The Weight of Gravity (2 page)

             
“No need to be smart mouthed.”

             
“I never thought of intelligence residing in the oral cavity, but I’ll take your word for it.  That would explain a lot about my personal life.”  Max lost patience.  “Are you going to give me a ticket?”

             
“Just a warning.  You may not want to hear this...”

             
I’m sure I don’t.

             
“... but your daddy gave me my first job.”

             
Max got out of the car and offered his hand.  The officer took it.  “You pumped shit, too?  Hell of a job, wasn’t it?”  The officer looked confused, not sure if Max was making fun of him.

             
“Mister Rosen was a good man.  Helped me start my family.”

             
“Did he really?”

             
“Sad, when he passed.  I went to his funeral, but you wouldn’t know that.  Everyone wondered, you know?”

             
“Did they?  Why?”

             
“Everyone knew you were working in Europe.  Made a film of your novel or something.  They all kinda understood.”

             
“Did they?  Why?”

             
“Mister Rosen never stopped talking about you around the Chaparral shop.  He was awfully proud of his son.” 

It unnerved Max the way the officer stared at him, searching for a response.  “Can I get going?”

              “Just hold it down.”

             
“Welcome home,” Max whispered.  He pulled away.

             
Twenty-four years did little to dampen his memory of Cottonwood.  Street names were oppressively familiar; Pennsylvania Avenue into town, then Tenth east, up the hill.  He passed the Piggly Wiggly, the old Woolworths that became a Five-and-Dime, that became a combination Salvation Army headquarters and thrift store, and the hotdog stand where he bought Sunday lunch when he worked in the shop.  He passed what was left of the Chaparral buildings, behind the Goodyear dealership.  He took Tenth all the way to Juniper.

             
New money built in the foothills now, but twenty years ago Juniper Street was the creme de la creme of family housing -- the place of money and power, as much as could be earned in a watershed the size of Cottonwood.  The Juniper homes were elegant, with crosscut-tiff lawns, white-brick fireplaces with the family initial blocked in stone on the chimney, and elaborately designed iron gates leading up the front walkways. 

He
pulled to the curb at 3236 and turned off the engine.  He closed his eyes and willed his thoughts gently backward into a scent of lilac and soft evening shadows. Whispers, then familiar voices drifted through the now cool evening air.

“One more minute.”  She held a finger in the air and wiggled it.

“You said the same thing fifteen minutes ago.  Your father’s flashed the porch light twice.  I can see him peeking through the curtains.  He’ll yank the door off my father’s Pontiac and drag you into the house.”

“Nothing can sepa
rate us,” she promised.

“Except your father.”

“Only until tomorrow.”

“Your father hates us staying out late on a school night.”

“We’re right outside the house.  How is this spot any different than sitting in my living room, fifty feet away?”

“Plenty.  And you know it.”
 

She smiled seductively. 
“Yes, I do, on more than one occasion.”  She put her hand on the side of his face and kissed him.  “I don’t want to let you go.”

“There’s tomorrow.”

“And the day after.”

“And the day after that.”

“Forever … I want us to last … forever.”  She played with the buttons on his shirt.  “Do you write about me in your journal?”

She had the uncanny ability to ask him questions that made him want to think very care
fully before he answered.  His response had the power to define how very much he loved her.  But, they were young, he realized even then, so every experience they shared together, even words of love, could potentially tear them apart. Love at that age was tenuous, fragile, one moment so assuredly strong, and in the next moment on the edge of failure.  Their love for each other was growing rapidly, changing with every minute, and so were they.

“All the time.  You’re the only thing in
my journal these days,” he said.

             
“What do you write about me?”

             
“I write how you’re always getting me in trouble with your father.”

             
She punched his shoulder.  “Stop kidding.  Tell me what you write about me.”

             
“A journal is like a diary.  It’s personal.  No one’s supposed to read it … at least not until you’re dead.”

             
“Don’t say that!”  She grabbed his collar and pulled him toward her.  “Will you turn your journal into a novel some day?”

             
“No.  But after I’m famous, a student at Columbia University will research my novels for his dissertation and he’ll find my journals.  Like Shakespeare’s ‘dark lady’ of the sonnets, he’ll tell the world that my brilliant writing was inspired by a famous concert pianist named Erika Morgan.”

             
“You believe in my music?”

             
“I believe in you.”  He kissed her, then stared into her eyes, searching.  “Do you know what I write?”

             
“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want.”

             
He smiled, took a deep breath, and stared into her eyes intently.  Here was a moment, a very good one, and he wanted her to understand the depth and honesty of what he was about to say.

             
“I write that I dream every night about the most incredible girl in the world.  I write that my sun sets whenever she leaves me, and rises again when she walks into the room.  I write how the sound of her voice makes my heart soar, how her stare makes my heart melt, and how her touch unravels me at the seams.  Most of all, I write that when she plays the piano … I want to write more.”  He took her hand.  “It’s time to go, Erika.”

             
“One more minute.”  She held her finger up and wiggled it.

             
He loved that she begged for something that he, himself, wanted so desperately. 

God, I wish I had that minute right no
w.
Max didn’t dare open his eyes or the dream would evaporate as quickly as it had come.  He knew she wasn’t there, and that he was several decades older.  That there was no father in the house any longer, no family at all there that he knew personally.  That time had, in truth, torn the fabric of what in that moment seemed indestructible.

             
“How can it get any better than this?” her voice echoed and faded away.

             
“It can’t,” he said to himself and opened his eyes.

A police cruiser pulled up and greeted Max with a short burp of the siren.  He lowered the window and, like opening an oven, a blast of hot air was sucked into the Jaguar.

“My God, it really is Max Rosen!” 

The officer wore Oakley sunglasses.  Even with gray along his temples, nothing on top, a too puffy face and a pronounced double chin, Max wasn’t fooled.  “Hello, Bobby.  What’s new?” 

             
“A hell of a lot since you left town.”

             
“Your gunslingers have been following me since I passed the Triple-T truck terminal.”

             
“I’m surprised you even saw the terminal, given that you blew by it doing ninety plus.  Was that your plan?  To rocket through here with such velocity that you couldn’t stop even if you wanted to?”

             
Max never cared for sarcasm.  Particularly when it was directed at him.  Bobby was looking out the opposite window when Max turned to stare at him, as if the officer was waiting for his words to have their desired effect.  Bobby turned to face him again, looked over the top of his Oakley’s and smiled.

“
I heard the call on the radio that one of my deputies pulled you over.  Didn’t believe it … big-shot writer like you coming to Cottonwood.”

             
“How’d you know where to find me?”

             
“You’re kidding, right?”  Bobby’s eyes looked past Max to the house on the other side of the Jag.  “She ain’t here.”

             
“I know.”

             
“So, what you looking for, buddy?”

             
“Not sure.  Trying to reason some things out, I guess.”

             
“Damn, you even
sound
like a hoity piss-ant celebrity.”  His radio crackled and he adjusted the volume.  “She’s on the mountain, above the JC.  Gotta go to the mountain, if you want to find her.”

             
“JC?”

             
“Yeah, we got our own college now.  Remember how they used to offer classes in the high school at night?  Well, they went and built their own place up at the top of Scenic Drive.  Follow McKinley, you remember McKinley?”

             
Max nodded, certain that he could find it.

             
“McKinley leads into Thunder Road as you climb into the foothills.  Can’t miss it.  She’s up there.”

             
Bobby pushed the Oakley’s back up on his face.  “Keep it under fifty, Max.”  He hit the gas and raced away.

              Max followed the road north, past the Junior College, looped back south on Scenic and found Thunder Canyon Road.  A clutter of glitzy billboards advertising new housing projects broke the landscape on both sides of the highway.  Two miles into the foothills, he drove through a stone gate with brass letters that read
DESERT COVE.
  The allusion to water amused him.  There were a dozen homes, each a sprawling ranch style surrounded by five or more acres.  She was close -- the first person to top the charts of his
Important
list.  If they’d once shared a psychic bond, as he always believed they had, then why couldn’t he drive directly to her home and take her in his arms when she answered the door?  Surely, Erika could feel him there, like the pull between planets, and would come out onto the porch, searching.  How could such an overpowering connection not draw them together now, like gravity, even after all these years?  Was he hyperventilating? 
What the hell is that about?
  Max turned the car around and drove back through the stone gate.  He needed a bit more time before facing her.

In retreat, Max didn't notice the slate-stone driveway with the white Lexus SUV, vanity plate "LAWYA WIF.”  Even if he'd noticed, he couldn't have seen beyond, through the massive mahogany doors, across the expansive entry, to the remotest point in this eight thousand square foot home – the piano room.  No force of gravity threatened to draw him closer to the woman he was passionate about finding who was -- at the moment the Jaguar passed – engaged in teaching her passion to another.

“Look at the notes.  You’re playing from
a faulty memory and not reading the music.  What’s the key?”

             
“G major?”

             
“And what’s the time signature … what kind of a note gets the beat?”

             
“Half note.”

             
“Try again.”

             
“Quarter note.”

             
“What finger are you going to start with … in the right hand?”

             
The student put her hand on the keys and paused.

             
“Almost.  Remember, I marked and circled it on the music, and you’re still not using the correct finger.”  The student moved her hand one key to the right.  “Good.  Try it again.  And keep your heel on the floor.  How many times have I told you to work on your peddling?”

             
“Like, a god-zillion times.”

             
“Not quite, Mandy.  Play.”  Erika tapped the sheet music with her pencil.  “Keep your eyes on the notes this time.”

Mandy struggled to play the music.  Her efforts resulted in a discordant and irritating sound, distant from the beautiful melody of Handel’s masterpiece. 
Instead of the music painting graceful and stunning images in her mind, Erika was, instead, reminded that she too had sour notes in her personal life.  Her latest encounter with Darrell earlier in the week was the lowest point, the deepest rut, but it was a road she’d paved and race along willingly, armed with excuses and justifications that now seemed so incredibly hollow.