Chapter 1
Just Another Day
Important encounters are planned by the soul
long before bodies see each other.
Paulo Coelho
I remember the day my editor sauntered over to my shitty little desk in the corner of the noisy newsroom. He took the time along the way to be chummy with all of his star writers with their window seats and views of the city. Since it appeared I would have plenty of time, I took the opportunity to clear off the empty coffee cups and fast food wrappers that were strewn over my desk in a failed attempt to make it look like I had some pride in my environment. I remember someone telling me once that people cared about things like that. It never made sense to me, but I try to fit in if it’s convenient.
Being the guy that writes the obituary column and the police-blotter-daily isn’t a glamorous life—it’s never going to earn a Pulitzer prize, but it pays the bills. The job certainly isn’t what I had started off wanting to do with my life. I had dreams like every young writer. Dreams of becoming a journalist, breaking a story about some bullshit conspiracy at the top of the government. I imagined having to be put into witness protection because I had finally cracked the code that brought organized crime to its knees. Sadly, I just wasn’t that good, or at least not that motivated. Finding the niche of happily taking the crap jobs that nobody else wanted, kept me around and allowed me to call myself a writer—a journalist—and at the end of the day, that’s all I really wanted. The title.
“Jake, I have a job for you.”
The City Editor of our little paper, circulation 400,000, might as well have been wearing a crown and cape. He treated his domain like his personal kingdom and his star writers like his court. The rest of us were serfs barely worth his notice until he needed something done the barons weren’t interested in doing. His overweight body, red face, and balding grey head was so cliché you just wanted to go grab him a goblet of wine and say, “Yes, oh majestic and portly one, howsoever may I serve your mighty hiney?” One Christmas I bought him a large red velvet cushion with gold dangling tassels to replace the torn leather seat on his office chair. He didn’t get the joke. He loved it.
“Yes Mr. Dawdson, what do you need? Is there a missing dog that needs its own lost and found page, or are they falling behind in the classifieds department again?” Yeah … I’m that guy too.
The man’s rat-like little eyes stared out from a sweat soaked, chubby little face weighing his options, “You can work on those later. I’m making some changes around here and need a lighter article, long form, something touchy-feely. We’ve been running politics, crime, and government corruption into the dirt this year and I think the community needs some fluff. You know, something meaningless and community-oriented.”
“And you want me to write it?!?”
“Well, of course I do Jakey boy! Who else is going to do it? Nobody else around here wants to write a fluff piece, I’ve already asked. You wouldn’t have been my first choice, but if there’s one thing I know, it’s how to work with what I have. Here’s what I want you to do. I want a piece on old people and how they are dealing with the changing times. Go find someone elderly that’s having a hard time figuring out how to live in the technology age; write about how much easier it was when you could read your news in a paper instead of on a computer. Let’s do a nostalgia piece that makes people say, “Hell Yeah! I wanna buy a newspaper for old-time’s sake!”
My first uncharitable thought was, “Can’t I just interview you? You haven’t even written your own email in twenty-years.” He obviously had become concerned about his circulation numbers again. Dawdson hadn’t embraced the fact that all the news a person had time for was available on the internet at little or no cost. He had fought setting up a webpage for his paper tooth and nail, until his granddaughter—age nine—showed him the Wall Street Journal on her smartphone. Dawdson might be a stubborn overbearing loudmouth, but even he could see the writing on the wall. Change or die.
“Can I just pull some old dead person off the obits page and talk to the kids? I don’t really get along with old people. They talk too slow and you have to repeat yourself twenty times just to get them to understand your question. Then all they want to talk about is their grandkids and how their children never visit.”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake Jake don’t be disrespectful. There are plenty of old folks that will talk your ear off with how great things used to be. Go to any old-folks home and look for the ones that aren’t still in their bathrobes. This is a fluff piece, it doesn’t even have to be researched. If they aren’t saying exactly what you want, make it up with the line, “As we talked I got the impression…” or some bullshit like that. This is long-form and new and needs to be fit in with your other duties, but I want it ready to print in 30 days. If it works, it will be a monthly column. This is your chance for a byline, don’t fuck it up.”
With that, he waddled back towards his office patting the award-winning sports reporter on the back, giving a thumbs-up to the very popular life-advice columnist, and making lunch plans with the dude that writes all of the “Your Government in Action” stories. Over the multiple years I had been stuck in this little corner of Hell, I’d already seen dozens like them come and go. Some move on to bigger organizations, some became novelists, a few went the network news route to write copy for gorgeous television-ready autobots. Early on, I had considered trying to move up the news-business ladder but after the first two, “Thanks, but you aren’t what we’re looking for,” I gave up and focused on the job I already had. Like I said, I’m never going to win a Pulitzer, but it pays the bills.
There is a lot more to writing an obituary section than one would think. It’s not glamorous, but every family member of the deceased cuts out your work and saves it in a scrapbook somewhere. More of my work still exists in print than anyone else’s in the newsroom and that made it worth putting some effort into. Frequently, “fan mail” arrives with a kind, yet uncomfortable, “Thank You for the way you presented my loved one” message. But then there’s also the hate mail telling me what I should have said, or even worse, the “How could you have said something nice about that piece of shit” message.
If I was about to embark on a new project, I would have to prioritize my time and efforts. My duties already took up most of my day and finding time to have a cigarette, grab a coffee, or play on my phone was already difficult. There was no chance I was going to put in extra hours just to make my dictator of a boss happy. Until this project was done, the future Obits were just going to have to read, “born… died… had some family left behind… finí.” Let’s face it, that’s all most people ever get anyway. The people who were interested already knew the person’s history and nobody else, except ambulance-chasing financial advisors really cared.
The first two hours of my morning were devoted to cracking out the, “These people died this week” notices before I could sneak out and grab a smoke. Standing almost exactly nine feet away from the door and the sign that said, “No smoking within 10 feet of the doors” (I’m a passive-aggressive rebel) always gave me a chance to reflect upon where I was in my life. After all, in this day and age of pseudo-health nuts and anti-smokers, there wasn’t anyone to have a conversation with but myself. I’d quit smoking, except I always felt the act of lighting a cigarette was a protest to “the Man” and I’d be damned if I wasn’t going to fight conformity with the last of my phlegm-filled, hacking and gasping breath. They could take everything from me including my life, but I’d always have my pride.
As the first person passed by, feigning a fake cough as she smugly walked through my tiny cloud of smoke, my mind wandered not to my job or to my youth, but to my failed marriage. Jennifer was my first and only love. We had met in high school and started dating our Junior year. Writing and a love of reading had brought us together and we would spend every minute of our free time after school sharing our dreams and ideas. The fact that she was gorgeous and willing to give me the time of day was just a bonus.
Senior year we wrote our first awful novel together. It was juvenile, with a total lack of depth and understanding of what life was really like. It was naïve and filled with impossible scenarios. We tried to write a sex scene into the book, but both being virgins it was little more than a teenage fantasy and, as we would learn, physically impossible. It did, however give us the idea that a good author needed to do research before they attempted to write about a topic they were not intimately familiar with. Throughout the rest of our senior year… we did a lot of research.
Neither of us had scholarship-level grades or were gifted athletes. Our parents were both middle-class working stiffs that did their best to provide for their children, but simply didn’t have the money to fund a university education. Jennifer and I worked to pay for our tuition at the local community college, it was only part-time, but it gave us a start. By the time we were twenty, we had managed to scrape together enough money to get a small studio apartment and move in together. Jennifer’s parents weren’t thrilled with the idea, but I had been part of their lives for so long, it wasn’t unexpected.
Our days were filled with minimum-wage jobs at the local mall, mixed in with classes as we scrambled to get our Associates Degrees. Our evenings were filled with homework as we sat together discussing everything from Ancient Greece to zebra mating rituals (more interesting than you may think), and our nights… well our nights were filled with passion and exploration as we “researched” the topics of human anatomy and sexuality.
If I knew then what I know now, I probably never would have left that little apartment. In many ways, I don’t think I ever fully had. I simply walked out the door one day to go to work and always expected that I would eventually come back home to the place I loved. Finding my way back to that apartment never happened and even though I still had Jen by my side, it was never the same again.
As I took a last drag on my cigarette, tossing it on the ground instead of the ashtray that was a foot away, I thought to myself, “Where the hell am I going to find an interesting old person?”
ж
The recently cleared-off desk looked slightly more organized, almost like a desk of someone who cared. The file that was supposed to be sitting on top of the empty coffee cup was missing. The post-it note with the phone number of that lady with the dead husband wasn’t on the corner edge of the computer screen. The favorite cheap plastic pen with the chewed-up lid wasn’t lying next to the dusty plastic plant which also was oddly missing. The work environment was completely unacceptable, and it was Mr. Dawdson’s fault. Had he not wandered over to unload a bullshit assignment, forcing the quick stash-and-dash cleaning emergency, nothing would have changed. As it was, the distraction of having so much order in his life left Jake flustered and confused. It took nearly an hour before he was able to pick up a phone and call the first retirement center on his list.
“Hi, this is Jake Mathis with the Springfield Daily Bugle. Do you have a minute to chat about a story I’ll be working on?”
The odd silence on the other end of the line was particularly disturbing because there was a gurgling sound coming from the other end that was just barely perceptible.
“Jake Mathis? Aren’t you the Obituary guy? You’ve written a few stories about some of our residents that were very flattering. Others… well… you make a lot up don’t you?”
Who needs a byline? Apparently, I was far more famous than I had originally guessed. Instead of getting defensive, I tend to find explaining myself tiresome, I simply avoided the question and plowed on. I had learned that somewhere in a journalism class. When the person you are interviewing gets off topic, drag them back to where you want them by their toes if you have to, but never follow them into the topic they would rather you focus on.
“Yes, the obits are one of the duties I fulfill at the Bugle. Now as for the story I’m writing…”
“You know, a few weeks ago you wrote an obit for Ezra Tautabaum and you said he was a beloved member of the Episcopal Church and his services would be held at St. Mary’s Catholic Church. He was Jewish you know, and his funeral was held at the gravesite itself. Did you actually talk to anyone before you wrote that announcement?”
I had in fact, had a long chat with the family and confirmed the details quite meticulously. The breakdown came from the Smith and O’Reilly families who sadly lost loved ones on the same day. If people had read all three announcements they would have been able to figure out where to go. Besides, as I understood it, the families that showed up at the wrong place had a wonderful time, made new friends, and had little or no stress over the burial of their loved ones. It worked out. Most things do.
“Listen, that’s not why I’m calling. I’m writing a monthly column about the elderly and the difficulties with changing technologies. I’m hoping you can help me find somebody old. The older the better in fact. But not so old they don’t even understand what technology is.”
“Mr. Mathis, do you know what kind of facility we operate here? Are you familiar with the term ‘Memory Care?’ We work almost exclusively with Alzheimer’s patients. I don’t believe you’ve called the right place.”
“So, you’re saying you don’t know anyone that would be appropriate for me to speak with. Why didn’t you say that to begin with? You could have save us both a considerable amount of time. Have a lovely day.”
The next call went much the same way and with a similar result. When you look up “Elder Care” on the internet they really should be more specific in their description. Apparently, hospice is not only for the elderly, but the elderly that are there aren’t in the mood to discuss smart phones.
Two calls and two strikeouts, it was definitely time to have another cigarette and reevaluate my approach.
As I stood outside the building, eight feet away from that stupid no smoking sign (I was in a particularly rebellious mood), I asked myself the one question that had guided my life so many times when I had a problem, “WWJD?” In my case, it stood for, “What would Jen do?”
She was always more of a go-getter than I, with a clarity of thought that allowed her to break a problem down and come up with a logical and effective solution. I was really more of a jump-in-with-two-feet-and-hope-for-the-best kind of guy. That dichotomy of personality was one of the primary factors that ruined our marriage. I would come up with a wonderful idea and she would break it into workable components and accomplishable projects. It really took the fun out of the whole thing. Consequently, it’s probably why her first released novel went to number one on the bestseller’s lists, and I’m stuck writing obituary columns in Bum-Fuck Egypt.
It was easy to see what Jen’s approach would be to this project. She’d sit down and make a list of logical places to start looking. Senior Centers, community senior programs, athletic clubs with senior programs, etc… Then she would write out a list of goals for the article, prewrite the questions and develop an outline that could be filled-in while she was doing the interviews. It would be a brilliant plan and a magnificent piece that met every criterion her editor had hoped for. It would be so in-depth and categorized that she would have the information available to write the next twelve columns without ever having to speak to another person. Hell, she’d probably even win some kind of award and end up speaking in front of the State Congressional Panel on Elder Care.
Armed with the knowledge of knowing how Jen would approach this, I took a last drag on my cigarette, threw it two feet past the required ashtray and decided to take a walk, hoping I ran into someone old that met my requirements. Doing the exact opposite of my lovely ex-wife had gotten me this far in life… why change now?
ж
The walk was generally uneventful. Apparently, the elderly stayed off the streets during the day as much as possible, because in the three blocks up, two blocks over and three blocks back I searched, I only came across one. When I approached him and said, “You look old, can I talk to you for a minute?” he responded with a very gnarled middle-finger and throat clearing harrumph. Whatever happened to civility? I thought they were supposed to be the Quiet Generation, or was it the Greatest Generation? I can never keep them straight.
The Baby-boomers, the Greatest Generation, the Silent Generation, Gen-Y, The Millennials they all have their place in history I suppose, but how can you keep track of who’s who? I knew that I was part of the X-Generation. I tried to figure out once why they gave us the moniker “X” and then I realized it was for no other reason than the world was waiting for us to do something worthy of a cool nickname. I’m pretty sure historians will look back a hundred years from now and give us a label like the “Who-were-they-again?-generation.” Hell, I remember being told soon after graduation that we would be the first generation in American history NOT expected to do as well as our parents, but don’t worry, the generation after you is expected to be phenomenal! How’s that for motivation?
It was Friday, and all of the obits that would be published over the weekend were completed. Most of the death announcements were just that. A general announcement that someone had died. If there was a large memorial it was planned a few weeks out. Unlike other reporters, I was never pestered with “breaking news.” My job was generally 9-5 with weekends off. But now I had a real story to work on and research to do. Which, of course, meant I had a legitimate reason to put my voicemail on the, “It’s Friday. Bother me on Monday mode” and start my weekend early without getting glares from King Dawdson the Corpulent. I could grab my laptop, sit in a Starbucks for the rest of the afternoon and look self-important like all the cool kids.
I headed out the door, laptop prominently displayed in my leather satchel, and as predicted, the mighty lord of the cubicle-people accosted me with his coffee-and-garlic-infused breath (apparently lunch was Italian today), “Where are you going Mathis? It’s only 2:30. If you’re out of things to keep yourself busy, there’s still the classifieds that need to be proofed.”
“Actually, Mr. Dawdson, I have a lead on that story about the elderly you assigned me and I’m headed out to see if I can get an interview. I attempted to make some phone calls and was having difficulty getting my message through. I think the difficulty stems from general hearing loss. I’m hoping I’ll have better luck in person. After all, you’ve assigned me this opportunity and I want to do everything possible to make you proud of me… Sir.” Some people call it ass-kissing, I prefer to think of it as ass-manipulation. Once you call an ass “sir,” they’re pretty much forced into believing you’re following their orders even if they didn’t remember giving them to you.
Dawdson must have been a cigar smoker at one time. For a brief moment, as competing thoughts battled in his mind wondering if I was being sarcastic, or truly trying to impress him with my subservience, his mouth chewed on an imaginary dog-turd… probably Cuban and rolled between thighs of a sweat-soaked woman working for thirty-seven cents an hour. Dawdson only bought the best for himself.
“Good for you Jakey-boy! Way to take the initiative! You know, I was a young reporter once, beating the streets looking for a story in rural Oregon. Trying to make my way into the big-time, learning the ropes. You never know what you’re walking into until you knock on that door and start asking questions. I remember my first big story. I broke open a can of worms that took down a city councilman. It started with a few dead sheep and ended with a civic leader being arrested and hospitalized because he thought farm animals could talk. Nasty business, but it helped me get out of rural news and into the big city.”
“Wow sir… that’s umm… really… umm… incredible. Your parents must have been very proud. I’m probably never going to be at the level of taking down a politician, but if I run into trouble on this one, I certainly hope I can turn to you for advice.”
“You won’t need to—I have faith in you kid. I’m here if you need me, but at some point you have to learn to stand on your own two feet. You get out of here and interview those elderly citizens until they have no secrets left. Tear them down, leave them with raw nerves and damaged souls!”
“Yes sir! Right away Sir!”, and I left. Apparently, he had forgotten this was a feel-good fluff piece in all of his excitement over Councilman Psycho-Sheep.
The Starbucks I chose was in a strip mall on the other side of town. It was closer to my little apartment than the one by the office, and much less likely to be visited by a colleague. I parked my generic, bronze 2000 Japanese 4-door sedan in the closest parking spot I could find. Like every strip mall in the country, what had once been a slightly trendy frontage of cute little shops with a grocery on one end and a giant drug store on the other… had become a slightly dingy collection of empty windows separated by an occasional cheap restaurant or used video game store.
As per norm, the only shop in the entire strip that was busy happened to be where I wanted to go. My seating choices were limited to a tiny table near the bathroom, or outside under one of the umbrellas. There certainly was plenty of space in the coffee shop for all of the customers present, or there would have been, except it appeared certain people liked to come here as friends, grab one table per person and look at their MacBook. It is a known fact that if you share a table it reduces the odds of everyone else in the shop acknowledging how cool you are. Besides, if you have two MacBooks back-to-back on the same table, nobody can see the large piece of lighted fruit proudly displayed on the device. It would be a travesty for someone to think you were using a lowly PC.
Taking my coffee and three-year-old Toshiba laptop outside was the obvious choice—I simply didn’t fit in with the cool kids. Most of the tables were occupied with women of varying ages in deep and meaningful conversations of some sort. Which really begs the question, why were the men inside hiding behind their computers trying to be noticed by an attractive and easily impressed woman? It’s like fishing in a desert. You can throw your bait onto the sand but it would be a miracle if a fish showed up.
As I sat drinking my five-dollar cup of liquid energy and staring at my practically blank screen, I contemplated my life. There really was little to complain about: I had a job, an apartment and a car. Although my marriage had failed two years ago, Jen and I were still on good terms. We still spoke several times a week and even had an occasional dinner together. Our failing wasn’t a lack of love or based on any type of betrayal. We simply wanted different things out of life and drifted apart. The dreams we shared in our youth faded in my mind as house payments, hopes for children and my perception of the responsibilities of manhood took front and center. For Jennifer, those dreams had never died. She wanted it all and was willing to sacrifice a “normal” life to get it. I wasn’t willing to make the trade-off, wanting instead to build a future with a little house, a picket-fence and 2.5 lovely children. The end result… I lost the only thing that ever truly mattered to me: Jennifer.
“Pardon me young man, may I share your table? It appears there are more coffee drinkers than tables and sitting next to the lavatory is sure to change the flavor of my tea. It’s a subtle flavor of citrus with slightly bitter undertones. It would be a crime to attempt to drink it with the fragrance of cleaning solution wafting under my nose.”
Startled by the interruption—after all, who accosts a complete stranger at a Starbucks?—I had my laptop open for god’s sake, there are rules about this kind of thing. Looking up, preparing to say something along the lines of, “feel free to sit but as you can see, I’m terribly busy and important and I’d prefer it if you wouldn’t actually speak,” I was astounded by the most beautiful eyes I had ever seen. They were clear and penetrating. Their jade color, flecked with gold, drew you in and wouldn’t let you go. It took longer than it should have to pull back and view the face that owned them. The face was beautiful with its large almond shaped eyes and perfect cheekbones. The wrinkles around the edges, from laughter or concern, spoke of a woman that knew how to feel and wasn’t afraid to show it. Her hair flowed down her shoulders like a gray cascade of half frozen water, and her body, although worn through the years, was held proudly with a posture of confidence that couldn’t be ignored. She held onto her years like a badge of honor, not a disability that needed a cure.
“Ummm… yes ma’am. Let me slide my computer out of the way a bit so you have room.”
Her voice had the slight thinness that comes with age, but it was still husky and flowed like warm honey. It was a voice that could lull you to sleep or keep you awake all night long. There was no doubt this woman was capable of either.
“Don’t be silly, dear boy. There’s plenty of room for us both. It’s simply lovely that you would allow me to share your table while you work. I’ll try not to be a bother. My name is Cherisse.”
2
Little House in the Woods
Ж
Go confidently in the direction of your dreams!
Live the life you’ve imagined.
Thoreau
The rustic cabin was not the home one would expect from a bestselling teen coming-of-age author. It wasn’t a penthouse in New York or a sprawling playground in L.A. It was barely more than a large box made out of giant dead trees, but it was what Jennifer had always dreamed of. Jake used to tease her by saying, “The only reason you want to become famous is so you can become a recluse and make everyone wonder if you’ve been put in a mental hospital.”
Although there was perhaps a small amount of truth to that—being an enigma was very romantic—Jennifer’s real goal wasn’t even to become rich and famous. She just wanted enough. Enough to live life on her own terms and never fear being homeless, or hungry, or alone. Jake never got that, he never understood how the constant uncertainty of living paycheck to paycheck, without a goal or a plan, was driving her mad. He had so much potential, but refused to focus long enough to see anything through to the end. It was still infuriating even three years after the divorce.
Now, sitting on her porch looking out at the rustling forest, the sounds of nature singing in her ears, she could relax. Her fame and fortune wasn’t what people thought, she was more of an accidental success, and most of the proceeds from her novels were eaten away by the publisher. What remained was enough to keep her from ever having to worry about starvation or homelessness for the rest of her life. If she never wrote another book, the only people that would be upset would be the people that held the contract for her next three books. She would finish them, of course, a promise was a promise, and there was that contract, but after that, who knows? Laughing to herself, the idea of writing an entire series of books for cats might be fun. Not a book about cats, but FOR the cats themselves. As far as she knew, it hadn’t been done before. She’d probably win another award of some kind for innovation.
Finishing her morning coffee to the sound of the creek running through her front yard, was a reminder that time continues to flow no matter how much you might like the moment to last forever. It was a reminder that there were things to be done, phone calls to be made and chapters to write. Tomorrow morning the creek would still be there, the trees and sounds might be slightly different, but every bit as peaceful and lovely. There was a time and place for everything, and right now was the time to get up and start working.
The heavy wooden door opened silently and, as so frequently happened when Jennifer entered her own home, she chuckled to herself. The “ode-to-country-life” ended at the threshold. Regardless of what she told herself about the romance of the simple life, she was still a child of the modern era. If nothing else, the blinking high-end security panel that greeted her at the door reminded her before she could even enter the front room.
The interior of the cabin was a mix of faux-handmade furniture and high-tech electronics. She wasn’t a computer nerd by any stretch, but if you’re going to be looking at a screen all day, it might as well be the best you could afford, and if you’re going to watch a movie alone, why not have the best screen on the market?
Sitting down to plan out the day was almost as relaxing as sitting on the porch. The half-hour to forty-five minutes she would spend plotting out every aspect of her morning and afternoon would free up her mind to do what she loved… writing. There was a comfort in knowing what you were supposed to be doing and what still needed to be done. It left little room for chance or distraction. It helped to keep her focused on the things that mattered. If there was one thing she’d learned, and took away from her marriage, it was that constant distractions and changing plans kept her from accomplishing all she could be. It was stifling her dreams and life was simply one reaction after another. It was fun for a while, but it was no way to live.
With the day planned, the writing went well. The hours of dry research and prior planning found its way onto the page in flowing prose. Jake would say, “Like magic.” But even a teen romance novel requires research to give it legitimacy and color. You couldn’t write about a small town in middle-America unless you KNEW about the small town. The name of the local convenience store, the location the teenagers parked their cars on a Saturday night, the best swimming hole, the name of the high-school mascot; it was the details that mattered, the details that made the story real. During the editing process, little would need to be changed or corrected. Putting together a perfect piece was the reward for all the work on the front-end and made the whole damn thing worth it.
With fifteen minutes to spare, the chapter was done. The scheduled call with her publicist would begin in thirty minutes which gave her plenty of time to go back outside and sit by the creek collecting her thoughts. It was one of the many rewards she allowed herself after a productive session. A chance to sit and enjoy the beauty of the moment.
A beauty that was completely spoiled by thoughts of Jake. The chapter she had written was about two young lovers planning their future together, talking and dreaming about what life could be. It was reminiscent of the early days of their relationship, of probably everyone’s relationship if you came right down to it. They had talked about escaping to the forest, to be one with nature so many times before they had gotten married, that he had to know it’s what she wanted. She believed it was what he wanted as well, but as soon as the vows were made and fingers ringed: things changed. The dreamy boy with hopes and plans and an artist’s vision, was replaced with a man who needed to protect and serve—to provide—instead of share. How it happened, or when, Jennifer couldn’t say for sure, but whatever small change that occurred when the ring of power went on his hand, grew and festered until the smothering became too much. She knew she’d have to escape before she lost herself in the new reality of his world.
The fact that she was still madly in love with that boy still inside the man she couldn’t live with, only made the pain of leaving worse. The loneliness she felt without him still left a hole in her soul that couldn’t be filled. She had watched the young man she loved with all her heart, die before her eyes only to be replaced by an alien impersonator she didn’t know.
ж
“Jennifer, it’s Tanya. Have I called at the right time? I’m not interrupting anything, am I?”
Tanya was both publicist and best friend, yet she still walked on eggshells when she spoke with Jen during the workday. If she’d called after five, she would have been her normal chatty self, but since it was work hours there was a fear of intrusion in her voice that almost made Jen angry.
hy people always thought Jen was going to jump down their throat just because they called five minutes early was frustrating. By now they should know that if she was busy, she’d just ignore the call.
“Tanya, you never interrupt, you know that. Are you planning on coming out to the cabin anytime soon? I could use a night of wine talk. Squirrels aren’t the best communicators, though I think I’ve picked up a few words here and there. It all seems to relate to nuts and cats, so it can get pretty boring.”
“I would so love to do that. You have no idea how badly I need to get away from the kids for a weekend! I’m not sure when I can make it though, it’s baseball season so every night of the week someone has to be somewhere and then weekends are all about tournaments. Don’t get me wrong, I love to see the kids play, but a weekend where I could sit on something other than a hard wooden bench listening to husbands relive their childhood would be a nice change. If I hear the story of the “perfect game I pitched when I was twelve” one. more. time. I WILL punch someone.”
“Isn’t that what grandparents are for? Tell them you have to work. We’ll post a professional-looking selfie or two and the kids will understand.”
“Dear, the kids are old enough to know that Mommy and Auntie Jen never really get much work done when they’re together, but I’ll see what I can come up with. You do know, tempting me with wine and a weekend away from the kids isn’t going to keep me from asking you to do those personal appearances I’ve been trying to schedule. There’s three more morning TV shows, one national, that are begging for you to come on, and the book tour you promised the publisher. You’ve really got to do these Jen.”
“I hate doing interviews, you know that. As for tours, I’ve already done three this week, how many do they want?”
“Three? Why wasn’t I made aware of these? I didn’t even have a chance to promo them or get the announcements out. Where were they? How did they go?”
“They went fantastically well. I was almost universally loved. The squirrels and the deer were particularly impressed, but the blue jays were very critical. They found my work to be pedantic, cliché, predictable and completely without substance. They’re a snooty lot, so I don’t take much offense.”
“You think you’re funny, don’t you? Well, you are, but that’s beside the point. As part of your contract, you promised five book signings per release. New York, California, Seattle, Atlanta with one location your choice. Even if I convinced them your furry friends could read, I doubt they’d count those as appearances unless…wait—do they own a bookstore? What’s it called? Hibernation Books?”
“Very funny. Fine. Schedule the dates and I’ll get them on the calendar. Just the four though, I want to hold off for now on deciding the fifth. Keep them on Saturdays. I work ’til five on Fridays and need to be home no later than Sunday afternoon so I’m ready for Monday morning.”
“Omygod thanks! I’ll get you the schedule no later than the end of this week. But hey, on more of a wine than work topic, I just wanna say… you really need to get laid.”
“Gee thanks Tanya.”
“I’m serious girl… You’re holed up in that cabin immersed in the fictional lives of younngg, young lovers. You’ve been divorced from Jake three years now, it’s more than time to move on. Did I mention you’re talking to squirrels?”
“I’ve had dates! I just haven’t found anyone worth having a second date with yet.”
“Coffee with fangirls after a book signing doesn’t count as a date Jen!”
“Well, you’re right about one thing. This is a wine topic. That, and we’re past the time this call was planned to end. Now I’m going to have to shift everything on my schedule and I’ll probably end up forgetting to do something. Get back to me with that appearance schedule. Gotta go.”
“Fine, I’ll drop it for now, but this isn’t done. I hope you’re stocked up on wine, ’cause we’re gonna need it.”
3
A Gay Old Time
Ж
In any given moment we have two options:
To step forward into growth or step back into safety.
Abraham Maslow
It occurred to me that this woman sitting across the table, drinking tea, just might be the answer to my prayers. She could save me hours of bullshit phone calls looking for an elderly person that was still focused enough on the world to know what a smartphone was. I decided to go for it.
“Pardon me… Cherisse you said your name was? Can I ask how old you are?”
Her eyes took on an inner glow that was slightly intimidating. They went from dull jade to piercing green as she looked directly into Jake’s eyes. It was a look that delved into the brain, evaluated and measured a man’s worth towards humanity. There was a palpable relief of an unknown source when Cherisse’s eyes softened and a coy smile crossed her lips.
“Oh my… Ten years ago I would have allowed the thought to cross my mind, and perhaps twenty I would have even considered leaving you in a glowing pool of your own perspiration. You are a very handsome young man after all. I’m sorry dear boy, I’m just going to have to decline your advances. As flattered as I am, I’m not sure this old body is capable of the vigorous requirements of a man your age anymore. Still, don’t be sad, we’ll still have this wonderful moment together to remember for eternity.”
It took me a few moments to comprehend the words her singsong voice carried. It was like listening to a river, pure and beautiful yet unrecognizable as word or song until it all came together at once in your mind. What was she saying about leaving me in a pool of my own… wait… what? Decline my… Body is capable of… WAIT A SECOND!
“Whoa… wait… hold the phone ma’am, that’s not what I meant. What I mean is you’re still very attractive and all but…”
“Oh, I see dear. Well I’ve been supportive of the homosexual community since before it was chic. No need to be embarrassed. If you’re feeling intimidated by someone and need me to cover as your fiancé, I would be happy to assist you. It would hardly be the first time a man simply needed me to distract someone else’s attention. If at any point you feel the need to reach across the table and hold my hand, or even lean over and press those lovely lips against mine, I won’t flinch. I will happily play along.”
“But… I… wait a second. I’m not gay! I mean homosexual. I mean… I don’t even know what I mean. Let me start over.”
“Yes dear, that might be best. You know you really shouldn’t start a conversation if you have no idea what you’re going to say. It’s very difficult to follow. Especially for the elderly. Have you always had this much difficulty with women? It’s been decades since I was capable of leaving a man tongue-tied simply by my looks alone.”
Taking a deep breath, trying to decide if this woman was crazy or playing me like a grand piano, I started again.
“Let me start from the beginning. My name is Jake Mathis and…”
“Jake Mathis the obituary columnist?”
Oh Hell…
“Yes ma’am, but at the moment I’m writing about…”
“You know, young man… I was lifelong friends with the Tautabaum family. I ended up going to the O’Reilly funeral by mistake.”
Damn Damn Damn! One little mistake and your whole life seems to go down the crapper.
“Yes ma’am, that was a horrible mistake. I felt terrible about it the minute I found out what happened.”
“Don’t be silly, dear boy. I had the best time! It was the only funeral I can ever remember going to that was filled with laughter and merriment. Very few people knew outside of his immediate family, but Ezra was once a professional comedian and burlesque master of ceremonies. He would have adored knowing his funeral was attended by total strangers while his family was crying over someone else’s body. It was perfect! In fact, the O’Reilly family took it even better. Apparently, the father that had passed away was an avid fan of Monty Python. They all started quoting lines from their favorite movies. I understand the families ended up getting together the following weekend for a giant picnic and celebration of life. It was wonderful!”
As thrilled as he was about the happy ending to his otherwise embarrassing mistake, the conversation was leaving his head spinning. If the woman knew what she was doing, she was an expert at the art of distraction. There was no discernible sign she was doing it on purpose other than an odd sparkle in her eyes as the light reflected off of the gold flecks that peppered their jade color.
“Sadly… no one invited me or took the time to thank me for the hook-up. Do you think I could get you to focus for just a second? As much as I am enjoying our conversation, I’m trying to work here. I just want to ask you a couple of questions, and then I can move on.”
“Oh my… a take-charge kind of man. One of my favorites. I remember this boyfriend I once had, I think he was the third—or was it the fourth?—after my first husband passed away. There was never any question about what he wanted or when he wanted it. It was quite exciting for a time. Far too aggressive to make a life with, but a weekend every once in a while…”
“Are you kidding me right now! I hardly know you and you’re telling me about your sex life?”
“Darling… as old as I am, I doubt we’ll get a chance to know each other long enough for conversations like that to become ‘proper.’ Hardly seems worth beating around the bush… so to speak. But I suppose that’s what newspapermen do nowadays isn’t it? I only read the obituary section these days to keep track of old friends. I really haven’t had much use for newspapers since the horrid lies they told about my dear friend Alan. Can you imagine?”
“I… honestly, I don’t know if I can imagine or not. I just wanted to ask a couple of questions and I’ll be on my way, or you can be on your way… or… Alan? Alan who?”
“Why Alan Turing dear. He was a lovely man; yes he had a penchant for buggery, but honestly… who didn’t in those days? The things they said about him… atrocious!”
“Wait… You knew Alan Turing? Like ‘knew’ knew him?”
“Yes dear, we had quite a similar taste in men at the time and had some lovely conversations as we sat admiring the view at those awful military parties. You can’t imagine how stuffy men get once they throw on a uniform. Changes their whole personality… lovely to look at though. I remember this one evening…”
“Cherisse… right now I don’t want to know about the Tautabaum family, or the O’Reilly’s barbecue. I don’t want to know about how many boyfriends you had and I certainly don’t want to know about your sex life. As interesting as talking to someone who has actually met Alan Turing might be, I don’t have time for that right now. I just want to know about how you deal with the changes in technology, what you have experienced over the years, and if today’s speed of change is difficult to keep up with. Above and beyond that… really don’t care much.”
“I see… well that’s really quite a lot… isn’t it? I do wish I had time to answer those questions for you this afternoon, but I have an appointment in fifteen minutes and really must be going. Would it be possible for you to meet me for tea tomorrow, around 11:00, and you can ask all of the questions you wish. Here, let me give you my address darling… tea and cookies will be ready at 11:00.”
Sliding a small piece of paper with her address across the table, the ancient and slightly obnoxious woman stood staring down at him with those intense jade eyes. It was distinctly uncomfortable until he realized what he had missed. Jumping to his feet, and banging his knee on the edge of the table in the process, he took her hand and thanked her for her time. Her eyes softened to the loveliest pair of green jewels he had ever seen.
“Thank you for spending your afternoon with me ma’am. I will be happy to meet you at 11:00 for tea. Are you sure you will be willing to answer my questions when I arrive? If you’re worried about forgetting them, I could write them out for you in advance.”
“Time will tell Mr. Mathis… time will tell.”
4
The Price of Fame
Ж
They’re hungry for something they know nothing about.
But we, we know all too well
that the price of fame is the loss of privacy.
David Sedaris
Writing is more about effort and practice than actual talent. If you research your topic, string enough words together in a coherent manner, you’ll eventually come up with a workable novel. It does take a certain amount of concentration however, and when something’s eating at you, it’s almost impossible to stay on track.
The conversation with Tanya had thrown off Jen’s focus completely. As she sat down to work on her afternoon session, the seeds of her almighty, “I could get a date if I wanted one” had firmly rooted themselves in the back of her mind.
With every keystroke the words, “I’m forty, but still attractive” rattled in her brain. Every time she hit the return key, “If I wanted to be with a man, I would.” Page breaks were the worst. These required her to look down at the page and see the words “I miss Jake” oddly appear on her screen. It was ridiculous—she didn’t miss Jake—he was exhausting to be around. Dreams and no drive. She’d been there, done that… hated every minute. Well eighty-percent… okay in fairness twenty percent, but that twenty was the WORST.
She had everything she wanted out of life. Success, her cabin, her cat, and freedom to be who she wanted to be. Why would she want to tie herself down to somebody else’s problems again?
Tanya was always joking about needing to get away from her kids, but having them was a choice she’d made, once-upon-a-time, just like Jen had decided on the less-traveled road. She eventually figured out this should’ve been a deal-breaker for her and Jake, since he claimed to want them so badly. What he didn’t understand, is that if we’d had a passel of them, he REALLY wouldn’t have had the time, much less the ability, to dream and focus enough to actually write. Not without a wifey at home willing to take care of all the crap that didn’t fit with HIS vision of “The Dream.” Even without kids, he’d only (his words) had “enough time” to go to work and watch TV. It was like those non-existent children were playing elephants in his psychological living room. Neither of us would’ve been any good at parenting. Besides, wasn’t Tanya always hinting that kids got in the way of all that great sex married couples were supposed to be having? Don’t all married-with-children men bitch about not getting laid?
Tanya did have a point though… getting laid wouldn’t be a bad thing. How hard could that be to arrange? Everyone knows guys are easy. Hell, she could probably call… She could call… What was that guy’s name? He had that sweet teenage daughter he was raising, and they went to coffee that one time… Sam? Tom? Whatever! We’ll call him Bill. She could probably call Bill and he’d drive over right now. Or was she in Atlanta when she met him?
The next hour’s worth of work was nothing short of pointless. Damn that man! Even when he wasn’t around, he was keeping her from getting things done. It had to be his fault. At some point, every annoying thing in her life connected back to Jake.
Realizing the futility of trying to write while in a state like this, made the otherwise unthinkable action of changing her schedule… almost palatable. What was the point of banging your fingers on a keyboard just to delete it later? Not sure exactly what to do next she decided to pick up the phone and dial a number she typically avoided like the plague.
“Hello?”
“Hi mom, it’s Jen. Just wanted to call and check in with you. It’s been a few weeks.”
“Jen! How are you honey? Is everything alright? You aren’t in trouble, are you?”
“Mother! Why would I be in trouble? I’m fine, I just wanted to see how you and dad were doing. Is that okay? I’m a grown woman who’s been staying out of trouble for over twenty years you know.”
“Of course you are dear, it’s just that you call so seldom I had to ask. Your father is fine, he’s out in the yard working on the rosebushes. He’ll be inside in a bit, or I can call him in for you. I know he’d love to hear from you. Just the other day he asked me if I had heard from you. He practically accused me of lying when I told him no. I understand you’re busy and have your own life to lead, but he seems to think that you should call and check in as often as other parents’ children. In fairness, they are mostly calling to talk about grandkids, share pictures of their happy families, that kind of thing. How is your book coming dear?”
“Tell dad I’m sorry I didn’t call sooner. I’ve just been busy, but that’s no excuse. You know, he could call me sometimes… he has my number.” It was best to ignore the grandchildren issue whenever possible. That was a decision Jen made early in her life and it was far too late to have regrets just because her mother wanted something to discuss with her church ladies.
“He doesn’t want to bother you Jen. We know how busy you are. My daughter, the best-selling author! We saw you on television a few weeks ago on the morning show. Is she as nice in person as she is on TV? She always seems so sweet to everyone, I don’t know how anyone could be like that all of the time.
Did I tell you that your Uncle Roy has to have surgery finally for that blah blah blah… and your Aunt Martha is going into the home because blah blah blah… and your cousin Toby is going to jail because he blah blah blah… you should write a book about him; did you know he…
… and then Pastor James said… blah blah blah…
… and all of my other friends have grandchildren so sometimes it’s hard to be around them. They get to babysit and spoil their little ones and it just makes me a little sad sometimes. So, have you heard from Jake recently? I always liked Jake, he treated you like a princess.”
“Mom… I gotta go… can you say hi to dad for me and tell him I’ll try to call next week?”
“Did I say something Jen? Is it Jake? Is there something wrong with him? Or do you have someone new in your life… finally?”
“No mom, I just really need to go. Busy schedule, remember?”
Hoping she’d remembered to hang up the phone before throwing it against the wall, Jen collapsed onto the couch in an angry heap of self-loathing and powered-on the television. She’d recorded the morning talk show referenced by her mother, and finally having a chance to watch it at least gave her some small feeling of being productive. As annoying as interviews are, you still want to look good for the fans. It’s just good business… no vanity at all… crap… who chose that outfit! It makes me look five pounds overweight…
“So, Ms. Mathis, thank you so much for getting up early enough to be on our show this morning. I understand the writer’s life can lead to some rather late nights.”
“Honestly Chelsea, I haven’t had a late night for as long as I can remember. I go about writing just like any other job. Mostly eight to five. I think a lot of the notions people have about writers are too romantic or out of proportion.”
“Yes… we all do like to imagine our favorite writer with a glass of Scotch pounding away on an old typewriter, don’t we? But moving on… Your most recent novel has once again become a bestseller. Tell us your secret. Your fan base is primarily teen girls and their mothers—how are you reaching them? What is it about Jennifer Mathis that connects you to such a rabid fan base?”
“That’s an excellent question Chelsea. In fact, it’s one I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about. I believe it has a lot to do with the identifiable nature of my characters. I’ve been a teenage girl madly in love with a charming boy who was a little naughty. I’ve been a young newlywed facing a fantastic future—arm-in-arm with the most amazing man I’ve ever met. I can still remember my first kiss, the first feel of a male body pressing against mine, and I think those memories and passion come out in my writing.”
“Whoa there Jennifer… this is a morning show! We have lots of young people listening. It sounds like you had quite an amazing adventure when you were young. Whatever happened to that young man if I might ask?”
“Amazing adventure? Hmmmm… let’s just leave it at ‘he wasn’t the prince charming I thought he was.’ A good man, yes—we’re still friends, but as things do happen sometimes… well… I guess we just had different dreams—different goals—and eventually we just had to move on with our separate lives.”
“So, tell us a little bit about what you have coming out next? Any movie deals in the works?”
CLICK.
Seeing her phone on the ground, it dawned on Jen exactly what she needed. Picking it up, she pressed a number she’d had on speed-dial for a lonnggg time…
“Hey Jen. What’s up?”
“Jake… You’re an asshole. Goodbye.”
CLICK.
5
Two, or Has it Been Three?
Ж
We just became strangers who knew each others too well.
Unknown
Jake’s day had started like any other. Roll out of bed, stumble to the kitchen and get the coffee made, trip over the shoes left in the hallway the night before. Scream as the coffee spills all over his hand, eventually make it into the bathroom for some morning business before realizing he was out of toilet paper. It made Jake wonder why movies and novels never mentioned that characters had bodily functions. He’d have to ask Jen someday, why she never included a scene in her story where a character was enjoying a peaceful moment on the crapper.
The shower turned icy cold halfway through washing his hair when the neighbor with the shared plumbing decided to flush the toilet. All in all, the day was progressing smoothly. All that remained to disturb his Saturday morning was the nagging question of why Jen had called the night before, called him an asshole, and hung up. He hadn’t talked to her in over a month, there should have been no new reason for her to be upset with him. It wasn’t the first time she had referred to him as something other than his Christian given name, but normally he had deserved it. This time was just patently unfair.
He needed to be at that old gal’s house in a few hours, and it would probably be best to have a few questions ready to go. Judging by yesterday’s encounter, he’d probably only get a question or two in before she decided to talk about the nature of nutmeg, or some other irrelevant topic. Why had Jen called him an asshole? In the two years they had been divorced, things had been civil if not always warm. They had even chatted just last month about her mom’s increasing pseudo-dementia. Jen was convinced that her mother was finally losing it, but from what he could tell the old gal hadn’t changed much at all over the years. There had always been a slight scatteriness to the woman’s mind. It was one of the things Jake had always loved about her.
He wanted to call Jen and find out what was up, but he didn’t really have the time at the moment. Instead he chose to send of a quick text:
In the two years since we’ve been divorced, this is the first time you’ve called me by my “nickname” asshole. It’s been awhile… I’ve missed it. What’s up?
Some things in life are meant to be done old-school, regardless of what Jen thought. If Jen had been the one conducting the interview with Cherisse, she would have put together some type of spreadsheet with the questions pre-prepared in order to make them sortable and easy to find when she needed them. She would then store them in a logical folder on her computer and crack out the article in an hour after she got home. It was a brilliant and efficient way to work.
Jake looked at his laptop and picked it up so he could get to the half-used, lined legal pad that was sitting underneath, where he had left it the night before while playing online poker. There were still a few pages left in the back that weren’t scribbled upon. It should be more than enough for a couple of questions and notes on that crazy old lady.
His phone made that annoying tone that he had always meant to change, that informed him of an incoming text message.
Three years.
…was all it said. Had it been three years already? It seemed like just yesterday when she had told him that she was leaving. He barely had to close his eyes to remember her quivering but determined voice, the look of pain and sadness in her beautiful grey eyes, and the smell of sunshine radiating from her blonde shoulder length her hair when she hugged him goodbye. The emptiness that was left when her lithe tight body pulled away from his had never gone away: how could it have already been three years?
He wished he would have fought with her over her decision, or at least tried to reason with her. Maybe he could have offered to change or told her she just didn’t understand. But the reality was… she was right. She was unhappy and frustrated; life had proven she was capable of so much more without him holding her back. He had made the right decision for once in his life, by simply agreeing with her and letting her go.
For two people who made their careers out of words, “You’re right Jen. I don’t blame you for leaving me. I’ll sign whatever papers you need,” was disappointing to them both. Jen had been prepared, as always, and had talked and explained her position for well over an hour. The three sentences he had uttered in less than ten seconds changed both of their lives. He replayed the scene over in his head several times a week, trying different responses each time and had never found a one that would have changed the outcome… yeah… he had made the right choice by keeping it simple. Life was always easier when you just kept it simple.
He considered sending back a witty response, something along the lines of, “Three years? My how time flies,” but chose to take the high road instead and just not respond. Whatever Jen’s problem was would sort itself out in time. He had to get ready for his interview and get on the road. All he had to do now was find a pen.
ж
Jen felt bad about calling Jake an asshole, and had planned on calling him in the morning and telling him “never mind” he hadn’t done anything wrong. When the text came through and he couldn’t even remember they had been divorced three years instead of two, she wanted to call him an asshole ten more times. They had spent nearly twenty years of their lives together and he couldn’t even remember when they called it quits. With as much fight as he had put up to keep her, maybe he had called it quits years earlier, or more likely with Jake, he hadn’t gotten around to realizing they were divorced yet. He was a smart man, had more potential than anyone she had ever met, but ask him where he left his coffee cup and he was lost. Ask him to stretch himself and take a chance was like trying to move a mountain. He would always and forever just let life happen and see where it took him. It was no wonder he never got around to writing the novel he had always dreamed of. It would have required actually starting something and seeing it through to the end. Jesus God the man was infuriating! What had she ever seen in him besides the heart of a poet and dreams of an artist? Those both shut down and died the day they got married. She could have saved them so much time if she just been able to quit hoping the “boy” she had loved would resurface. Now… Jake was just… an asshole. There really was no other word to describe him.
It was Saturday, her day off from writing and there should be something worth doing. Maybe she would go into town and sit in the little coffee shop and listen to all the people chat about what was happening in her small town. She had lived there almost two years now, but hadn’t taken the time to get to know anyone yet. Even so, it was always entertaining to eavesdrop on the drama that was a constant among the townsfolk. She’d even heard a rumor or two about herself while drinking coffee and quietly reading a book in the corner. Her favorite was, “Did you hear about that person who built that log cabin? I heard she was here under witness protection and is gonna testify against the mob.”
Part of the problem with Saturdays was the lack of a plan or a schedule. Jen scheduled the day off every week, because she felt she was supposed to. But she had neglected to fill in the spaces that said what she should be doing with that free time. Breaking out her phone and opening her scheduling app, she decided to put a few loose plans down for the day:
□ Coffee shop: Listen to gossip
□ Grocery Shopping: Use prepared list – add ice cream and batteries
□ Dry-cleaner: Pick up clothes and drop off comforter (starting to smell)
□ Home: Watch movie, drink wine, watch another movie
□ Drink more wine, install batteries and go to bed with my date for the evening.
□ Don’t think of Jake this time. Well, maybe think of Jake…
With all of his faults and failings, the bastard was incredible in bed. Of course, she had trained him to be exactly what she wanted from a very early age… so maybe he wasn’t that great, just great for her. Grrrr… Asshole!
Contrary to Tanya’s beliefs, she hadn’t been totally idle in the men department since her divorce. For the first year after leaving Jake she had “shopped around” and found the marketplace wanting. Between men with baggage from previous marriages and men who had never been married for rather obvious reasons, the whole thing was unsatisfying. The three men she had let into her bed didn’t qualify as “unsatisfying”—they weren’t that good. Physically, they were fine for the full three minutes, but there was just no emotion or feeling to make it worthwhile. And then they wanted to talk in the morning instead of just leaving and letting her work. Her electronic friend had about the same quality personality as the men she had dated, but required far less chat and ego-boosting. It too, never once asked, “Was it good for you?”
Jen already had her phone in her hand so she decided to be impetuous for a change. Jake hadn’t responded at all to her correction on how many years they had been divorced, so she sent him another just to make sure he had gotten the message,
Asshole.
6
Tea Time
Ж
Learning and sex until rigor mortis.
Maggie Kuhn
It wasn’t difficult to find Cherisse’s house, or at least it wouldn’t have been if Jake had used his phone’s map app. As it was, he was confident he knew where to go by the address she had provided. He would have found it on the first shot too if he hadn’t misread SW instead of NW and ended up on the complete opposite side of town. When he eventually realized his mistake, he turned around and made it to the woman’s house by eleven-fifteen, only a few minutes late… not bad.
The house was smaller than he had thought it would be. From his meeting yesterday, he had assumed the woman was some leftover widow from a wealthy husband living in a mansion somewhere. The thought of her living in a single story, two-bedroom cottage, no matter how nice, had just never crossed his mind. In fairness, the house was adorable with its little picket fence, roses growing everywhere and… wait… was that a plastic flamingo in her lawn? As he looked closer at the flowerbeds flowing with color and life, he couldn’t believe his eyes… little toy gnome statues were liberally sprinkled throughout the yard… he was right… she was a nut job. He considered turning around and not going in—those gnomes just creeped him out—but he was here anyway and she at least met his age requirement.
The door to the house matched the yard, it was red with a hanging sign:
~~~
Enter as a guest
leave as a friend
~~~
…which made Jake think about installing a sign on his own door: “Enter as a pest; leave like the rest.” Seemed more fitting. The doorbell was shaped like a heart, which made pushing the button slightly uncomfortable. It felt like pushing your finger into a Valentine’s Day cake and the chime that came from inside blared Beethoven’s Fifth. The whole thing was oddly surrealistic and he hadn’t even gotten inside the house yet.
The woman that opened the door looked ready to head out to a country club with her pleated trousers, white turtleneck and red cardigan sweater. Upon seeing him, Cherisse’s smile lit up her eyes with an inner sparkle that made Jake grin with a happiness he couldn’t identify. Perhaps he had misjudged her age entirely, at this moment she didn’t look a day over sixty.
“Mr. Mathis, so glad you could make it. I was beginning to worry you wouldn’t be coming, or perhaps something had happened.”
“I just got a little lost. Sorry I’m late, do you still have time today or should we reschedule?”
The woman’s silky voice must have been the bane of every man she had known for the past thirty… forty?… fifty??! years. Without missing a beat, she accepted his apology and reminded him of his manners, “Oh my, I’m sure it is my fault you were unable to call me dear. I probably forgot to give you my phone number. A lady doesn’t give her phone number out to just anyone you know. And of course I have time for you today, a woman of my age doesn’t get a handsome young visitor like you in her home as often as she used to.”
With a sultry glance over her shoulder as she turned away and led him into her sanctum, “Please come inside, I plan on taking my time with you darling.”
The home was a thing of wonder for Jake, who had always thrived on a certain level of clutter. On every wall stood a china-cabinet or bookshelf filled with knickknacks of every conceivable type. High shelves along the ceiling displayed dolls and teacups in an array of colors unknown in nature. The furniture looked like it belonged in a doll house, or perhaps a European sitting room. He was afraid to sit on the couch Cherisse had directed him to as it looked too fragile. Gently guiding his hiney onto the seat, he was surprised to find it was remarkably… uncomfortable. It must have been his fear of it collapsing beneath him that kept him from relaxing into place, nobody would make furniture that wasn’t designed to sit in. Except the French… that would make sense, Cherisse was a French name, so why not French furniture. The French were all about style over comfort, and in fairness… the furniture was gorgeous.
“This is an amazing house Cherisse. I could spend a day looking at all of your little doodads and trinkets. How long have you lived here?”
“Oh… I’ve lived here since my third boyfriend after my second husband passed away, so… hmm… it must be going on ten years now dear. Do you take cream in your tea? Sugar? This is a blend I’ve made myself, perhaps you should try it before you decide.”
“Uh… I’m not really much of a tea drinker. If you don’t have coffee, a glass of water would be fine. So, you’ve been married twice? How long ago did your husband pass away?”
“Not a tea drinker? Oh dear… we’ll have to do something about that. This is a private blend unlike anything you would have had before. You should always try something before you decide it’s not worth pursuing you know. It’s quite possible that you will miss out on something you didn’t know you couldn’t live without. Do you prefer almond cookies or shortbread? I’ve made both since this is our first tryst.”
The woman came back into the room carrying a tray with the most fragile looking teapot Jake had ever seen. You could almost see the tea through the porcelain and the matching cups looked as if they had real flower petals frozen inside the material itself. Jake had the odd feeling that this woman might pull down a doll or two off the shelves to join them in their afternoon tea party.
“So… about this article I’m writing. I was hoping to ask you a few questions. It shouldn’t take long and then I’ll be out of your hair and let you get on with your day. I’ll of course give you a look at what I have written before I send it to print, just in case you would like to make any adjustments to your responses.”
Cherisse poured the tea and delicately sat down next to him on the couch. Her response to his comment, was to simply close her eyes and breathe in the steam from her tea. It became uncomfortable to watch; the silence as the woman simply sat there, apparently enjoying the fragrance of her hot beverage.
“We simply can’t chat about business until after tea darling. You truly need to enjoy the aroma while it is still hot, it’s half the experience dear boy. If you wait to taste it until it cools, it may become bitter and lose some of it’s more delicate undercurrents. Try the almond cookie… I believe they turned out particularly lovely this morning.”
“But…”
“Tea Darling… Tea.”
It was impossible to argue with an immovable object, especially one that continued to sound completely pleasant and reasonable while she put you in your place. So, Jake had the tea… and the cookies… and the aromatherapy… and found them all quite pleasant. The process of eating, breathing and drinking had a magical effect of soothing the pre-interview jitters.
Even though he had been doing journalism in one form or another since his early twenties, there was always a slight hint of nervousness when doing an interview. After the first three or four questions that feeling typically went away, but that first one always had a slight tightness to the throat as you felt your way into the opening gambit. Jake’s most recent gig as the Obit guy was considerably easier, of course. The subject matter tended to be nothing more than, “Born—died—left behind,” unless a family member called in and wanted to give more detail, there was very little interaction, or in-depth questioning involved.
“How do you like your tea, Mr. Mathis?”
“It’s actually amazing. I haven’t had tea in years. My ex-wife used to try and get me to switch from coffee to tea, she said it had antioxidant properties I couldn’t get elsewhere but I just couldn’t give up the ol’ black elixir of life. This is really good though, is there someplace I can swing by and buy some for her? She’d really like it.”
“I’m sorry dear, I blend it myself. Perhaps you can bring her by someday and I’ll share a cup with her. It’s nice that you’ve managed to stay on good terms, so many couples don’t these days. Even the ones that stay married don’t seem to like each other very much. How long have you been divorced?”
Jake didn’t talk about himself often, he was more of a listener. It’s one of the things that made him good at his job. With this woman, however, he wanted to open up immediately and share everything he knew and felt… about everything. Maybe it was the eyes, or perhaps she had drugged the tea… whatever the case, his mouth began to move of its own volition.
“Funny you should ask that. I just recently got in a discussion with her over exactly when we got divorced—it was really more of correction than a conversation—I had thought we had only been divorced two years, but I guess it’s three. And yeah… we ended on good terms. There wasn’t any fighting or infidelity, we just kinda grew apart. I wanted a family and wife and she wanted a career, freedom and a husband that was able to share her interests. When all was said and done, we both wanted each other to be happy, so we called it quits and went our own separate ways. We’re even still friends… sorta.”
Jake might have said, “I fell in love with my pet anaconda and eloped to South America” and gotten the same response. Cherisse looked at him as if he had grown floppy ears and a red ball for a nose, with a mixed look of humor in her sparkling eyes and disgust in her slightly pinched mouth.
“My… but that was very civilized of you two, foolish… but civilized. How has it worked out? Are you both happier now?”
The tone in her voice left little doubt as to the sarcastic nature of the comment. In the past, the few times the topic had come up with friends… colleagues really… the response had been more along the lines of, “Good choice, you both deserve to be happy.” or “Well done, no point in living a life with someone traveling in a different direction.” Everyone seemed terribly supportive of ending a marriage unless it was their own. Like most topics in life, advice was easier to give than take, especially when the advice was your own.
“My ex, Jen, has become extremely happy. She’s a bestselling author, has built the house she has always wanted and seems to have all the things she ever dreamed were possible. So yeah… we’re happier. It was the right choice.”
Cherisse listened attentively while she sipped her tea. She stared, waiting patiently for Jake to continue. Jake squirmed uncomfortably under her gaze, not sure what she was waiting for. The slurping sound as he took a sip of the hot tea sounded like the mating call of a bull elephant in the deafening silence.
“And you my dear? What about you?”
“Me? Well of course I’m happy. I have a career, I can do what I want when I want, and Jen is happy finally. But I’m here to talk about you and technology…”
“My first boyfriend, after my first husband was declared dead, was like that you know. He loved me more than any woman could dream of being loved. If I would have asked him to dive into the ocean and bring me a handful of wet sand, he would have spent all day picking out the perfect container to store it in.” There was an odd emphasis on the word, “conTAINer”, Jake wasn’t sure what to do with. “Sadly…” Cherisse went on, “he wasn’t much of a fighter, didn’t take charge very well and frankly… wasn’t very good in bed. He was sweet and kind and loving and all… but I was a bit of a wild young lady and wanted a man that could take charge in the bedroom once in a while. He just wanted to coast through life—and in bed—boring.”
“Um… ma’am… technology… we’re supposed to be talking about technology.”
“Don’t be silly young man, those weren’t around when I was young. We had to be more creative then. I remember exactly when I got my first…”
“STOP!!!!!”
“Well you asked dear boy. It’s not as if orgasms weren’t around when I was young. They were more difficult to come by of course, unless you took matters into your own hands… there were so many fewer expectations on men at the time. It’s so refreshing to hear that at least some modern men understand that life, and women are about so much more than just containers with buttons.”
“My god! I just wanted to know about cellphones, and computers and television! That kind of technology. I hardly even know you, I don’t want to know about your sex life, or your old sex life… or whatever…”
“Well I’m almost ninety dear. It’s not like we have a long time to get to know each other. No point in being shy. But go ahead… I’ll try to answer your questions.
Would you like more tea, darling?”
end of excerpt
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