Time and Chance (28 page)

“Only when I need to.
Tell me.”

“Goes way back to a
Pentecostal Aunt, her pastor was a snake handler….” her eyebrows raised, I
changed gears, “I've often thought Judaism had Saturday right all along … but
then there's Easter Sunday, Christ a Jew … then there's the Pope and Buddha….”

“Wow, you are screwed
up.” She splashed water in my face, paused for a moment (lots of stuff going on
behind her brown peepers) then said calmly, “I think I love you,” and dunked
me.

Caught in an open-mouth
reflex, some water down the wrong pipe, I surfaced coughing.

Laughing, she rolled
over and backstroked toward shore.

After getting my
breath, I dogpaddled after her.

Back on the blanket, I
lit a Salem, she dried off, and, watching her, she said, “What are you
thinking?”

“Nothing.”

“Thunderous.”

“I don't get it … last
night … now … us … being here … Marvel Comics wouldn't buy page one.” I took a
sip of raspberry peach Snapple and she dried her hair.

After some time, she
said, “What are you thinking now?”

“I was thinking this
Snapple stuff would taste better with a little Jack Daniels in it.”

“You drink too much
and you smoke too much.”

“Go together.” I
dragged Salem.

I don't think she
liked that because she threw her towel in my face and turned her really
beautiful back side toward me.

I studied her back for
a moment; unreal. Then I studied the sky, robin egg blue, white puffy clouds,
and after a few minutes I said, “This must be that place you can be plain you
and others can be plain them.”

She turned to face me.
“What's that all about?”

“Someone at work, Jay
Speaker, is looking for that place. I don't think it's a place though. I think
it's a time … a time where you can be plain you and others can be plain them.”

“This must be the
place,” she smiled.

“But it ends. It all
ends. Time ends. The Saturday will end. You'll end.”

“Excuse me?”

“You'll end.”

Silence came on
strong.

I said, “There's
something I don't understand.”

“Tons you don't
understand.”

“This is moving too
fast.”

She sat up and stroked
my chest hair number seven. “Who says things have to move slow? People meet,
things happen and….”

She paused and I
noticed there was that distant look in her eyes, trailing off, and that drawing
away.

 
“It's already ending, isn't it, end it, forget
it.” I said.

She pounced her pretty
feet on the blanket. “Will you stop acting like a spoiled brat. I told you no ‘forget
it’s. It won't end. It won't. Now, now, now just cool it.”

“Everything ends.”

“Everything ends but
you don't have to wallow in it.” She took my empty Snapple can (she was
drinking cactus tea) and stood. Looking down at me, she said, “Do you want
another?”

“Let me try yours.”

“No.”

“Thanks. What about
Snakebite?”

“Jesus Christ! I'm
trying here, ya know.”

I stood and looked up
into her face. “You're tall.”

She stroked my hair.
“Damn it, don't make it so hard.”

I put my arms around
her waist.

She touched my lips
with her fingers then my cheeks then my nose, like a sculptor molding clay.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Loud.” She touched my
nose.

“Let's get married.”

She stared at me with
a calm look for it seemed like an hour, then said, “Don't fuck it up.”

“Think it over, how
about tonight.”

“John….” She looked
through me to somewhere near Tokyo.

“What?”

“You don't understand,
you don't know me.” She looked for a reaction.

Not a great one for
history or biography, my own was so perfect, none of that was important to me.
It was her voice and what I read in her eyes and I was really amazed at what
they were saying to me. I said it again, “Let's get married.”

“You don't understand….”

“No then. Only now.”

“You're serious,
aren't you?”

“Yep.”

She paused for a long
time. “No … I mean we can't, I … maybe….” She paused for another long time then
said, “John, I have to tell you one more thing.”

“You're a clone.”

“I'm serious. Look at
me.”

I did.

She said, “If we did
and it didn't work out, I'd have to kill you.”

“Maybe we need to
think about this.”

“I think we do.”

She looked around,
paused, looked around some more, thinking, then said, “We need to talk.”

“How 'bout dinner.”

She worked that around
for a minute or so then said, “Okay, but it can't be in Dodge.”

“Whaddaya mean?”

She titled her head, “Felix
The Cat, work, get it?”

 
“I know a perfect place, nice drive.”

* * *

After packing up, on
our way, Gillian needed to call Angelo from a pay phone so I pulled into a One
Stop. She went to the pay phone and it looked like a lot of talking going on,
then she hung up and made another call.

That's interesting, I
thought, and she has a cell phone in her purse.

She came back, we sat
in Winston and she told me about her call to Angelo: he was pretty upset when
she told him she wasn’t feeling well, wouldn't be in tonight. Actually, she said,
he was beside himself. She said, he said, “Snakebite is going to be pissed.”

She said she told him
she was still sick, she had checked in an emergency center when she left last
night. Touch of salmonella. She said she told him she thought she would be okay
by Monday night, would be in to work.

While I was thinking
what a skillful story teller she was, she kissed my cheek and said, “Everything
is all set. Angel likes me, he'll handle it.”

Ah oh, I thought. Then
I wondered about the second phone call she made, but thought, don't bring that
up, not now.

CHAPTER 22

Real Time

5:02:35 P.M. CDT

Peggy opened her eyes
and, not moving her head, looked at the pink clouds on her bed's canopy. She
put a foot on Stella's back, pushed her to the floor, and began screaming.

Then, in white silk
pajamas, floppy white high heel slippers, she staggered downstairs and began
pacing the den.

Stella, having
followed her, slid in behind the bar, mixed a Bloody Mary.

Peggy went to the bar,
grabbed the bottle of vodka and took a swig.

The Saturday afternoon
humid, Peggy and Stella lounged around Peggy's pool. Peggy drank a martini.
Stella drank soda.

The poolside phone
commenced ringing.

Peggy tensed.

Stella answered, said
it was Berry, he wanted to talk to Peggy.

Peggy kicked a chair
in the pool, refused the call.

At 6:00, Stella called
Felix The Cat and talked to Angelo. She wondered, since Peggy would not be
singing, if he would be okay bartending by himself. He told her no, he was
short a Kitten, Gillian had called off sick.

Stella slammed the
phone and shot Peggy a hungry dog look.

“What's a matter?”

“Fucking nothing.”

CHAPTER 23

Jack’s
Time

The early evening full
of futures, Winston's top down, Gillian and I headed off southeast on I-24.

Tuning the radio, she
stopped at a jazz station, sounded like Stan Getz, she turned up the sound and,
as I drove, the wind, Getz, Gillian's feet on my lap, I was thinking about that
theory, somewhere I read: in everyday life we tend to think of time the way
Newton did, ascribing a universal time-order to events … believe that all
events have a chronological order … believing that we don't perceive the short
time needed for light to move around, Einstein’s relativity (186,000 miles a
second) pops up and time gets confused, clocks run slow, people grow younger.

I conjugated, hell,
let's hurry up and slow things down.

* * *

Sunlight nearly gone,
after around an hour drive, we pulled into the parking lot of the Island Cove
Marina. The resort, north of Chattanooga, overlooked Chickamauga Lake, the
dockside lights on, the lake flat and calm, reflected the early evening mood in
a surreal shimmering like that famous Van Gogh night scene painting.

At the entrance, the
hostess didn't want to let us in, we were ‘beach bum’ casual, I explained, my
wife pregnant, just married, passing through on our way to Atlanta, we were
tired, hungry, and in need of a place to eat, rest the night.

I think she liked that
because she let us in, had sent to the table a bottle of pink champagne.

Piped-in piano music
in the background, window table overlooking the lake, candle, dinner, etcetera,
we talked, and it got around to Gillian working at Felix The Cat. Concerned,
what with all the whacking threats and sleazy characters, Angelo excluded of
course, I wondered why she just didn't quit that dump, we could get married,
move to the farm. I would work, she could grow tomatoes and beans, we could
become golden whatever together. She looked like she liked the idea but there
was something wrong.

I said, “Okay, if it
doesn't work out you can kill me.”

She looked through me
to Memphis.

Then she told me,
given everything, if Snakebite found out about us, one of two things could
happen. He'd kill her, me and/or both of us. So, I decided, after thinking it
over, if she didn't quit, given my current standing with Snakebite, I would
kill him. She said, get real. Then I asked her what's the big deal, just quit
that dump. She said she had to pay off some debts, negative cash flow, needed
some time. I wondered how much. She said “later” and went from chapter three to
six.

* * *

All in all, it seemed
like a year or two, and everything sounding like more shades of Crayola
crapola, over a second bottle of champagne, she told me again, “Long story.”

“I like long stories.”

“Trust me, later.”

None of this adding
up, I said, “So the jaunt to California, was that revisionist history, or
what?”

I don't think she
liked that because she abruptly got up and went to the ladies room.

Long few minutes
later, back, she said could we please change the subject.

“No.”

She kicked (under the
table) my leg.

Amazing lady, and I
didn't want to screw up a wonderful evening so we listened to the music and
looked at each other.

* * *

We stayed overnight at
the marina's Island Cove's Inn. Got up late Sunday, showered together for an
hour, brunch/breakfast, drove back to Nashville. I suggested stopping at her
apartment, she didn't want to so we stopped at my place. She couldn't get over
the charming deck overlooking the parking lot, loved the quaintness, said my
message light was blinking, “Ten messages.”

I didn't hear her,
changed into fresh Wranglers, white polo shirt, and got out my two Samsonite
suitcases. She asked me what I was doing. I told her I was moving to the farm,
she shook her head, no.

* * *

We got back to the
farm sometime afternoon. She changed to jeans and a burgundy T-shirt. Barefoot,
she made a pot of coffee, we sat on the front porch swing. The weather
beautiful, we decided to walk around the farm. There was a little pond, we fed
some ducks wild berries, then, rolling in some grass, we promised to live
forever.

Later, she wanted to
take me for a ride on her motorcycle, get some groceries for supper. I said I
didn't have a helmet. Looking through me to Pittsburgh, she said, “Get on the
bike.”

We took a ride on her
bike—a red and black Harley soft-tail, lots of chrome.

Sitting behind her,
her hair in my face, holding on, arms around her, my hands cupping her
amazingly hard stomach, I never wanted it to end.

CHAPTER 24

Real Time

7:03:05 P.M. CDT

Stella driving Peggy’s
cinnamon apple Cadillac over the byways and highways in and around Nashville
and Davidson County, Peggy repeated a foul oath, “Search the woods for that
mother fucking Carr.”