The Other Mr. Bax (17 page)

T
he shop was a bustle of men and wome
n
in business suites impatient for a relaxing moment before rushing to the office. The hissing and gargling of steaming milk evoked feelings linked to dormant memories of pleasant experiences. Judging by the line of people at the counter, Joyce estimated she’d be five to ten minutes late. She stepped to the end of the line, then inched her way toward the counter.

A short while later, her coffee in hand, she entered the elevator that would take her to the third-floor of a twelve-story office-complex where she spent most of her days—the office of the bi-monthly publication,
The Phoenix Sun
. Another woman and two men stepped in with her. It was quiet but for a low hum and rumble. One of the men glanced her way—a familiar face, but then, maybe not. His eyes shifted from hers to his watch. The elevator stopped, the door opened, and Joyce stepped out into the Sun’s front lobby.

“Good morning,” a young woman seated behind a long, ultra-tidy desk said.

Joyce forced a smile. “Morning, Barbara. Any messages?”

The girl’s eyes dropped to a note pad by the phone. “Shelby Russell called. Would you like his number?”

“Thank you, no, I have it.”

Passing through a small waiting area, Joyce noticed a woman, sitting on a sofa, rustling through papers in an open briefcase. She greeted the lady—“Good morning”—then entered another short hallway, which led to the compact office that had long before been assigned to her. The door was open. A co-worker sat at Joyce’s desk, typing away at her computer.

“Hey, Bob.” She set her cappuccino on the corner of the desk.

He returned her greeting without turning from the monitor. “Hey.”

“What’d I miss?”

“Hmm? Oh,” he said, “nothing much here. Just making a few last-minute changes to your review. Bobby Battle Quartet at the Saturn.” He nodded, then added, “But, yeah, you missed something
there
.” He swung around in her chair. “You wanna look this over before I submit it?”

“I probably should.”

“You okay?”

“A long night.” She lifted the paper cup to her lips, and took a lukewarm sip.

“Well, there it is.” Before getting up to leave, he tapped in a few last words. “Let me know if there’s anything else you need.”

Joyce lowered herself into her swivel chair, still warm from Bob’s butt. She took a big gulp of coffee and gazed toward the document glowing on the monitor. Roland, giving a final wave as he turned onto the road at the end of the driveway, was there in her mind’s eye. She’d stood in the driveway, watching as his car vanished from sight, and then continued standing there. A display of devotion.
For whose sake
? She’d tried to convince herself that she would stay above her disappointment, and now realized that not only was she wrong, but, at the same time, she’d become the victim of her own manipulations.
All but begging him to stay
,
with no expectations
.
Right
.

She swallowed the last cool sip of her cappuccino and an almost nauseating realization that her desperation was as transparent as air.

Dinner
…
Once it was over, everything seemed to fall apart and slide into the realm of depression.
She tried to shake off the memory—like ignoring an itch.
Our last night together
…
Up till then, she had herself reasonably fooled.
Oh, but you were subtle
.
His last night
—
it should’ve been different. It should’ve been nice, fun
…
but no
,
nice wasn’t good enough
,
was it
?
You brought this on yourself
.
You blew it
.

T
he sign up ahead read, “Albuquerque 6
4.
”
Roland checked the mirror. The sun glared back at him from over the top of a rolled up sleeping bag. He grabbed the partly-folded map lying on the seat next to him, dropped a finger on Albuquerque, then gave the dash-clock a quick glance. His eyes shifted back to the road, where the car’s shadow lay stretched out before him. He glanced down to where his finger waited.
Go a little further
;
make it an easy three-day trip
. He gave the road another glance, then the map, where he spotted a small town, east of Albuquerque—Santa Rosa.

It had been over six hours, over 300 miles since he’d said good-bye to Joyce. It was almost as if she was still near, like he was yet in her neighborhood, and it had only been minutes ago that they’d parted. His thoughts continually strayed to the night before. He kept pulling them in other directions, but it wasn’t long before he’d again find himself back there—the moments just after they’d cleared the table.

Joyce had been talkative over dinner, at first, but then slowly slipped into a funk, at one point, coming to the brink of tears. They moved to the dimly lit living room—Joyce in the plump armchair, Roland close by, on the sofa. Korngold’s violin concerto had made its way around the carousel. Joyce had not said anything in a while; just sat there looking morose.

“Are you okay?” Roland said, although he had a good idea as to what was eating her.

“Uh huh.” She gave him a weak smile. “I’m fine. Just tired I think.”

“Me too.” He gave the clock on the VCR a peek. “You wanna go to bed early?”

“No.”

Moments passed. The music sweeping the room was too tender.

“Did I do something… say something?”

Avoiding his eyes, she shook her head, but offered nothing more.

Roland listened to the music. He knew the music. It had been beautiful the last time he heard it, but now it sounded melancholic.

“Joyce… tell me. What is it?”

“I don’t know what it is.”

He filled his lungs, then let them deflate. “You don’t know, or you just don’t want to talk about it?”

She sighed, gave him a quick glance, looked down at her hands—her fingers weaving together. Her chest expanded, then collapsed with yet another sigh. “I don’t want you to leave.”

He didn’t want to take his eyes from her, but he did—like that would appease the impulses pressing him to speak, to say the wrong thing. It seemed there was nowhere to go from there, as if the moment was stuck. The music played on, mocking them, unaffected. Joyce’s gaze continued pulling at him. He turned. Her eyes glistened in the dim light.

“I don’t know, Joyce. I’m really not sure what I want.” A lump came to his throat, and a dull pain twisted in his lower back. He scooted back in his seat and leaned forward. “Well, maybe that’s not entirely true.” He hesitated.

“What?”

His hands went up to his cheeks. “I want everything to go back to the way it was. Don’t you?”

Roland turned the headlights on.

The way it was
?
Fuck
.
Does anything ever go back to the way it was
?

He checked the speedometer, the temperature gauge, the fuel gauge.

“Shit!”

The needle rested below the empty mark. He searched the distance ahead for road-signs.

“Shit!”

J
oyce pulled her car into the garage
and turned the engine off. As the overhead door rumbled down behind her, she leaned back into the driver’s seat, and gazed toward the busy shelves mounted to the back wall of the garage. Dull pops and creaks emanated from the engine as it cooled. She hadn’t yet turned, but was nonetheless aware of the emptiness waiting for her in the bay at her left. She closed her eyes and pictured Roland behind the wheel of the wagon, his arm resting in the open window, the wind brushing his hair.
What’s he thinking
?

After another restless night, she’d gotten up early and helped him pack the car with things that had belonged to her husband: camping gear, art supplies, shoes, clothes. The garage doors were both up, the overstuffed wagon waited outside in the driveway, ready to go. The morning had, up until then, rushed by in an instant. They stood in the empty bay, she and Roland, inches apart—hesitant—resisting.

“Just one more thing.” Joyce reached into the front pocket of her jeans, worked her hand back out, then offered Roland her down-turned fist. “Here.” He held out his hand. She placed hers in his and opened her fingers.

“Remember the old Indian dude I was telling you about? He gave me this… said it was mine. I don’t think so though. I think it’s yours.” She watched as he studied the smooth blue rock in his hand. “Either way, I want you to have it.” She produced a quick, sketchy smile—“I don’t know”—then shrugged. “A souvenir… to remind you of me?”

“I’ve never needed anything to remember you before.”

She gave a dismissive wave toward the waiting car. “Well, don’t forget that you’re welcome here… anytime.”

He closed his fingers around the stone, held it for a moment, nodded, then dropped it into his pocket. He then looked off to the side, drew in a breath, and let out a short huff. “Well…”

She savored the sweetness of his reluctance, willing it toward a last second change of heart.

He brought his hands to her shoulders—“I enjoyed this”—and gently urged her closer, sliding his arms around her, holding her.

She pressed her cheek to his chest, closed her eyes and listened to his heart beating—his chest expanding and falling with each breath. Wanting to be closer still, she tightened her grip and lifted her eyes to his. His eyes wandered down to her lips. She skipped from one eye to the other, his lips, and back up to his eyes again. There
had
been moments when they would leave her feeling lost, but now she had a solid feel for where she was. “It’s okay”—a whisper, like an escaped thought.

He smiled, allowing yet another stirred up moment to pass. But then the smile fell away as he lowered his lips to hers. She closed her eyes, inhaled the mix of his breath and hers, the scent of his skin and hers, and forgot the concern that only a moment before had stood in her way.

Another thank you, a good bye, and that was it. He left.

T
he wind whispered in Roland’s ears
as he squinted into the headlights of oncoming cars. The traffic seemed heavier than it had from behind the wheel of the wagon, visible another half-mile up the road, its emergency flashers blinking reassuringly. An eighteen-wheeler ripped by, turning the breeze into a gritty gust. He squeezed to the edge of the shoulder, shifted the can of gas from his right hand to his left, then twisted his head around toward the large yellow moon hovering just above the eastern horizon. A little to the north of it, maybe twenty miles away, was the glow of Albuquerque.

Arriving back at the car, he poured the gas into the fuel fill, climbed into the driver’s seat and twisted the key in the ignition switch. The engine turned over and over, groaning with each turn, like an old man rising from a chair. He stopped, let out a huff of dread, and then tried again. Over and over and over… until finally it coughed, fired, sputtered to an idle and then smoothed to a murmur. He patted the dash and whispered, “Thank you.”

Two hours later, a big green sign with white reflective lettering appeared off to the right: “Will Rogers Dr., Exit Right, 1 Mile.” Roland took the exit, turned onto old Route 66, keeping an eye out for a cheap room. He found an abundance of options—motels up and down the road, left and right. A large, lit sign to his left read, “Adobe Inn—Lowest Rates West of the Atlantic—Free HBO.” The place could not have looked more average.

After checking in, he carried his bag up a set of exterior steps to a railed walkway that led to a dingy, non-smoking room, which smelled of stale cigarettes and Pine Sol. The mattress was extra-firm, as were the pillows, with the scent of detergent hemorrhaging from their slips. He turned out the light, then lay back and closed his eyes. The jitters from the road had not yet settled. He lay there thinking, again, of the morning, those last moments with Joyce. Throughout much of the drive, they remained fresh, every detail crisp and accessible. But now, lying there in the dark—the faint murmur of a TV coming from the other side of the wall, the low rumble of trucks on the nearby interstate—they felt unfairly distant.

Stray images snuck in during breaks in his thoughts, but then vanished as they collided with spikes of sudden wakefulness. His mind slowed, unwinding, and then the dreams came—brief moments, people and places, each one stealing his attention from the other, until a solid story emerged.

Roland squeezed through a throng of passengers and took a position toward the front of a crowded bus. He scanned the faces around him, none of which were familiar. As the bus accelerated, the woman standing before him backed into him, pressing into his chest. Even as the forward inertia of the bus subsided, she leaned into him, her warmth penetrating his clothing. He lowered his gaze to the top of her head, almost level with his chin, and explored the irregular zigzag of her part. He raised a hand to her head, slipping his fingers into her hair, combing it with a slow downward stroke, then bent forward until his lips touched the crown of her head. The heat, a smell, the scent of her scalp—in his heart, he begged her to remain close.

Thump!

He jumped. For just an instant he thought he was in his bed in Akron, but as he rolled over, an unnatural light from the parking lot snuck in around the edges of the drapes hiding the windows. A hundred bits of information converged in that instant, painting a less likely, though more resolute reality.
He rolled to his back. The dream was there, every detail, vivid in his mind. The scent of the girl, lingering as though she was yet beside him. The longing that had possessed him—that too was there. And then Joyce, the morning before. He closed his eyes and imagined her again in their shared embrace. He inhaled, drawing in a fragrance that existed only in his mind. The mystery lady… she was close, almost there.

“Where am I?” he whispered, slowly shaking his head. “What am I doing, Dana?”