing Maggie at the bar last night.
While I’d also had a drink with the famous Wyatt Jones, a country singer I’d listened to my whole life, it was Maggie being with the sniffer that had me distracted.
I knew the day she left that she’d taken a good chunk of my heart. The more I listened to Wyatt and his songs, and even after seeing her, I knew one thing for sure: I didn’t want it back.
Forcing myself to focus on the newest research on soil additives, I got back to doing what I always did and dove into my work.
I went table to table, collecting brochures, listening to spiels, and after an hour of learning about new ways to enrich the soil, I watched a movie demonstration of new farm equipment.
With over fifty million dollars of equipment at the expo, the hope was that these demonstrations would keep my mind occupied until the end of the day.
About the fortieth time watching videos of plowing a field, though, my mind drifted to Maggie.
Pulling out my phone, I checked how far I was from Maggie’s apartment.
Maybe if I just saw where she lived, making sure it was in a safe neighborhood, I could drive back tomorrow with a clear conscious.
Seeing her settled and happy was the whole point of coming here.
A niggling feeling that it might be creepy crossed my mind. However, I wasn’t going into her apartment. She wouldn’t even know I’d been there.
When I had enough pictures of farm equipment and a bag full of informational sheets, magnets, pens, and trucker hats, I left the expo hall and dropped everything off at my hotel room.
Then, I took a shower to wash off the grime of the day and relieve that certain problem that afflicted me after thinking about Maggie.
With a towel wrapped around my waist, I checked on Kent Designs across the street.
It was about seven o’clock and most of the offices were dark.
Throwing on a fresh black t-shirt and faded jeans, I made it to the window in time to see Maggie leaving the office.
Tossing on my socks and boots, I raced downstairs and followed her from a distance just to make sure she got home safely.
I couldn’t see her face, but from the way she nibbled on her fingernail while staring off into space, I knew she was deep in thought.
What was she thinking about that was so distracting?
Was she worried about work? What was she doing for art these days?
She didn’t even wear a camera or stop to take shots all the time like she used to when we were kids.
Back in high school, a famous artist came to Mainview.
It was our senior year, so Dad let me drive Maggie to the exhibit.
Looking around at the paintings and sculptures, I didn’t see what the big deal was, but then I listened to her describe what she saw.
With every word, I saw the swirls of paint the way she saw them, and it changed everything.
What could have been a boring night turned into one of the most special moments we had before she left.
So, why wasn’t she noticing beauty around her now?
While I kept track of Maggie walking home, I also kept an eye on the street signs as we took what seemed like a circuitous way back to her place. I wondered what could be bothering her enough to make her chew on her fingernail and take an extra-long walk. It had to be something big for that.
Back when we were kids, it usually had something to do with her parents or how they argued over her rebellions.
The gossip mill hadn’t said a word about any contact from Maggie, and Jo Ellen would have blabbed all about it at the diner, so I didn’t think she had.
In fact, it was unusual that so little was ever said about her.
I wondered if she still talked to her friend, Suzie.
The only word on the Roths lately was that Maggie’s mom wasn’t well.
Hadn’t heard what was wrong, but she had a lot of trips to Mainview to see a doctor.
Jo Ellen thought maybe cancer, but had no way to confirm it since the Roths were very private people.
Those who still attended her father’s church said his only comment was to keep her in their prayers.
Part of me hoped Maggie did check in with them sometimes so she knew of her mom’s condition.
As we turned onto South Michigan Avenue, I knew we were only a couple blocks from her apartment building.
The amount of foot traffic thinned out a bit, so I kept my distance.
This was a more residential side of town, so unless a person lived back here or wanted one of the smaller businesses tucked in among the apartment buildings, they had no reason to be here.
A few blocks down, I stood across the street as Maggie unlocked her apartment building.
Looking up, I admired the seven-story white brick apartment building from the late 1800s.
From what I saw online of the other apartments for rent, the inside looked nice enough, industrially styled with exposed pipes and open ceilings.
While I didn’t know whether Maggie personalized hers, I didn’t think she would leave it plain.
The few times I’d been to her house in high school, I snuck a peek of her room where the walls were plastered with her drawings, photographs she took, things she kept from our times together, playbills from the musicals she went to with her family, and all things Chicago.
I never saw a musical. Dad didn’t see the practicality of seeing shows of things that didn’t happen and weren’t real. Even if a show depicted something that could have happened during a real era in history, he didn’t see any reason to revisit it.
“The past is the past,” Dad always said.
While I wished I could live that way, it was apparent that I couldn’t. Maggie was my past and, more than ever, I didn’t want her to stay there; I wanted her to be my future.
As she went into the building, I held my breath.
I didn’t think she’d noticed me on the way here.
I could have called to her, got her attention, and invited her out for dinner or something.
I could have stopped her, held her arm, and leaned in for a kiss.
But she had a boyfriend, so I didn’t. And now I wouldn’t because she was gone, up to her fifth-floor apartment.
I knew I should turn around and leave. I saw her home safely and there was nothing more to do now that wasn’t creepy, but my boots were rooted to the ground.
I couldn’t move a muscle. Especially when her balcony door opened and she stepped out in yoga pants and a tank top.
My, oh, my. She looked incredible. With a glass of wine that she set on the small table next to her chair, she sat with her knees up to her chest facing Lake Michigan.
From her viewpoint, she could probably see a little patch of the water and visited it every day.
Leaning back against the building opposite her, I could just make out the side of her face.
She still nibbled on her fingernail, but every once in a while, she would take a sip of white wine.
When the breeze would kick up off the lake, it blew her long hair back and gave me a beautiful view of her bare shoulder.
How could a shoulder get a man worked up?
I couldn’t explain it, but it sure as hell did.
My insides felt all knotted up, seeing her so happy here, comfortable in the city she always wanted to live in and content with her work. Even working long hours didn’t seem to bother her. She had everything she’d always wanted.
It was time to admit that this was where Maggie belonged. She worked hard for what she had and loved every minute of her city life. I’d only be in her way if I stepped back into her life.
With a resigned sigh, I turned and headed back to my hotel.
Streetlights flickered on as I strolled down a busy street.
Despite all the noise of the city, I could see the allure being out at this time of night.
It was beautiful with the fading sunlight and lights in the windows and under awnings.
But the streets were cramped as people bustled around.
Things felt claustrophobic with tall buildings all around.
Cars were everywhere, air was anything but fresh, and just when I was wondering if I could take it another minute, a gallery door opened like a beacon to a better world.
Taking a step inside, it felt like was transported somewhere entirely different, somewhere minimalistic with the only art on the walls and wide-open spaces in between them. However, it was the scent of mint and freshly cut grass that caught my attention.
“Well, good evening, sir,” a man said to me. “Is this your first time here?”
I ignored his question as I stared at the canvases. “These are incredible. Who’s the artist?”
The man handed me a business card. “Russell Spencer.”
My head snapped up to look at him. “Really?” That was the artist I saw with Maggie back in high school. “I’ve seen his work before, but it’s been years.”
The man looked a little startled but quickly covered his surprise. “His work has matured.”
Nodding, I moved to the next one. The man melted away leaving me alone to gaze at the rural Midwest paintings.
Fields of hay. Tall corn growing. Sun beating down on workers in the field.
When I saw the painting of a man staring at the horizon while wiping the sweat off his brow, a barn in the distance and a whole day’s worth of work ahead of him, I felt a desire unlike any I’d felt before. I needed this painting.
Unlike Maggie’s walls, mine were always bare. No posters or excess. Dad didn’t like stuff put on our walls for the most part. No use for it. The few things I had to remind me of Maggie, her drawings and mementos of our time together, were in a shoebox under my bed.
But this painting? It reminded me of a hard day’s work. What I lived for. Why I went out there and gave one hundred percent every day. For a chance to work the land and for it to provide for us and others.
With a short conversation, some money exchanged hands and the man went into the back to box up the painting for me. It wasn’t that expensive or anything worth stealing, but just the same, I took a cab back to my hotel.
That night, as I rested in bed, I heard sirens and cars driving by instead of the usual chirp of cicadas and toads down by the pond.
Sleep was elusive and, while I would usually blame it on the noise, I knew it was the fact that I had to leave tomorrow.
Being close to Maggie was better than never seeing her again, even if I never talked to her. Even if she didn’t see me.
As it always was, being in her presence made me feel like a different man.
An interesting one who enjoyed art and appreciated life.
Once I went back to the farm, I was just the reliable farmer again.
A dime a dozen. It left a bitter taste in my mouth, but my life was already set. Nothing I could do about it now.