Of Literature and Lattes, page 7
“He called you?” Alyssa cut her off.
“He calls me every day.” Janet spoke softly, slowly, as if trying to share with her something more than mere facts.
“How’d you convince him to forget what you did? How’d you do it?”
“I didn’t convince your dad of anything, Alyssa, and he’ll never forget. Neither will I.”
Janet stepped into the center of the room. Her perfume filled the space. It was rich and floral, the height of spring tipping to summer, filled with jasmine, lily, and sunshine. Then a vanilla note reached Alyssa—the base note that grounded all the others and brought them home. This home. Alyssa stepped forward before she caught herself, and stepped back twice to make up for her lapse.
Janet smiled and gestured to Alyssa’s outfit.
Alyssa looked down and could only imagine how silly she looked. She pulled at the T-shirt, trying to create space between herself and it, trying to create distance from the girl she had been to the strong woman she thought she had become.
“Dad also mentioned your car was broken into and that you lost all your stuff. Not that you don’t fit into those.” Janet smiled again.
“Lucky me.” Alyssa plucked harder. “Until I make some money, this is what I’ve got.”
“You can borrow some of mine. Or I’ll take you shopping.”
“No,” Alyssa barked. She looked at her mom’s outstretched hand and shook her head at the offered olive branch. “I can’t do this . . . I don’t know how you manipulated Dad, but I can’t pretend everything’s okay, Mom. I can’t borrow your clothes or take your money. We don’t have that kind of relationship. You ruined it.”
“But we can. If you let us.”
“You think it’s that easy? That all of a sudden anything and everything I do is going to be good enough for you? That what you did—because you’re the one who did it—should be okay and everyone should just forgive, forget, move on, and get with the program, your program, because you say so? Well, we can’t. We are not okay, Mom. I am not okay.”
Chapter 9
Alyssa heard her last sentence. It took on a life of its own and filled the room. I am not okay.
It was so much more than XGC, more than losing everything and landing back in her old clothes in her old room. It was a new reality she hadn’t yet had the courage to face. I am not okay. She repeated the words to herself, unable to deny their truth.
She dashed from the room and down the stairs, through the kitchen, and slammed the back door on her way out. When had she last been okay? It was a question she hadn’t drawn close to asking. Probably because she instinctively knew there was no answer, no incident or point within her life she could fix upon. Besides, what was the point of asking questions that had no answers? But they do, something deep within her whispered. All questions have answers.
Taking out a few flowers while turning around in the driveway, Alyssa sped onto Little Pine Avenue and headed west. She dug through her handbag, popped three Tums into her mouth at the stop sign, and looked down at her clothes with a groan. She was still dressed in 2004.
Going back is the quickest way on.
She almost laughed because it was the only way on. She literally, figuratively, and all -ivelys in between had nowhere else to go but back.
She lowered her forehead to the steering wheel and tapped it as she cycled through her options. Unless her dad relented, and he wasn’t going to, home with Mom was all that was on offer. With no money, even crashing with Lexi and her husband was not an option—not that crashing in their tiny two-bedroom ever was. There truly was only back.
Alyssa sat up straight. She could do this—until Labor Day weekend, just as she’d said. She could play the game. After all, she’d learned from the best. Her mom was formidable, always had been, but Alyssa too could be a force—of unblinking obduracy. She needed the summer to get her feet under her, and if ignoring her mom for a few months was what it took, so be it.
She pushed the accelerator and turned the wheel to circle the block and go home.
The car didn’t move.
“No . . . no . . . no . . . Not now.”
The engine flipped at her first attempt, ground oddly at her second, and after another four tries stopped turning over at all. She gave up and walked the half mile of tree-lined Little Pine Avenue to Cypress Street and on to Jasper’s Garage three blocks farther down.
“Mr. Jasper?”
The sun was hot now, and a small rivulet of sweat ran down that too-tight white T-shirt. Alyssa plucked at it again.
“I know you. How are you?” The man grinned, calling forth an answering grin from Alyssa.
He had been giving that line to everyone for years. Alyssa doubted he remembered her at all, but the way he always said it, even when she was a teenager buying Red Vines, made her and everyone else feel seen and welcomed.
“Alyssa Harrison. It’s nice to see you, sir.”
“Sir?” Jasper rubbed his hands down his uniform shirt. “You call me Jasper. What can I do you for?”
“My car died.” Alyssa pointed down the street. “It’s a 2010 Honda CRV.”
“Did it now?” Jasper followed her gaze down the street. “I got no one here right now. I can call you a tow unless you can get her here.”
“The engine stopped turning and—” Alyssa’s lips fell open as the consequences of some money-saving moments materialized. She’d dropped the rental, towing, and a few other amenities to her insurance three months before. An eight-dollars-a-month savings was going to cost her hundreds now. “Don’t call anyone. I’ll get it here,” she assured him and headed back to her car.
For the entire walk she chanted, “It’ll start,” to herself, only to change the mantra to a full lecture upon reaching the car. “You have to start. Do you hear me? You don’t have any options, so get the job done.”
Five minutes of solid lecturing did not start the car. Two more minutes got it to start and roll through the intersection, but then nothing. Another ten minutes of red-faced berating didn’t turn the engine again.
Alyssa shot straight up as someone tapped on her driver’s window. He looked familiar, but she couldn’t place him.
She stepped out of the car again—even the electric window no longer rolled down.
“Do you need help?” His eyes were warm and welcoming. Then he blinked, and his smile tipped into a grin. “I’m Chris McCullough, and you are clearly Alyssa Harrison.” He pumped her hand. “I’m a friend of your mom’s. What’s the trouble?”
“It won’t start, and I need to get it to Jasper’s.” She pointed down the street, then faced Chris again. “Did . . . did she send you?”
“Was she supposed to?” Chris tilted his head in question.
At Alyssa’s head shake, he tapped her car’s hood. “Put it in neutral and keep your foot off the brake.”
She watched him walk back to his pickup and tried again to place where she’d seen him.
He moved his truck slowly into her car, bumper to bumper.
She quickly climbed into her car, put the engine in neutral, and kept her feet flat on the floorboard. His truck pressed so gently she didn’t feel a jolt, just the movement of her car forward. Soon she was turning the wheel and rolling it into Jasper’s parking lot.
“Thank you so much. I don’t really know what to say.”
“You’re welcome and it’s very nice to meet you, Alyssa. I’d stay, but I need to be at the hospital in ten.”
“Oh . . . I’m sorry.”
He threw her a quizzical glance. “Don’t be . . . Tell your mom I said hi.”
She shook his hand through his truck window, and as he drove away, she remembered. It was the guy her mom had been talking to in the bookshop as Alyssa looked through the window. She remembered Janet’s animated face, Chris’s laughter, and his joy just now at mentioning her mom’s name. It matched her mom’s light and laughter upon entering her bedroom—and none of it made any sense, like a puzzle with edges that didn’t align.
“Ohhh . . . eeee . . .”
Alyssa turned. Jasper was deep under her car’s hood.
“Is it bad?”
“Real bad. You’ve blown your mass airflow sensor and your alternator is shot.”
“Will it cost a lot?”
Jasper looked at her, and something in his eyes flickered and softened. “Even if I don’t charge you labor, the parts will cost you close to $1,200.”
“I don’t have that kind of money.” She closed her eyes and felt like Alice falling down the rabbit hole. She opened them quickly before she hit a new bottom, and her gaze caught upon a sign.
She pointed to it. “You have a Help Wanted sign in your window. Can I work off the cost of the repairs?”
The older man’s eyes widened beyond reason. “You want to work here?”
“I need the money. I need my car. And you need help.”
“I do, but I don’t think that’ll work.” He worried a rag between his hands.
Alyssa noted the dark lines of grease following each wrinkle and along his cuticles. She almost agreed with his statement until she remembered hers. She needed the money. More than that, she needed someone to believe in her and let her prove herself on any level. “Please. I need work.”
Jasper stared at her. She worked to keep her gaze steady.
“I’ll give you a try.”
Chapter 10
“Best hour of the week.” Mike Stowell, dressed and ready for work in his Gramercy Electric uniform shirt, reached across Seth Harrison for a packet of sugar.
“Certainly the one I need the most.” Seth chuckled and turned to look around the room.
Over the twenty years they’d gathered, these men had become good friends, trusted friends. In good times they’d watched ball games together, met for Saturday afternoon beers to chat work and life, and shot each other random emails, jokes, and texts to stay connected and encourage each other through the week.
But in bad times—and the last three years had been saturated with those—they had really shined. Mike, showing up with frozen dinners at his apartment right after he’d left Janet. Roger, meeting him for coffee and even switching trains so Seth had a friend to chat with in the mornings on the way to work. Pickup games of basketball or tennis on the weekends. And this group every Thursday morning.
Seth saw Andante’s new owner walk in the door . . . Jeremy something or other. He tried to remember what Janet had said about him. She liked the young man, said he was working hard, that he reminded her of herself.
For years people had seen one persona of his wife—confident, charming, adept, pulled together, the consummate hostess. The kids had seen other traits within their mom—controlling, manic, and manipulative. And while he’d reprimanded them when they rolled too far, he had to admit he’d let them vent too often and with too much freedom over the past three years.
It had soothed his ache. It felt good to have all those fingers, those daggers, pointing at Janet and not at him. But all along—even in his lowest moments—he’d known the truth. Janet’s control and brave façade covered a bottomless well of doubt. So certain that her substance was virtually nil, she had buffed on the brightest gloss. Only when scratched could one see how thin her top layer really was.
And while that brought some measure of comfort, it also brought his greatest hurt. Yes, Janet had been the one who cheated. In one night she’d betrayed him, their marriage, and their family. She had defied everything he thought they were. But that night also made it painfully clear how for years he’d taken his understanding of his wife for granted; how he had acted as if the image, and not her substance, was the real Janet; how he had left her alone years before she left him. And how, in the end, it wasn’t his strength that had ushered in their newfound “good times”; it was her act of humility and courage.
Mike caught sight of Jeremy and pounced. “You own the Daily Brew, don’t you?”
“I renamed it, but yes.” Jeremy’s eyes widened, and a minute step backward revealed he was one handshake from fleeing.
Almost as if Mike sensed it, he clamped a congenial hand on Jeremy’s shoulder. The younger man was going nowhere now. “I keep forgetting to call it that . . . Georgia Pavlis is my aunt.”
“You’re kidding.” Jeremy smiled. “She’s a good woman. She used to call up personally to buy her beans from a place I worked at out in Seattle. She never ordered online.”
“That’s Aunt Georgie. A few decades late and always up for a good chat.” Mike laughed, and Jeremy visibly relaxed.
Their little group broke up with no more words as the new pastor called them to a circle of chairs.
Seth noted that Pastor Zachary Lennox, only three months at Winsome Presbyterian Church, in whose basement they sat, looked to Father Luke McCullough from St. Francis de Sales Catholic Church for confirmation as he waved the men to order. Once seated, Father Luke gave a tiny confirming nod, and Pastor Zach bowed his head.
“Lord, thank you that so many of us could make it here today. Bless our brothers who couldn’t join us and be in our conversations this morning. Also stay close as we leave and travel into the day. Help each man to follow you in every aspect of his life. Amen.” He looked up and smiled across the group. “I’m so glad you all are here today. This week I sent out Luke 6:42, and I’ll read it quickly to start off our discussion. ‘How can you say to your brother, “Brother, let me take the speck out of your eye,” when you yourself fail to see the plank in your own eye? You hypocrite, first take the plank out of your eye, and then you will see clearly to remove the speck from your brother’s eye.’ Any thoughts about that big old plank and the tiny speck?”
“Some reading, Pastor,” Mike offered with a laugh. “Sure brought home that I don’t see things clearly.”
Seth, usually reluctant to chime in, found himself joining Mike. “It was a hard passage for me, actually. Self-reliance fooled me for years. I thought it was a virtue, but I—” He looked around the room and conceded that every man knew him, and his story. “You all know I blamed Janet for”—he shrugged—“a speck—a sharp, painful speck, but still a speck—compared to my own plank.”
Pastor Zach nodded. He, of course, didn’t know what everyone else did, but by the nods, murmurs, and soft chuffs, he could tell the other men had walked closely with Seth. This group continually surprised him like that. He’d been at four churches in his short decade as a pastor, and never had he witnessed a group of men who shared so openly and spoke with such honesty—and met with such regularity. One hour each and every Thursday morning, without fail.
“Just don’t get in our way,” one of the members had told him early on. “We want you there to guide us, but don’t tell us what to think or how to meet each other where we need to be met.”
Zach had swallowed, nodded, and heeded the warning. But it had left him on edge too. He didn’t want to detract from their meetings in any way, but wasn’t he also supposed to guide and shepherd them? But rather than get the job done, it always left him looking to Father Luke from the Catholic church down the street, the other clergyman who attended the Thursday morning gatherings.
A prolonged silence snagged Zach’s attention. Everyone stared at him. He cleared his throat. “I’m sorry . . . Could you repeat that?”
Zach grimaced as a man with “Pete’s Plumbing” embroidered on his shirt—what was his name?—repeated his words.
“I said planks also hold things up. A good plank provides support . . . And it got me thinking about stuff I rely on, not unlike what you said, Seth. Stuff that I shouldn’t rely on. I can’t help anybody if I’m hanging tight to something.”
“Good point.” Zach leaned forward. “That’s a really good point.”
He doubled his efforts to engage with enthusiasm, until he noted a couple men glancing at their watches. He lifted his wrist. “Oh . . . Hey . . . We’ve run over. I’m sorry, gentlemen. I should set a timer. Any prayer concerns before we go?”
Mike Stowell raised his hand. “I’m sure you all notice George isn’t here today. Margery isn’t doing well.”
Quiet concern filled the room. Zach didn’t remember George. He needed to remember their names, their faces, and their concerns. How could he guide them if he didn’t even know them? He took a quick silent survey as the men asked Mike about George and Margery, and realized he only knew the names of half of those present.
It didn’t matter that he was new. It didn’t matter that this was his first assignment as head pastor, of over one thousand congregants, and that his head spun with all the input and the suggestions, the names and the faces. His wife said it would all come together, but he suspected she was just being kind. She knew far more names than he did, and had integrated much better into the life of their church, the schools their kids would attend, and their community. Last week he’d started to have nightmares about the whole thing.
As the questions and conversation faded, all looked to him again to close the morning. He, of course, looked to Father Luke, who smiled back at him, then bowed his head. “Let’s close in a quick prayer.”
As the men left, Zach busied himself with replacing the chairs. He needed to stop looking to the other man for advice. Grabbing another chair, he almost bumped into him.
“It’s not easy, is it? At least you don’t rotate like we do.”
“Thank God,” Zach exclaimed. “It is truly an answered prayer for me.” He looked around the basement room. “If I don’t screw this up, I could be here till I retire.”
Father Luke chuckled. “I get it. In my twenty-five years, I’ve had nothing longer than seven years in one parish. Most have been three to four years.”
“And St. Francis?”
“I’ve been here four years. I suspect they’ll keep me a full seven, if not a little longer. I’m not getting any younger, but more importantly, the parish is growing and thriving right now—another ‘Thank God.’”
