The Weight of Gravity (19 page)

             
“Garner, give this a rest?  I went for a drive with Max.  We talked about lots of things.  He knows I’m married ... that we have a son.  Absolutely nothing happened.”  His expression said he was weakening.  Then again, maybe it was the alcohol.  “I’m sorry I lied.  That was wrong, but I didn’t want to go into a long explanation about why I would spend an hour with Max Rosen.  We were close friends once, a very long time ago, but you know that.  We were just remembering things so far in the past they have no meaning anymore.  Does that make sense?” She waited.  Garner was mulling over this information.  His mouth was twisted into an ugly frown and his eyes lids were drooping.  She was being honest, so why would his alcohol-bent thinking have a problem with it?

             
“Are you screwing Rosen, E?  Because, if you are, I couldn’t take it.”

             
Good god, where is this coming from?
  She’d never seen Garner so insecure.  It was a new experience.  She wasn’t sure what to say to him.  “Garn, I’m not sleeping with Max Rosen.  I don’t plan to sleep with Max Rosen.  Max Rosen is a thing of my past.  I’m not interested in a relationship with Max Rosen.”

             
He seemed to buy it.  Garner came forward and wrapped his arms around her.  She let him hold her, nuzzle his face into her neck, caress her back, and eventually rub her ass.  She had told him the truth, for the moment.

Chapter 24 - Max

              Max’s first instinct was to go to the ranch.  He knew Doris would be looking for him, but he wasn’t ready to call it a night.  Too many thoughts still clouded his mind.  Encounters with Erika were not as he’d expected, but in truth, he’d not known what to expect.  She was still incredibly beautiful and her playing was just as remarkable. 
Now what?
  If he forced things with Erika, would his life turn around?  Did he honestly want to turn back the clock, assuming he could?  Erika wasn’t the same person, certainly, but neither was he.

             
He drove back to the cabin in Pine Meadow and parked closer to the rock overhang where he could see the pin points of light in the valley without getting out of the car.  It was as if he was suspended between two night skies glutted with stars, one above him and one below.  Sitting in the darkness, he felt at peace, his mind strangely quiet, though this place haunted him with memories of both Pop and Erika.  He dozed and woke in the middle of the night covered in mountain chill, so he pulled a coat from the trunk, then ran the heater until the interior of the car was toasty.  He woke again when razor-edged sunlight split the pines and began to rake across the valley below. 

             
He got out of the car then, stretched to relieve the stiffness in his shoulders and legs, and peed over the rock ledge – steam rising into the air -- before beginning the drive down the winding road.

             
“There you are.”  Doris was sitting at the table finishing breakfast when he walked through the door.  “Long night, Max?”

             
“Yes.”

             
“You and Mel?”

             
“About that,” he began.  “Sure seems like you and Ms. Kristoffersen Contractors have been talking to each other a lot.”

             
“Not a lot, but yeah, we see each other now and again ... around town.  She hasn’t been out here to visit in ages.”

             
“That’s not what I’m talking about, but I think you know that.”

             
“I may have shared more with Mel than I let on to you, and I’m sorry if I meddled.”  She rose from the table.  “Can I get you some breakfast?”

             
“Doris, I don’t really mind.  I mean, I was pissed at first, sure.  Mel can be opinionated when she gets cranked up.” 
Cranked up?
 
Was he starting his grandfather’s Model T Ford, for god’s sake? 
“She’s somewhat reticent" –
there we go, back on track with the word choice
– "to talk otherwise.  She’s smart, I like Mel, but it rattled me to hear her talk about Erika and me.”

             
“Hell, who in Cottonwood doesn’t know about you and Erika?  Tell me that.  You and Erika are like Ryan O’Neal and Mia Farrow in
Peyton Place
.  People around here love shit like that, it feeds the gossipmongers all day long at the local diners and tire stores.”

             
“Breakfast sounds great.  I’m famished.” 
Famished – YES!
 
Good big-city word choice.

             
Doris made her usual mass quantities of food, and Max ate it all.  He excused himself then and went to his room to write in his journal.  When his eyelids began to droop, he stretched out on the bed.

              “Hey, Max?”  Doris was standing in the doorway.  “Better get up or you’ll be awake all night.”

             
“What time is it?” he choked out, and then buried his face in the warm pillows again.

             
“Nearly six.  Let’s go out for dinner.  What do you say?”

             
He washed his face and changed his shirt.  Max invited Doris to try her hand at driving the Jaguar.  Her shifting was rough, and she had no idea how to push it to the limit of the gears, but otherwise she did well.  They went to a steak house, a local favorite, she said, and were ushered to a table in the middle of the crowded dining room.

             
“Max, this here is Jolene,” Doris said, when their waitress approached the table.

             
“Hi ya, Max.  Heard about you,” she twanged.

             
“You and every other ....” he began, but Doris cut him short.

             
“What’s special tonight, Hon?”  Doris asked.

             
“Steak, steak and more steak,” Jolene said and laughed.  “Just depends on how you want it cooked, is all.”

             
“I think I’ll have steak,” Max said.  “Rare.”

             
“You sure, Mr. Rosen?”

             
“Nah, make it medium rare,” he said.

             
“Okay.”

             
“No, wait, on second thought, make it medium.”

             
“Alrighty.”  She began to write in her note pad.

             
“Wait, wait, wait.  Make it well done ... medium well ... medium rare.  Yeah, that’s it.”

             
“Sounds good,” she said, jotting the order down, unfazed by his indecisiveness.

             
“You know ...” he began.

             
“Give it a rest, Max.” Doris said.  “You’re starting to sound like a butt-head.”

             
“Sorry.  Medium rare will be fine.”

             
Max was sure Jolene never caught up with his game, so she was not offended.  He and Doris enjoyed the dinner, and each other’s company.  It was easy for Max to see why his father had been attracted to her.  She was intelligent, witty, more sophisticated than the local environs would suggest.  Doris was, simply stated, better than most in Cottonwood.  Pop chose wisely, he decided.  Being fifteen years younger than the old man all but guaranteed she’d outlive him.  And Max never had a problem with the fact Doris inherited it all: the land, the houses, and the company.  She deserved it, he reasoned, given she’d married an incredibly huge asshole.  Hell, the inheritance was small compensation for living with a man as difficult as Nathan Rosen.

             
“Max, would you mind dropping me at Joanie’s on the way home?  We’re organizing the crafts fair at St. Paul’s.  She’ll give me a ride home.”

             
“Of course I don’t mind.  No problem.  I have some errands of my own to run anyway.” 

There were no errands.  Max was feeling lost about where to go next and was considering leaving Cottonwood.  Nothing more to accomplish, he thought, unless he decided to force the issues with Eri
ka.  Erika had been unreceptive for the most part to his homecoming.  He’d been willing to go into the past to find meaning for the present, but he didn’t think she was similarly interested.

When he droppe
d Doris off on Carpenter Street where Joanie lived, Max headed back to the ranch, but pulled into the
Cactus Moon Bar & Honky Tonk
on the edge of town. 

“Drink?” asked the bea
rded, profusely tattooed server when Max sat at the bar.

“Nope.  Not a drinker,” Max said, and smiled.

“Is that supposed to be a joke?” the bartender asked, leaning across the counter to scrutinize Max more closely.

“Bad one, if it was,” Max said.  “Give me a draft of your darkest brew, please.”

              The server sulked away and returned with something in color to a Guinness stout.  Max laid a ten on the counter, but the bartender ignored it.

             
“Buy me a drink.”

             
It was a different bar, but a familiar voice.  Max turned to see Tommy Five O’clock sitting at the table behind him.

             
“Tommy!  Good to see you.  Sure, I’ll buy.”

             
Tommy joined Max at the bar.  He smelled of beef stew and cigarettes, Max thought, nothing too obnoxious.  Without asking, the bartender brought Tommy two fingers of bourbon.  Max didn’t mind the company, but his preference was to avoid conversation.  Tommy, however, felt obligated to make merry with whoever was buying the drinks.

             
“Are you an alcoholic?” he asked Max.

             
“No.  I don’t drink at all,” Max said, sipping his stout.

             
“Too bad,” Tommy said.  “I been one for ... for ... ever, I guess.  Sure, okay.”  Tommy took a sip of bourbon, and then slowly lowered his glass onto the bar counter while making noises like a spaceship landing on the moon.  “See, for an alcoholic, it’s only the first drink … the first sip … that does any good.”

             
“Really?” Max asked, moderately intrigued by Tommy’s barroom philosophy.

             
“Yeah, see, that first sip drops the anxiety level down big time and pushes the demons back through the gates of hell.  Every sip after that is a rush to build a wall around that bastard afore he gets out and kicks your ass.”

             
“You’re talking about building a wall around the demon?”  Max asked.

             
“Yeah.  See, every alcoholic has his own personal demon ... ugly and putrid as his mind can conjure up.  An alcoholic goes along all day turning this corner,” he closed one eye and pointed with his hand, “going down that street, just to avoid coming face-to-face with his demon.  Then he rushes in here, takes that first sip, and it buys him a little time, gives him the strength to build the wall before the bugger gets out and eats him.”

             
Tommy’s reasoning made sense to Max.  He’d heard his father say something similar one late night at the kitchen table.  Max was fourteen, and the old man decided it was time for the “little talk.”  Pop was blitzed, and his fatherly advice on protective sex included pouring whiskey over genitals and “peeing on yourself to sterilize the jewels.”  Pop’s lecture didn’t go much past that point, but he also spoke of demons in the bottle.  Max had forgotten the conversation until now. 

             
In the mirror behind the bar, Max saw Mel come through the door, and she wasn’t alone.  A lanky fellow in a plaid shirt, worn jeans, boots and cowboy hat followed her into the middle of the room.  Max and Mel made eye contact in the mirror.

             
“Good grief, Max, do I have to carry your drunken butt home again?” she asked, stepping up to the bar.  She leaned on the counter, cowboy on her other side.  Both were now staring at Max.

             
“I don’t drink, remember,” Max said, taking another sip of beer.  “And if I did, I don’t need to be waking up under a canopy, again.” 
That last remark’s for you, Cowboy
, he thought, staring at her companion.

             
“Max, meet Shane McCoy,” she said.  “Shane, Max Rosen.”

             
Cowboy extended his hand and Max shook it.  “Nice to meet you Shane McCoy.” 
Polite.  Be polite, Max.

             
“Shane is a partner on the housing project, McCoy Builders.  We’re just dropping in for late lunch and a drink.”  Mel stepped back from the bar.  “Take care of yourself, Max.  Nice to see you too, Tommy,” she said.  He waved over his shoulder as she passed.