Terry

“To Skate on Thin Ice”

“To Skate on Thin Ice”

A Novella by Jack Terry

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Chapter One

Alexandria sat alone in her dressing room and laughed. She didn’t want to, and she hated herself for it, but realizing that only made her laugh that much harder. Her life had become not one but two clichés. The first was that if she didn’t laugh she would cry, and crying was exactly what she felt like doing now for so many reasons. She didn’t want to explain them to anybody and her time alone would be quickly coming to an end. These things run like clockwork and had been for the last several months as she had travelled across the country. She knew, without even looking at a clock that her assistant would appear in just under two minutes to tell her the back-up singers and dancers had all gathered and were waiting. It was up to her to give the emotional pep talk, the last words of “wisdom” before they all went on stage. Every night she said a various theme of the same speech, with the same participation required from everyone. Tonight the expectation would be greater, because tonight was the last night of the tour. It was up to her to speak because it was her name on the tickets, her face on the posters, and her lyrics on the t-shirts. She was the one they all came to see and her singers and dancers all looked to her for guidance. To them she represented success and the achievement they all wanted. Some were sincere in their adulation of her while others were just well versed at hiding their ambitions to unseat her from the throne of success behind their smiling faces and hopeful eyes; regardless she felt she couldn’t let them down. The musicians never joined the pre-show love-fest, mostly because they were older, they had been doing this longer than some of the dancers had been alive, and to them it was just another job. They may love getting paid to play music, but what they love more is not being bothered by a collection of kids while they did their job. Perhaps the only people more cynical than the musicians were the crew members. She couldn’t remember any of them

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saying more than three words to her after the first day they met, and none over the last half of the tour. She knew that she might have had a little something to do with that, but she still thought it strange; if it weren’t for her they wouldn’t be working now, and although she wasn’t looking for genuflection, a little appreciation would be nice. She knew that there were other shows, other tours, other artists they could be working for, but none could pay as well as hers because none was as big as hers. How unions actually worked was something that hadn’t been covered by her homeschooling parents. She knew that if her assistant Frieda had come across her crying she wouldn’t have been the least bit surprised. Emotions were running high through everyone. She dryly noted to herself that the only way it could be more emotionally charged backstage was if they were all starting their periods today. The truth was, it being the last night only accounted for a small portion of the tears. Even though the tour ending would inevitably relieve a lot of the pressure that she was under, at least it provided a distraction. New questions had risen in her life, and she wasn’t sure if she knew how to answer them. She wasn’t even sure if she could. She laughed because if she didn’t she would cry, and she would cry because of the second cliché: she had gotten everything she wanted, and she hadn’t been careful how she asked for it. The clock still worked and the assistant, Frieda, poked her head in the room. “We’re ready for you.” Without speaking she stood, catching one last glimpse of the smile she gaily forced up, and made the walk one last time. Almost immediately Frieda fell in step next to her with the nightly litany of all that her label expected of her after the show. The list was never small to begin with, but ending the tour in New York made the list unbearable. In times before her the assistant would have several pages on a clip board to fumble through; now it was just a stylus and a smart phone. “There are three different parties going on tonight that your managers want you to go to. They gave me the order, the amount of time to spend at each one and who you should be seen with when you are there. The driver already has the itinerary and will be waiting for you

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after the show. There will be a small meet-and-greet backstage when you finish, but we need to have you moving within fifteen minutes, because Danny will be at the first club. His show starts at midnight, and they don’t want you hanging out there too long after he starts performing.” Frieda continued but Alexandria stopped listening, smiling as she mentioned Danny’s name. Out of all the people she had been forced to meet on her roller-coaster, Danny was probably one of the most selfaware. Unfortunately that self-awareness included wanting nothing to do with her romantically. He had a singular focus on his career, and was astute enough to know what he needed to do to make it happen. The occasional photo shoot was fine, just to keep the wheels greased, but his romantic life was still a luxury he kept in the future. “What will you do tomorrow, when the tour is over?” She rarely spoke when Frieda was on her roll, except to agree with the agenda, so the simple and straight forward question hung in the air for a second. When Frieda finally switched her gears, all she could do was stammer out an answer. “I don’t know. Sleep?” “Sleep is good. For a while.” Frieda forgot about the list and looked at her boss. What she was planning on doing after the tour was the same thing she was doing now: work as her personal assistant. With all the questionable self-esteem that comes from being someone whose dream job is to be a professional sidekick - without the matching uniform even - and the pleasure of having a name best suited for a grandmother, she wondered if this was her exit interview. “I just figured you would still need me to help, you know, make the adjustments and, you know, everything.” She didn’t know herself. She didn’t know what she was talking about, could not comprehend just what kind of adjustments a thirty two year old woman of independent means would need, but she had to find something to make her seem necessary. “I’m sure I will, but not for several days at least. You should take some time for yourself, and just relax.” They had rounded the last corner. Here the fluorescent lights were gone and the light consisted almost entirely of ambient light from the stage and set. In the vague shadows she could identify each and every person, and she could tell from the way

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they stood tonight, they were feeling the sad enormity of the night. Forgetting her own desire to cry just moments ago, she spoke loudly “No crying yet. We still have one more day on the job.” Her step quickened almost imperceptibly, but it seemed as if she took off running because Frieda stopped cold, wondering how a person who was sure she was going to be fired before the night was over could possibly think about relaxing. The way they all tensed up around her made her aware again how powerful her voice could come across. She wanted the words to sound lighthearted and as she stood among them, subconsciously a circle taking place, she elaborated. “I want to cry as much as all of you, because I know how sad this will be in ninety-five minutes. But that’s then. Now is still the time we have fun. So are we ready?” They answered without saying yes but cheering and hooting while they linked elbows. Once again and for the final time, she gave her speech. “I don’t care who you believe in and I don’t care how you got here, but here is where we are and I believe this is where we were meant to be. We have a gift to give and the chance to use it, and we owe it not even to ourselves but to so many other people. Tonight we perform for all the people who have dreams like us but just haven’t made them happen yet. We perform to help them realize their dreams, just like we perform to realize our own dreams, so that we will never have to go back to being a…” The very first night she said this speech, her voice trailed off while she looked at the dancer who was standing to her left. The dancer looked at her, confused, until she said “What was the worst job you ever had, the job you promised yourself you would never go back to?” She answered tentatively, as most of them did that night, but by the third night they were prepared. Some said the same job every night; others seemed to have a new occupation from hell when it was their turn. The first part of the tour there had been the occasional snickering answer thrown in from passing crew members, one in particular who likes to see how far he could push the boundaries. During the time off, she had spent a few days with a friend who, when having the story related to him, took

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Chapter Two The show went off like the well-oiled machine that it was. Only near the end did she break from what had been the routine to take a few moments to address the crowd about the fact that this was the final show of the tour and thanking them all for their support, but this was not the “off the cuff’ ad lib that it was designed to sound like. The fans may have been screaming and crying, all of them getting ready to tell their friends the next day at school how “she spoke directly to me when she was saying thank you and I could see by her emotion how important this was to her!” but the light and sound operators were listening for the cue just like they always did. “Finally, this has been the most special night of my life,” (Ready the pyros and backing track.) “and I just don’t know what could make it any better.” (And go.) And just like it had happened fifty seven other nights, albeit ninety seconds later than usual, the fireworks exploded, the dancers rushed the stage, a quick-change effect stolen from a magician was employed, and the opening tracks to her biggest hit, which they had teased the audience with all night, poured out of the speakers and the show entered its last four minutes and thirty-three seconds. There would be no encore, only one last concession of a longer final bow, before the lights would roll over the audience, a video highlight package of the cast and crew saying good night, and then the lights would come up. If trains ran with this kind of precision, Amtrak would be making money hand over fist. Even scarier than how exacting the show ran was the perfection achieved by the agenda for the rest of the night. She could have changed her outfit and taken off her make-up on her own, but without the team of professionals there to help it would have taken too long and she would be

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behind schedule all night. She thought about it less when she was in Davenport than she did when she was in Los Angeles, but she did always wonder just whose schedule she was on. It was her night, right? Shouldn’t she have a say as to when and where she did what and with whom? She laughed every time she thought that, because she knew they would laugh if she ever brought it up. She was as much a commodity and a stock chip as she was a singer and a performer, so she resigned herself to the way things were. If there was one part of the night that she enjoyed the most, it was the moments she first stepped out of the arena. There would always be a group of fans waiting to see her, and this gave her a few moments to connect with them in what little way she could. Yes, occasionally there was someone who was a little too happy to see her, someone a little too obsessed with looking like her, or just a little too creepy in how they looked at her, but usually they were just so happy to shake her hand, get her autograph or take a selfie with her that it was nothing more than a few moments of unscripted bliss. On stage the lights were too bright and the seats too dark that she never got a chance to really see any of them. Even those that were lucky and seated in the first few rows, whose faces got caught by the millions of watts stage lighting, were blurs in her eyes as she executed her full night of choreography. Here she could see them, and she could see herself in them, and she could remember what it had been like on the other side. In gratitude she gave as much of herself as she could, until she felt the familiar nudge and the guiding force that led her to the open door of the limousine. The bottle of champagne that usually went home unopened with the driver was the first thing she grabbed tonight. Without thinking she poured two glasses and handed one to Frieda. Her fears had not subsided since before the show and she hesitantly took the glass, not sure if this was a celebration or a funeral. So uncertain and over thinking was she that even after her boss said “Cheers”, clinked glasses and took a swallow she simply sat, stock still, staring. Finally her boss noticed. “What is it?” The words came out like the prepared speech that they were, albeit at a must faster clip than she anticipated. “If this is going to be the

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last night I work for you then I just want to say thank you for the opportunities that you have given me but I really would like you to know that I enjoy working for you and hoped to do it for a very long time to come.” She had asked for it, she had gotten it, she didn’t understand any of it. “What makes you think this would be the last night you would be working for me?” “Just the way you were speaking before the show began, about what I was going to do next, I mean, you made it sound like you weren’t going to need my help anymore. You know, take some time, go and relax. In other words, pack your bags and start looking for something else.” She has learned recently, no, she had been taught recently, that no matter how well you think you know what is going on in someone else’s head, you will never understand how they perceive things. She had never assumed that she and Frieda were best of friends, but she had accepted, incorrectly it now appeared, that they had a connection and an understanding. When two people from vastly different economic backgrounds come together it is an easy and common mistake for the person of higher means to simply assume that both people are equally comfortable in the relationship, regardless of if it is business or pleasure; they aren’t the ones who have been thrust into a new reality and aren’t one bad day away from losing out on it. Had she not been taught this lesson, she may have laughed at the absurdity of Frieda’s reaction and fears, but some part of her that had grown in the last several months realized that in doing so it would only reinforce in Frieda those feelings of separation and inadequacy. Instead she smiled and tried very hard to tap into not who she had been for the show and was expected to be at the parties, but who she had just been for a few fleeting moments, between the Garden and the limo. She tried to be herself. “Oh God Frieda, no, just the opposite. You have been, and are, such a help to me that you make all of the crap parts of my career as painless as possible, that I want you to enjoy the rewards of what you earned.” Without knowing, without thinking, acting on the impulse of a person truly connected, she slid over next to her and they became two

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friends. “I have no idea what I’m going to be doing,” she lied, “and there’s no reason you should be held hostage by my indecision. So c’mon, what do you think you’re going to do?” She was still a little apprehensive and started to answer as an employee. “I don’t really know, I mean, I haven’t thought about it.” “Bullshit.” And this time she did laugh, and the apprehension washed away, and for the next twenty minutes, with the limo stuck in the traffic that can only be created in a city full of over-sized and underpopulated cars, a sort of anti-H.O.V. lane, they talked about Frieda’s dream vacation. The party was everything she expected, which meant it was everything she hated. The added bee in her bonnet was that she was early. Not by any conventional standards of evening entertainment and not even by the hands on a clock, but by the Dali-esque clocks that gossip columnists and paparazzi lived by. Nobody who was anybody in New York showed up to a party before midnight. Had it not been for the slow crawl of the cars she would have made the major faux pas of having arrived before eleven, which would have put her in the company of the bartenders, waitresses and DJs that were working the club. Too early and there was nobody there to see you arrive. If that were to happen you might as well be a tree falling in the woods. Still, her schedule said she had to be there now and not later, so there she was, in one of the only V.I.P. booths with anyone in it. A few of her dancers had already arrived and were keeping her company when not on the floor, and there was a steady stream of semifamiliar faces pacing back and forth. Some she greeted, some she waved to, some came to her, and none were anyone she cared too much about, which was an apathy that ran both ways. Small talk was nearly impossible over the pulse-altering beat. The music got so far inside a person’s ears that it felt like was part of them, and in doing so created a cocoon of privacy in a paradoxically wide open room. Suddenly there was a roar above the din, and she knew this was her cue. The noise wasn’t for her but for who she was here to meet. She topped off her glass as well as those of her dancers before filling one more. The dancer to her left took his cue perfectly and slid out of the banquette, freeing the seat

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next to her. Heads turned as the seas parted and somehow in the craziness of the light show a spotlight seemed to train itself directly on Danny, giving him an aura as he approached her table. He slid in next to her, smiled with his drink, but said nothing for the first ninety seconds. Any conversation during that time would be pointless, not only because of the noise but also because of the flashes popping off. At once point for show he leaned in, as if he was whispering to her, and she smiled the way she knew would sell website hits, and as he leaned back there was a move imperceptible to everyone except one person, a mountain of a man. “That’s it fellas. You’re done here for the night. Go find some reality star bumping lines in the bathroom.” The masses had been kept back by the velvet rope and now the shutter bugs went there as well. The V.I.P. section was officially closed for business. “It must be nice to have someone like that on your payroll. I don’t think Frieda would be able to have the same effect.” He cupped his ear and she leaned in to repeat herself, but he still showed no sign of recognition. She was deciding between trying a third time or simply letting it go when the waitress came by with a bucket and a brand new bottle. Almost immediately the same mountain turned and nodded his head. Grabbing the bucket with one hand and her with the other, he slid her from the booth. “Follow me.” Through a door she never noticed and up a staircase she didn’t know about they ended up in a room, lushly decorated with floor to ceiling windows overlooking the entire club. The smoked glass was something she had always seen from the outside, always wondering what went on behind it, and now she knew. V.I.P. had nothing on this place. The music from the club was still heard but no longer felt, and in doing so seemed to have an even better balance than what was swaying everybody on the floor. The lighting was simple, elegant and dim, so as he led her to a small table that was pressed against the glass, she could only imagine that she recognized the other groups of people here in the room. The moment he placed the bucket into the wine stand a shadow was there to open the bottle, pouring it into two fresh glasses, while another breeze blew by, depositing a plate of sushi. Before she could

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even look at the bottle it was back on ice, he was dressing his sushi and they were alone. “I hope you don’t mind, but I was actually looking forward to talking to you tonight and knew that would be impossible out there. Besides,” he gestured around the room, “this is part of my rider. That, and no green M&M’s.” He winked, and it was a joke she didn’t get, so she simply laughed. A taste of the new champagne made her realize she better finish her old one first, because one more sip of what had just been opened would make everything else undrinkable. While she attended to that, he picked up the conversation where she had left off. “He is certainly more effective at crowd control than others. Where is your little church mouse tonight?” “Here,” she said, adding, “Somewhere.” Through the windows she caught a glimpse of Frieda on the dance floor, and Danny’s eyes followed her gaze. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen her so relaxed.” “The end of a tour will do that for some people. I should let her know where I disappeared to, though.” She reached for her phone, and he reached for her hand. “Don’t. Charleston will let her know.” “Yes, but she keeps me on a tight leash. Especially tonight.” “You’ll get to where you need to be tonight. Don’t worry.” Something in how he spoke made her think there was an ulterior motive. Had he finally decided he was successful enough that he could open himself up to a personal life? Or did he finally understand that prearranged photo shoots were no longer enough for him? Six months ago that would have been something. Now it was something else. “I’m flattered, but I can’t stay long, and you know that. Maybe later this week.” “Later this week you won’t be in town, and you know that.” Now she was perfectly confused. “What are you talking about?” “You’re boyfriend, what’s his name? The professor?” “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” “Just because it doesn’t make page six doesn’t mean nobody

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knows about it.” He barely touched his sushi, and her not at all, but he decided for the two of them they were done. Before the spent match hit the ashtray the food was gone. He took a drag on his cigarette before he spoke. “He’s where you want to be. Not here, and certainly not wherever else you’re going tonight.” He was right, but only partially and let him know. “He’s actually the reason I wanted to see you tonight. How do I do this?” “Do what?” His mind raced to all the places he wished it didn’t. He thought that they had a pretty good understanding of the relationship between them. If she was thinking of casting aside the professor for him, this could make for an awkward situation. Before he could put his fears into words she continued. “You keep your life separate from itself. Your downtime is what you make of it. Me, it seems I can’t do anything without it being dissected. Here, this is perfect. I thought I had managed to keep this small part of my world my own, but apparently not.” “It’s not as bad as you think. I pay more attention than most, but that’s because I care about you. And what I learn I keep to myself. Other people have found out, or at least have their suspicions, but that’s life. The problem you have,” he blew out the last of the smoke as he crushed out the cigarette, “is that you’re a girl.” “Fuck you, Danny.” “But it’s true.” “Are you saying I can’t handle my own life?” “I’m saying people don’t want you to. They want to protect you, be around you, think you need their guidance, all of which is confirmed for them when they see how popular you are. You become successful, they think they had something to do with it, or more to do with it than they actually did, and they push themselves harder.” “Yeah but I was the one who came up with the set list.” “A small concession to keep you in line and you know what they did to make sure it worked out.” She did and she had hated them for it. “Fantastic.” She reached across the table and took a cigarette for herself from his pocket. “How do I stop that?”

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“Not like I did, I can tell you that much.” He lit a match for her. “I stood up and they listened. You stand up, they’ll nod and smile, and then keep doing what they’ve always done. You got to fight them by ignoring them.” “Perfect timing. The tour’s over, so there’s nothing for them to do.” “Oh no, this is exactly the time for them. While you’re relaxing, they’ll be scheming. Hell, they still got you jumping through hoops tonight.” He stood up, having to get ready for his show. “You gotta jump first.” “Easier said than done.” “Says you.” He pulled his phone out of his pocket and almost immediately there was a response. “Bobby J, you’re making extra OT tonight. You’re done with me for the night but you’ll be driving a friend of mine wherever she wants to go and whenever she wants to be there…Who? Let’s put it this way. You see Chico, outside his limo? Go tell him he’s stuck with me tonight…That’s right, so treat her nice.” He hung up the phone. “Leap.” “And the net will appear. What about Frieda?” Danny looked out the window, watching Charleston talking to her. Danny had known his friend long enough to understand all that he would need to do for her tonight. Much like the rest of her night had been this was just another part of a well-oiled machine. “I’ll make sure she continues to enjoy herself tonight. You do the same.” He kissed her on the cheek before sliding out a back door. She drank the champagne, as excited about the change in her plans as she was nervous for them. She was so lost in thought that the sound of Danny’s voice coming through the speakers caught her off-guard. Looking down the dance floor now moved with a direction and purpose, all eyes on him as he stalked the stage. A minute longer, and then she snuck out the same door he had, down to the waiting limousines. They may drop their passengers off in front of the cameras, but unless they are instructed to circle back around the block, they bide their time off on a side street. It is only the people who pay for the privilege to deny the pictures taken at 3am and posted online moments later that get

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picked up at the front door. She made her way down the trash strewn alley and immediately saw Bobby J, Chico and a couple of drivers she recognized all standing around chatting. One of the anonymous ones pointed her out to Chico. “Not tonight,” he laughed. “I’ve been demoted. She’s been traded for a player to be named later.” Bobby J quickly put out his cigarette as he opened the curb side door for her. “Must be my lucky night. Danny never looks or smells half as good as you do tonight.” “I can’t smell that nice, not after being in there.” She said nothing else until he had shut the door and quickly swung around to the driver’s door. Once he settled in she continued. “And I’m not sure how lucky you are. My destination isn’t that close.” “Danny warned me about that. A trip to the suburbs?” “At least. I can’t remember how far it is, or even how to get there.” “That’s what I’m here for. Well, me and my iPhone. Just let me know the address and, as Greyhound used to say, leave the driving to me.” She smiled as she told him the address, and then slid back into the comfort of the leather. The limo pulled separated itself from the pack and made its way not towards the various pockets of nightlife but off to the end of the island. There, as it broke the water and dove into the tunnel, it was still early in the night, and they were the exception headed out of the city while so many others were still coming in. On the far side the limo made the switch back and she found herself, like so many do, taking in the majesty of the skyline at night. As the road curved again and the buildings slid out of sight, she turned to her phone one last time. She didn’t bother to call him, to let him know she was coming. He already knew, even if he didn’t expect her for several more hours. Instead she emailed a travel agent with strict guidelines, a blank check and instructions to send all the information to Frieda’s email address. She hit send and then indulged in what had sadly become one of her greatest luxuries. She turned off her phone. By the time they had made the interchange with the Turnpike, she was half asleep, dreaming in

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memories of the last time she had seen him. The reason she wasn’t sure of the details behind her destination was that she had only been there once, just over two months ago. He had moved in there while she had been in rehearsals for the tour, and it wasn’t until the scheduled break after the opening twenty shows that she got a chance to fly out to visit him. She had been there for five days, and it was a blissful antidote to how the tour had been going. There was the requisite stress that came with any major event. This was the big moneymaker of the year for the studio and her label, so everyone was on a higher level of bullshit. It didn’t help that, thanks to his support, she had fought with them about the structure of the set list. In the end she had been proven correct, with the reviews making special note to point out how masterfully done the set list was. That was what she remembered the most from her visit with him. All of the time had been special, but that morning was the best.

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Chapter Three She woke remarkably early the last day that she was there. All of the previous mornings she had taken full luxurious advantage of being able to sleep in late. Every little thing, some that she recognized but many that she would never even take notice of, conspired to bring her blissful hours of uninterrupted slumber. Naturally she had stayed at the finest hotels during the first leg of the tour, but the pillow top foam memory mattresses seemed too new, too unaccustomed to what it was like to support a body. His bed, while probably just as new, was several grades lower, and had already been broken in enough so that there was a channel that fit his body perfectly. In turn, she fit against him just as flawlessly. There were no artificial noises, no air conditioners working to maintain the perfect atmosphere, no elevators nearby or carts roaming the hallways. Open windows caught the breeze and the quiet that came from him choosing an old farmhouse set back from the road. By the time that the “traffic” began it would be later in the morning, and the loudest that she had to contend with now was the occasional distant tractor. Most importantly, everyone else associated with the tour was either three hours away in New York or three time zones away in Los Angeles. It was possible some people stayed behind, spending their week off in Phoenix before reconvening for pick up rehearsals and the re-launch in Denver, but she found that highly unlikely. She fled when she had the time; wouldn’t everyone else? They had insisted on starting the tour in Los Angeles and ending it in New York, so they could call it a true cross-country tour. For most other people that would have led to an extended tour that sat out nights in order to properly follow the geography, but not for her label. They seemed to think that, even though her second album, released in January, had already yielded five top five singles in six months (as many as her

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previous album had in a year) that if her summer tour went one day too long she would overstay her welcome. When the extra week off was factored in, they reasoned, they would have to make some strange jumps between cities if they wanted the tour to fit between the bookends of summer: Memorial Day and Labor Day. Calling these days “time off” was a little misleading. Her phone and computer were constantly in use throughout the day. Any time either was left unattended for just a short period of time – dinner out or a leisurely, uproarious trip tubing down the river – meant that when she returned to them they were positively buzzing with anticipation. The advantage to the west coast home base meant that, in exchange for a few late night “emergencies” the morning routine didn’t really get underway until they were already making lunch plans. It hadn’t been anything unnatural that changed her sleeping plans this last morning. She simply woke up in the greying light of dawn and knew she was done sleeping. Kissing him sweetly, enjoying even the stale scent of his breath because she knew she would miss it again soon, she slid from the bed and into a pair of shorts of his. Normally he would wake before her, or at least be the first out of bed, and would force her to lounge while he made breakfast. Always was the same routine: a few false starts on the stereo as he listened for the perfect morning blend, depending on what mood he perceived her in, followed by the coffee beginning and him completely destroying the kitchen in the name of breakfast. One morning he made omelets, another was fresh juice and smoothies, and yesterday he made her laugh when the presentation was two dozen single serving boxes of all the cereals she had loved as a child. She would never know what awaited her. When it was ready he would come and get her, leading her out to the front porch where it was all waiting. There they would eat and talk, or not, while he read the paper (a trait she found both charming and a little off-putting, but she didn’t know why) and she used her tablet. She called it work, he called it play, and in truth it was somewhere in between. Updating various social media platforms certainly didn’t feel like work, but the metrics that the accountants showed her proved that it all made money somehow, so she felt productive doing it. One thing she had never done,

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though, was post anything that would give away the sanctity of where she was. She had even turned off all the location devices and installs so that none of her postings came with even the hint of an address. This morning, this last chance she had however, tested that resolve. The house faced east, with woods behind them and acres of open fields in front, paralleled by and finally bisected by the road. Across the road the ground rose smoothly but quickly, so the sun would reach the hills to her left first. Slowly the warmth and the rays would work their way down the slope to where the creek meandered through the fields. Whatever farmer had first settled these lands did not worry that the creek had a mind of its own, and so left the occasional tree to grow nearby it while planting his crops elsewhere. Now the only crops growing here were houses. The one he had rented was the original one, some two hundred and fifty years old, and as such deemed too small by modern standards for the wealthy to enjoy but too important to have anything done to it in the way of modernization. The mini estates, three that she could see from the porch, lived up on the hill, catching the sunlight as soon as they could, but here it was still not quite dawn, and there was just enough light for her to see the three deer, one drinking from the creek, one enjoying the last blossoms on the tree and one watching her, making sure that she was not a threat. Working the camera on her tablet, she managed to take several pictures that came out nicely, and for once she thought that maybe, just one picture, to show a side of her completely different from the one that people were paying ninety five dollars a pop for. She had narrowed it done to two to choose from but couldn’t pull the trigger when she heard her coffee mug being refilled. “You’re giving that deer quite an eyeful.” “Does that bother you?” “Probably not half as much as it bothers his doe.” She squinted into the warming light. “Which one would that be?” “I don’t know. I can’t see the wedding rings from here. Doesn’t really matter though.” He slid into the Adirondack chair opposite her, his hands embracing a monstrous coffee mug. “They can’t see this clearly this far anyway. And even if he could, he wouldn’t know what the hell he’s looking at anyway.”

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They sat in silence, time marked by the creeping march of sunlight down the hill and toward the glade. The three did moved with a sense of unison, one moving for the water while another reached for the leaves and the third took on sentry duty. The rare passing car did nothing to disturb their routine, nor that of the couple watching them. There was no discernible event that caused the three of them to stop their activities and turn their noses to the wind. Now they all looked directly at the porch. “I thought you said they can’t see this far away.” He didn’t reply but instead rose from his chair and stood in front of the open doorway. She watched him from the corner of her eye, never sure what he might do next but also knew it would be worthwhile. The roasting coffee aroma was mingling with the bacon frying, and he let that odor push him down the stairs and a few steps into the yard. He was far enough away that even though the deer could sense his movement they still had plenty of distance between them. He didn’t have to go any further, however, to know what was happening. “It isn’t that the like what they see, which they most certainly would if they could and knew what they were looking at,” he stated, running his fingers across the breasts in question while returning to his chair. “It is rather that they like what they smell. Seems they want more for breakfast than just flower petals and stream water.” “Should we bring them some?” “I only cooked enough bacon for two.” He saw the newspaper still sitting on the table between them. “Have you read the article yet?” “No, and I told you I don’t need to. You read it; that’s enough for me. Besides, if it says anything important or somewhat critical, I’m sure it would have already been brought to my attention.” “It isn’t what it says that’s important. It’s the fact that it says it at all that matters.” “I don’t see what the big deal is that the New York Times reviewed my show.” “It shows a marked change in the perceptions of society, of what is important, and who is important. This shows that you are a leader now, where previously you would have been a follower.”

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“Other newspapers from New York have reviewed the tour. Is that a big deal?” “No, because other papers have always reviewed shows like yours. But the New York Times has always been this austere entity, above the masses, deigning to tell people what they should and shouldn’t like, read, see and think. Now they have finally realized that they are behind the curve, and they need to catch up if they want to keep selling newspapers.” “I thought nobody was selling newspapers anymore.” She turned her attention back to the deer. The sun was breaking through the leaves and their bodies, before an even shade of tan, were now speckled with light. They continued to eat and drink, but now the focus was more on movement, and she could see that they would be making their way closer to the house as they headed back for the forest. “Do you think you’ll take up hunting, now that you live where they are so abundant?” “Are you kidding? If I was responsible for killing my own meat I’d become a vegetarian.” “Vegetarianism might be a good thing for you. It would keep you from burning the bacon.” “Oh shit!” He ran for the bacon and from the porch she could hear him curse the stove, the bacon, even the deer. Everything but his own forgetfulness. He saved enough of the bacon to chop it up and mix it in with the rest of the omelets. Even though they could already feel the day beginning to warm up, he insisted on them eating on the porch. His rationale was that in a few months they wouldn’t be able to, so it was important to grab each opportunity when they could. The deer were under no such illusions and had left the meadow for the cool shade of the forest. While they ate, and afterwards lingering over coffee, he tried to explain why the review was culturally significant. “Other newspapers made their mark by being the anti-Times. They would review the popular entertainment of the day, whatever day it was, and leave the highbrow stuff to the Times. They prided themselves on being a paper for the people, and just as proudly the New York Times offered itself as some higher standard. I mean, this is probably the only

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paper in the history of the country that has never run a comic strip in its life. Now, with this review, it’s like an admission that they are no longer the arbitrary gate-keeper of what qualifies as entertainment.” “Are you saying I'm not worthy enough for them to review my show?” “I’m saying ten years ago, probably even five, you wouldn’t have been, simply because they didn’t do it.” “But do you think I deserve to have a review in their paper?” His non-committal shrug did nothing to lessen the confused anger she was starting to feel. “You’re making it sound like I shouldn’t be taken seriously, as seriously as opera singers or Broadway plays.” He knew the answer was ‘Well, yeah, sort of,’ but he also knew that such an answer would never be good, especially now, on their last day together. He was smart enough to know how emotions tended to run more extreme when a separation was imminent. Usually he was still too stubborn to pay attention to that information and ended up exasperating the situation, but today he seemed to find the right way to speak his mind. “It isn’t a matter of whether or not you should be taken seriously. It is a decision that they have made to take your genre, pop music, seriously. The fact that they have chosen your concert to review simply shows that they hold you in the highest esteem, when it comes to your genre.” “Pop music.” “Yes.” A left field thought ran through her mind, and she wished she had a snap of bubble gum to provide a cliché symbolism, but the best she could do was ask him directly. “The hell with the New York Times. Do you take me seriously?” The shrug was just as committed as the last one, but at least this time he spoke. “Would I want you here if I didn’t?” He was not a trivial man; that much was true. She had recognized that the moment she first heard him speak at the rally six months earlier. Later, he approached her without introducing himself or saying hello, but started by saying “Thank you.” “For what?”

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“Fifty thousand people don’t come to hear me speak. I’m lucky if I get fifty. My biggest audience ever, by far, came for you. So thank you.” “It would have been a waste if they hadn’t been able to hear your words.” Other people would have called that flirting, but she was being sincere. Attending the rally had been her idea and not part of the marketing team. She believed in the cause, and so she believed in what he had to say. She was fascinated to find out later that he wasn’t even an “expert” on the subject, merely having taught himself about it as a hobby. That was the first she learned about just how serious he was. The second instance was when flowers showed up at her studio two days later with a note that said “I’m outside now, but have to leave for the airport in thirty minutes.” It was the shortest first date she had ever been on. Now she knew he meant it, that if he didn’t respect her, didn’t take her seriously, she wouldn’t be here with him. That was a trait he almost shared with Danny, an almost absolute devotion to their careers. The only difference was he was twelve years older than Danny, and with that age came the ability to recognize that all work and no play wasn’t so much fun anymore. “Besides, I think the review is important because it justifies your decision. By introducing snippets of your biggest songs through the night, it creates a unity to the show, a theatricality, that separates it from other tours that are out there and shows how much of a pioneer they respect you for being.” A smile slid to her face. “That explains why the studio never mentioned much about it.” “Of course not.” He stood and cleared the plates. “They couldn’t possibly admit that their little show pony knew more than they did.” He held the door for her and she made it as far as the threshold. “When will you come see it for yourself?” “I told you, the last night. Isn’t that how it works in your field? You reveal the secret boyfriend at the end of the tour to help sell more speculation?” “Maybe for other pop stars, but not for a pioneer like myself.”

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Chapter Four The feel of the car coming to a halt brought her out of her drowsy state. “Where are we?” “I think as far as we’re supposed to go.” She looked out the window and in the ghastly dimness of a night with a new moon she could recognize the same strand of trees they had watched the deer in two months ago, only now she saw them from the other side. Far beyond the trees the house shone with all the lights inside on the first floor were full blaze, letting her know he was home. He had better be, because he hadn’t come to the show like he promised. Their communication had been sparse, surface level but not superficial. They both simply understood that any deep conversations wouldn’t be worth having while she was so preoccupied with the demands of the tour, so they would text regularly, talk occasionally and Skype randomly. From what little she could infer he had been in good spirits, looking forward to starting his next PhD program in the fall, so the terse text three days ago saying he wouldn’t be there followed by his abrupt removal from all forms of communication had been pressing her unnecessarily. The petulant part of her wanted to punish him and not be here right now, but she realized that she missed him too much. Besides, for someone as serious as him, the reasoning had to be sound. “The map says this is the address, but all I see is a fence.” “It’s that house down on the far end. It’s an old farm, so I guess the entire plot is privately owned.” “Well, someone better explain that to whoever programs the maps.” He shifted the car back into gear and headed toward the beacon, her feeling more than ever like a moth being drawn to the flame. The pavement turned to gravel, the house lights threw eerie shadows on the car, and she waited for Bobby J to open the door for her, just so she could

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have one last moment to get over her apprehension. “You need me to stay,” he asked, knowing that he would even if he didn’t want to. “No, I’m sure I’ll be fine. Besides,” she added with a laugh, “you can see that he’s expecting me.” The front door was open and from inside the blazing light they could hear music, the television and the sound of somebody moving, singing off-key to the stereo, someone unaware that his company had arrived. She stood outside the door and waited until the car left, partly out of indecision and partly out of shame. She felt that if Bobby J had seen her walk into the house, he would have recognized the surrender in her body. People in her position did not have a social life like this. This is not the type of personal crisis that one of the most popular and successful performers in the country experience. In the perfect world she sometimes believed her celebrity allowed her to inhabit her boyfriend would be standing at the door, wearing nothing but a robe and a smile, holding two glasses of champagne to celebrate the end of her wildly successful tour. Of course, in a perfect world, she wouldn’t be showing up at his door at three in the morning, alone. Inside the house there were distinct signs and smells that all pointed to the fact that he was somewhere on the first floor, drunk. This helped her a little bit because she had to pee something fierce from the trip down which meant she could sneak upstairs to the one bathroom that was in the house. While she was up there she glanced out the window and saw him sitting on the back porch. The window was closed so his duet with Tom Waits was now just a visual treat for her, but it was also a bit of a relief, because she knew that meant he would be otherwise occupied for a while. She didn’t know why it was so important to her, but she felt a need to clean the house up, so back at the bottom of the stairs that is exactly what she started doing. The house wasn’t just modeled on a traditional stone farmhouse; it was a traditional stone farmhouse, which meant it was both small and oddly laid out. There was no flow between the two halves of the first floor, an oddity all the more bizarre when one took into account the

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modifications that the owner had made when remodeling. (She assumed it had been remodeled; a redwood deck with a hot tub didn’t strike her as something that came standard two hundred some-odd years ago.) The living room was scarcely touched, and she only spent as much time as she needed to in there looking for the cable remote. Once that was silent the music from out back came through the open sliding glass door, but instead of going outside just yet, she went to the other side of the first floor. Traditionally, the room to the right would have been used as a reception area, but he had converted it into his office. It would have made more sense to her for him to put the office upstairs in the second bedroom. The room was much larger and he could have spread out more, but he simply said the idea of moving fifteen boxes of books upstairs did not appeal to him. This way he could set his desk up at the window to look over the field for inspiration. When she mentioned that there was a window on the second floor in the exact spot, with the better view that comes from a touch of elevation, he looked at her so blankly that she decided not to follow that with the fact that it was also next to that lone bathroom. His office was where most of the destruction was. He claimed to have a system, but if that was true it was one that made sense only to him. She had never actually seen it in use, the ease with which he claimed he could find information and cross-reference materials, but at least everything had always been in whatever place he had assigned it. Now the place was the floor and the order was chaos. Several books looked as if they had not merely been dropped but thrown with a vengeance, piled in corners and half-stuck under bookshelves. Whatever had set him off was thorough enough to completely rattle him, for she knew how careful he was with his books. They were never left splayed open to damage the bindings; he didn’t even fold down page corners or write in margins. Instead he used a lifetime supply of post-it notes every year, marking passages he knew he would come back to someday. This was the only time he had demonstrated for her an inkling of how this room worked. The first day she came to visit he was giving her the nickel tour and she giggled when she saw the rainbow of flurries sticking out of

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the books, a giggle that turned to outright laughter when he claimed it was foolproof. Quickly he handed her a book and told her to turn to any random post-it she wanted. She read off the date and the notes, and before she finished he had the next two volumes that the note both cited. Opened to those pages, the game continued until he had a dozen books, articles and papers all arranged in order. By sheer luck she had chosen the very bibliographic foundations for the paper that led to his first Master’s degree. She knew there would be no luck tonight, and she knew the only thing worse than not cleaning up the mess would be to try to put anything back where it didn’t belong, so she simply collected the papers into piles and rearranged the books so that they were all properly closed, their bindings safe. Whatever it was that had happened would make him feel bad enough in the morning. At least having some of this tidied up would help take off the edge. The kitchen looked exactly like it smelled: burnt food. Somehow he had been fortunate enough to not burn the house down, but it was only because of the tell-tale circular shape and the empty box that she knew once upon a time it had been a pizza that he put in the oven. Finding pot holders she removed what was left of it and decided that if he could be so careless with his food he could be lavish enough to buy a new pan. The sound of it all hitting the garbage can must have raised over the music, because for the next few moments it was only the recorded voice calling out to her. From where she was she could see his left leg and left arm, a glass with too little ice and too much scotch firmly gripped in his hand, in the opening of the doorway. Nothing moved as they each regarded the situation. Then she saw the glass disappear and when it came back to his leg it was noticeably emptier and he began to sing again. There were enough dishes around that made her realize he had gone a couple of days living like this, and suddenly it all became too much for her. Suddenly she didn’t understand why she was doing this for him, why she was doing this at all, why he wasn’t doing any of it himself. She was the one who had been on the road for the last two months. She was the one who had been working all over the country. She was the one who was tired, spent, done, and she was the one who deserved to relax

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without a care in the world. ‘Fuck this,’ she thought and, not in the mood for whatever scotch he was poisoning himself with at the time, settled for a beer that she knew would be in the fridge. In spite of whatever had driven him off the reservation, he knew she was coming. The shelves of the fridge had all been pushed aside and in their place were a beautiful bouquet of roses and a bottle of champagne. She went looking for a couple of flutes but quickly abandoned the idea. He had few rules about his drinking but the most iron clad one was that he never switched what he was drinking in the course of the night. (How little time they spent together, what a short relationship it was, and yet there were so many of the little things she realized she already knew about him.) The champagne would be just for her and with no need to share, there would be no need to pour it anywhere except into her mouth. She sat precariously on the open edge of the hot tub, bottle in one hand flowers in the other. He looked at her but kept singing. When the song was finally over he reached over and turned off his phone. “It’s a good thing I ordered those two days ago.” “Which one?” “Both of them. The flowers came with the booze.” “Was that when everything went to shit?” He looked away for a moment and when his head turned back she could see a slight rimming of tears. “Nope. That happened a day and half earlier. It was when the suitcase you had sent ahead showed up that I realized it was as good a time as any to remember you were coming. I just figured since I was going to be such a fuck-up when you got here I better at least have something to make you smile.” She moved from the edge of the hot tub and sat in his lap, putting flowers on the table beside him before running her hands through his hair. “You’re not a fuck-up.” He said nothing and just looked into his ice cubes. “Tell me what happened.” And for the next half hour, he did.

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Chapter Five The shades had not been drawn completely so the first rays of sunlight coming over the hill worked through her eyelids and gently woke her, peacefully, from a slumber she suspected would be too short but amazingly she felt refreshed and energized, excited to start the new day. That was the lie she told herself. The truth was his snoring had first woke her up almost twenty minutes ago, and she lay there trying to decide what to do about it. He was dead to the world, so there would be no rolling him into a better position. She thought about getting up and moving to the spare bedroom across the hall, but there was something that felt disingenuous about that. She came here to be with him after all, and to leave him for another bed, even if it meant her getting more sleep, would be worse than her laying here trying to make it work or even getting out of bed. Besides, she wondered if he would remember that she was even here if she wasn’t where he could easily find her. If he had just been drinking, she wouldn’t have asked herself that. If it had only been a matter of him being so deep and distracted by what was on his mind, it wouldn’t have been a question. She had seen him in both states, separately, and knew that it was never an issue. The drinking was no surprise, it happened to everybody, but it was his ability to get so lost in what he was thinking about that he simply lost track of everything else that was new to her. The first time she had witnessed it they were driving to dinner. It was early in their relationship, he was visiting her in Los Angeles and whatever he was in the middle of explaining to her took up so much of his attention that he drove them right past the restaurant, over the hills and into the valley. She tried to say something as he sped by the

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driveway, but he didn’t ignore her. He simply wasn’t aware that she had said anything, or that she might even still be in the car at all. He talked as much for himself as he did for her, and as engaged as she was by him she soon stopped remembering what he was saying and started giggling, silently to herself, wondering just how long it would take him to realize what was going on. He reached his conclusion as he reached a red light, looked around and said “Where in the hell are we?” They ended up eating at a running down bar and grill that had seen a number of better days, all of them under different styles and themes and now had simply settled into being the plan b for people in the neighborhood. His rant had been the last time he talked about work the rest of the night, and they had a relaxed and playful evening. It felt rewarding to spend time with someone who didn’t want anything from her because of who she was. She wasn’t a pop star, she wasn’t a face on an advertising campaign, and she wasn’t a showgirl. She was just a woman, and she knew then that she was falling in love. And now, she still loved him all the more, but she sure wished he would stop snoring. When the sun finally did reach her, she figured she had struggled enough and got out of bed. From the suitcase she pulled out a robe and headed down to the kitchen. She did feel surprisingly awake; after the tour ended she expected to need to sleep for days, but the release of all the stress that had layered on her shoulders over the last several weeks was gone and she felt like a new woman. The downstairs was still in shadows as the sunlight hid behind the hillside, but every kitchen is similar enough that she knew where to find the coffee filter, the grounds, a spoon and two mugs. She knew he would need some so she made a full pot. As the coffee maker went about its business, she tried to make sense of the wreckage that was in the kitchen. Once again it was not a cleaning project but more of a tidying up. He could take out the trash and the recycling, the pizza boxes and the beer bottles. In the meantime she filled the sink with hot soapy water and let as much as could fit in soak. There were a few more books scattered about in her as well, and so she collected them and brought them into the other room to live with the rest. Stacking them up, the book on top caught her eye. It was a picture of

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Machu Picchu. Her hairdresser in Los Angeles talked about it all the time. She and her girlfriend were going to Peru twice a year it seemed like to take part in these holistic exercises, and she always said how beautiful and inspiring it was to visit the ruins. The rest of it didn’t make much sense to her, but the images stuck in her mind. Absent mindedly she brought the book back with her and started fingering through it as the coffee brewed. Once on the porch she forgot about the book for a moment and took the view in. This time there were no deer to distract her, and once she had seen everything there was to, she returned to the book. That was as he found her, more than halfway through the book and an empty discarded coffee mug sitting on the table beside her. She was so engrossed that it was her time to not notice him the first time he came out, only to silently retreat into the kitchen for a moment. Her concentration was finally broken by the sound of fresh coffee being poured. “How long have I been out here?” “That depends.” He slid into the empty chair next to her and put the pot on the ground. “What time did you get out here?” “Sometime after sunrise.” “That certainly narrows it down.” He had showered, but it hadn’t done much for his appearance. Somehow he managed to look just as disheveled as he had last night, only now slightly shinier. She couldn’t imagine that the whiskey she smelled in his coffee was doing him any favors. “You should put the coffee pot back on the warmer, if we want more.” “That’s what the microwave is for. I’m sorry I don’t have any lighter reading fare for you to choose from, though you seem to have picked the least heavy of what I do have.” She looked back at the cover. “Is this something you read for your classes? It doesn’t seem so academic as much as entertainment.” Without thinking he slid into his professorship mode. “Building my library is like following several trails of breadcrumbs laid down in the bibliographies of previous books that I’ve read. This takes me to that

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which brings me to another and before you know it I have a book that says we are all descendants of an alien race that is responsible for various pyramids and temples around the world.” He sipped his coffee. “And no, I don’t tech that. That book is probably responsible for twenty percent of my students dropping out of my classes. They read that and think the semester will be full of conspiracy theories and secret societies and end with a field trip to the lost city of Atlantis. Those are the same students that sign up for archaeology classes and expect to become extras in the next Indiana Jones film. I teach boring, dry, academic crap.” He sipped his coffee again. “That is, I was supposed to.” “You still can.” “It doesn’t work that way.” She put the book down and wanted to argue the point when the look in his eyes, not directed at her but still visible there, let her know that now wasn’t the time and here wasn’t the place. There was something slightly scolding in his manners and she suddenly found herself feeling very self-conscious, not sure what she should be doing. Any movement she made, however slight, she immediately questioned. Should she pick the book back up? Should she drink her coffee? Should she say something? Should she do anything? All she could do was sit still and sneak glances at him, until she finally saw a softening in his face. “I wish you hadn’t cleaned up for me.” “I didn’t really. I mean, I didn’t know where most any of it went.” “Well, it’s certainly much nicer than how I left it. I’m grateful you did it, and I feel guilty about you feeling like you had to.” “Don’t mention it.” “That’s the point though. I wanted to feel guilty about it anyway. I wanted to feel guilty about my childish behavior, my loss of temper. I wanted to see my wreckage and wrath and remind myself that I’m not that person, and that I no longer have the luxury of insolence. Instead I have to feel guilty about letting someone else see it.” She wasn’t smart enough to know what exactly he meant but she was smart enough to know when she had been insulted, however slightly. She got up from the chair to return the coffee pot, and herself, to the kitchen.

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Did he count to a certain number in order to give her enough time, or did he just somehow know when to make his entrance? Had he come any sooner and she would have been angry with him, trying to explain to him that she knew other peoples’ lives didn’t come to a standstill while she had been on tour, that she knew things happened but she just didn’t have the energy for it right now. If written down the words may have been convincing but out loud they would have rode an emotion that was really saying she was the one that wanted to be taken care of, she was the tired one, worn down, and wanted no responsibilities, if just for a few days. The last four months may have been about her but they were also on her, she was the catalyst and the lynch pin for a multi-million dollar gamble, and she was emptier and more exhausted than she had ever been. Any sooner and he would have heard nothing but her whining. Had he been any longer and he would have found an empty kitchen, the sound of the shower running above him. There would be any number of occasions for him to come to her: in the shower, while she was toweling off, as she chose her outfit, but all of them would have been too late. She would have buried it away, locked it up behind a steel curtain but kept the claim ticket for when she needed it. Later on they might end up fighting about something else, or nothing at all, and she would have this extra layer. It might be days, weeks, so long that it would make no sense to him when she yelled at him “I’m no something you should need to feel guilty over!” It was how she did things. She stored these slights up, building a small armory, unaware of how toxic they would all become and never quite understanding how they were her contribution to the damaged relationships in her past. Once she had gone upstairs, the moment would be gone but the sting would remain and she would keep the poison fresh. Instead, he came in at just the right time, somewhere between anger and animosity, where her energy was gone but she still had words to say. In the silence of the morning she heard his feet pad into the kitchen behind her and stop, just close enough that he could reach her, if he thought she would let him. “You don’t have to feel guilty about anything. Feeling guilty isn’t going to change anything. It’s not going to bring him back and it’s not

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going to salvage the last three years of your research. You wanted to feel a reason to punish yourself for something you couldn’t control. You don’t have to.” “But the tantrum…” he gestured to the room as if she had eyes in the back of her head. “Is the same thing that anybody would have done. I know you don’t believe this, not from me or anyone else, but you’re not perfect.” She laughed a little. “Not even close.” She stood up from leaning against the counter and felt his arms wrap around her and she lay back against his chest. He leaned over and kissed the top of her head before turning and resting his cheek on her. Even through her hair she could feel the warm thin track of a tear on his skin. From inside the embrace she spoke again. “If you want to feel guilty that’s your business. But don’t you dare try to make me feel guilty for how I take care of you. Agreed?” “Agreed.” She brought her hands up to his and laced them together, the slender reeds of her fingers getting lost in his. “For instance,” she said, “perfect people do not bite their fingernails.” He looked down at their hands. “I prefer to think of it as a hillbilly manicure.” At that she snorted. “Perfect people do not refer to themselves as a hillbilly. And even if they do, they don’t if they’re my boyfriend.” She stepped from his arms and turned to face him. “I need to shower and you need to figure out what we’re doing today.” “I already have, so hurry the hell up.” He reached around and gave her a quick swat on her ass. She yelped and brought her hand to her mouth in a feigned look of shock and surprise, but as she hurried up the stairs she felt the warm relief of a blush. She had spent four months telling hundreds of people what to do. It felt nice to not be the one in charge for a change.

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Chapter Six The car he drove was much like himself: impractical, a little rough around the edges but pleasant to look at and with an old soul. The radio was factory original, so with her feet propped on the open window she fiddled with the tuning knob until a station came in that was both clear enough and not playing pop music. She leaned back against his shoulder and watched as the clouds drifted by, an occasional tree drifting by the periphery of her vision. Sitting like this it was a bit like sailing on an intemperate sea as they motored over country roads. If she had been watching the houses and meadows it would have given her a sense of grounding, but with no steady horizon line or point of perspective the world the twisting and turning felt more exaggerated. ‘More than sailing,’ she thought. ‘Like flying, floating on the wind, with no control of where it will blow me to.’ After a while the limbs of an immense tree blocked the sun and he cut the engine. A sly grin accompanied his words. “We’re here.” She sat up to see where here was. They were one of only a few cars in a small gravel parking lot in front of a barn that had been renovated into a store, not far off the main road. Stepping out and stretching, she could see a few more trees surrounding the building but then a few acres of open land drifting down and away towards the road. Nearer to the entrance of the driveway there was a sign that faced out. She thought it odd that the sign was only one-sided and said so. “You only need to read it from one side,” he replied. “I guess. I mean if you’re here, you already know what you’re looking for.” “That’s not to tell people what to buy,” he said, but then he laughed. “Actually I guess it is. It’s a ‘For Sale’ sign.”

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“What?” “It’s all for sale, the store, the contents and about ten acres of land. That’s why we’re here.” Maybe the shower hadn’t woken her up as much as she hoped. “You mean to tell me that you want to buy a bookstore?’ “Yeah.” “Not just a book, but a whole store of them.” “Yeah.” “And then what?” “What else? Run it!” He had moved around the car and had her hands in his. She could see the child-like enthusiasm in his face; she was hoping that he could see it wasn’t contagious. He couldn’t. “I want to introduce you to the owner. I’ve been talking to him a lot and I think he’d like to sell it to me.” She thought about all the ways she could argue that point and realized that none of them were appropriate because all of them would fall on deaf ears, so she let him lead her into the store. For being an old barn crammed in every possible way imaginable with books it was surprisingly light inside and her eyes took no time at all to adjust to the fact that it may have been full of books but empty of people. She quietly added that to the list she had started in the parking lot that had a working title of ‘Ways this will fail.’ She didn’t have time to add to it however, because almost immediately she found herself being introduced to a prematurely older man who looked not so much like he had been born but simply discovered behind an unstacked pile of books in the philosophy section. “Davison, this is my girlfriend I was telling you about, Alexandria. Alex, this is Davison, the owner. “Please to meet you.” She offered her hand and he shook it serenely. “The pleasure is mine. You have such a beautiful and rare name.” Anyone else saying that would have sounded like flirting to her, but coming from him the words had such a warm and fatherly feel they sounded perfectly sincere, yet she found herself growing a bit warm as her skin began to blush. “Thank you. It’s a shame you have to sell this

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place.” He seemed to weigh what she had said in his mind for a moment before replying. “The shame would have been to sell it before it was time to. In that regard the shame may still come if I am unable to sell it now, or not to the right buyer. For now, although it is sad, it does not feel shameful.” And then he smiled, and it as if he let go of a heavy cloak that weighed on his shoulders so he could become a different person. “Look around, enjoy yourself, let me know if you have any questions.” Brian spoke up. “I have a few,” but she didn’t listen to what they were. She casually turned down the first aisle she saw and started browsing. Used bookstores are an anathema to some people for a variety of reasons. Anyone with even a mild case of O.C.D. would certainly lose their grip eventually when seeing books that had no perceptible logical home. Although organized by some arcane categorical sequence, once they had a general address it seems as if many of them were free to choose residence wherever they were comfortable. Alphabetizing on any level seemed strictly a suggestion, and many simply become difficult by laying themselves on top of others and not finding a slot of their own. A person who felt claustrophobia might not even notice that they were books on the shelves at all. They would be too busy looking at the overflowing shelves, pressed from floor to ceiling in every room, creeping in towards them, obscuring their vision and creating a maze like environment, much like a casino, drawing them deeper and deeper in without showing any accessible way to get out. Those who liked their personal space un-invaded would have to restrict themselves to stand at the front of the store and send emissaries into the stacks. Instead of building separate rooms, walls were merely created by the placement of bookcases. The closer the cases were to each other the more books that they could fit in, so commerce and profitability triumphed over the ability to pass a fellow bibliophile without getting to know them rather intimately, if only momentarily. None of this was any concern to her. She had grown up in stores that were like this, but nothing nearly on this level. Stores like these put most libraries to shame because they took what was comfortably a complete subsection to Melvil Dewey and

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exploded it wide open, filling in the newfound gaps with books so rare and specialized that many would sit on the shelves for the rest of time. Oh, but to be there when the one person in the world who wanted that book for themselves. Another aspect that separated used book stores from libraries, and even traditional book stores in her mind, was that it wasn't necessary to have a logical order in which the categories presented themselves. She felt that each store was simply an extension of the original owner’s psyche, representing a trip through the rabbit hole of their mind, so that the section on books about hobbies might find itself pressed up against the world of religions, and works that called themselves self-help could live right next store to fiction. True, like a more conventional store, there were labels on the shelves, but without the pressure of having to display certain authors or carry a requisite numbers of copies, there was never any hard and fast defining line. Categories grew and shrank as the inventory and interest did. Many of the greatest used book stores have been around since before telephones could be taken off walls and televisions did more than just transmit shows. Naturally there was no room for the remarkably broad output of old media dedicated to this new media, but no self-respecting owner was going to sacrifice books. The used book store was in most cases the last stop for books. It was true that among the shelves a person could find rare books that had been long out of print, and behind the counter there was usually a first edition or two that, if sold, would pay the mortgage for many months, but for each book like that there were hundreds that were found in attics, left behind in basements, grown out of teenagers, victims of downsizing by the unemployed, or the last lot of an estate split among family members. At no point did she look at the categories she was walking through, but only let her fingers trail slowly across the spines, catching the occasional title or author’s name. Just as often as a familiar word would cause her to stop and examine a book more closely, she was equally tempted by a pattern or texture, or the soft and delicate way a binding might show its age. Pulling the book gently so those it supported wouldn’t dash madly into the newly created vacuum, she would make herself as thin as possible, for when another person came through, or find

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one of those magical corners that seem physically impossible and yet still manage to lurk in just the right out of the way space where she could read through a few pages and transport herself to somewhere else, somewhere she used to go all the time. She had no overall sense of how large this place was and how much of it she had covered, and she was already skimming her fourth discovery. It amazed her how someone could possibly keep all of this in order in their mind. The singularity required to master such an enterprise overwhelmed her, and she wondered if Brian had any inkling what he was thinking about getting into. He was certainly the smartest person she had ever met, and he did have an odd knack for organizing his own books, but there was only a collection of several hundred. This building could be thirty, fifty even a hundred times that. Could he handle it all? Did he even want to, or did he expect that his job would be to sit at the front counter and merely talk to the customers? It may look like there was no rhyme or reason to this place, but if it were to be successful (and perhaps it wasn’t being, anymore, or else it wouldn’t be on the market) then a known system was necessary. To prove her point, just as she was re-shelving her latest find, Davison came around the corner with an overly earnest looking young woman trailing behind him. “It’s been a while since we brought it in,” he was saying, his eyes scanning the top couple of rows but his pace not slowing until he was halfway down the aisle, “but I don’t remember seeing it go out. Although I did have someone this same time last year asking about it.” “It’s ‘suggested’ reading for one of the upper level courses.” The girl spoke with a tad bit too much emphasis on some of the words, making sure that everyone knew she always read the suggested books as well as the required ones, and she was smart enough to attend a class she didn’t look old enough to enroll in. “Perhaps that was why she did not buy it.” His finger had replaced his eyes as his device for finding the title. “Had it been more of a suggestion she might not have balked at the price. Ah, here it is!” he handed her the thick tome, sheathed in a red that once had been scarlet but was now faded from years of being forgotten. Both he and Alexandria watched as the young students eyebrows arched a little when she opened

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the cover to look at the price, but just as quickly they dropped back into place. Alexandria could almost hear the girl saying ‘No matter. It is a book I need so I can be the best in the class, so what is price anyway?’ Aloud all the girl said was “Perfect.” She turned on her heel and headed back for the counter, her one purchase done. Alexandria felt bad for anyone who came shopping to a store like this with an agenda, a list and a timeline. To her the experience was not about what you were looking for but what you would find. Part of her home schooling had included two book reports a month on whatever book she felt. A day spent in a store like this would reveal to her all sorts of options and she would educate herself on so many topics that otherwise never would have crossed her mind. The bookstores remained a constant for her, especially as she first got out on her own and was trying to make it. They represented a sort of sanctuary, a security blanket of pages and bindings that she could find no matter where she was. Each new level of success lessened her anonymity. For a while she could still get lost in a store for hours, if she could get there without being spotted. But all it would take would be one person with their phone, and within minutes the place was crawling. Here all of that was different. Not just in the store, but this area in general. It wasn’t like they were hours away from any aspect of civilization, but it just felt like there wasn’t the same oppressive feeling that came with everywhere else she went. The thought stopped her. Is that why she fell in love with him? Was it less to do with who he was and how he affected her and more to do with the situation of being with him? She tried to put it out of her mind, telling herself that he had not lived here when they met and started dating, but now it was a persistent guest in her head that wouldn’t take the hint, even as she emptied ashtrays and washed glassware. She loved him for so many reasons, she was sure of that, but would she still love him this much if everyone here knew who she was? He must have known she was thinking about him because as she turned the corner he was standing there, not looking at anything but her and smiling. “Having fun?” The warmth of his smile and the careless fall of her hair did what her own mind couldn’t, and the thought slipped away. “I could stay in

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here for days. I love these places.” “I know you do. That’s why I thought about us buying it.” She glanced quickly over his shoulder to see if Davison was nearby. So much was running through her mind and she knew that here and now was the place to discuss any of it. “Let’s just say it’s an interesting proposition. How about we go home and talk about it over some lunch. I’m starving.” “So you’re interested?” As she was afraid of, he was too excited to wait. She sometimes wondered if there was an undiagnosed issue of manic-depression that ran through him, or diagnosed but simply ignored. For as smart as he was, he could have a stupefying level of tunnel vision at times, and not understand why people weren’t as excited and on board with his ideas as he was. She hated to sound like a bitch, but she also knew that it wouldn’t matter. Anything she said right now that was less than “Let’s sign the papers right now!” would be taken by him as a contrary position, so she figured she might as well not just half-assed the answer. “If it’s a yes or no you want right now, it’s a no. And it’s going to continue to be a no until we go home, have something to eat and talk about this like adults.” “What’s to talk about? It’s a great idea.” She tried breathing deep and knew it was futile. “I’m giving you one last chance to shut the hell up right now and respect my feelings and opinions. Listen very carefully. I am not going to continue to discuss this here and now, so we can either walk out of here together, or I can walk out of here alone while you talk to the bookshelves. What’s it going to be?” He was more than pissed; he was hurt. He felt it as a rejection, the second one he had been given in twice as many days, and he both hated her and felt crushed by her at the same time. He could feel his heart start to race, he wanted to open his mouth and just trust that the right venomous words would pour forth so she could hurt like he did. His brain struggled with itself, fighting valiantly to remind him that it was not her who upended the next five years of his life earlier this week. She was here for him, he tried to tell himself. She had her own concerns for the

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future that he hadn’t even considered, at least not thoroughly. It was a brave fight, and the only way it swung to the victorious side that he knew he wouldn’t do it without her, and the wrong words said now would end so much more than this discussion. Still seething, heart still racing, he somehow managed to slowly turn towards the door. Without risking what words might come out now as he said goodbye to Davison, he walked out. His hand trailed on the door behind him, but he did not hold it for her.

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Chapter Seven Back at the bookstore she was not surprised to see neither that there were only a few cars in the lot nor that some of the cars were the same ones. Before reentering the store she went over to read the sign, as if it might have some answers for her that he had been unable or unwilling to give. It was more than just the store that was on the market. The property was several acres and it was already zoned for subdivision into three housing lots. It seemed silly to her, then, for Davidson to sell the entire property. Why not just sell off one of the housing lots? Surely the value of such a piece of land would be enough to keep the bookstore going for several more years. She obviously was unfamiliar with the area but it didn’t take a lifelong resident to recognize that the houses nearby were easily worth close to a million dollars apiece, if not more. She wandered across the property, imagining what it would look like if instead of rolling hills and open farmland there was another county estate. ‘Maybe that’s it,’ she thought. ‘Maybe it isn’t just the store, but the whole of it, that captivates him, and if he can’t have all of it, he doesn’t want any of it.’ Maybe, maybe, maybe, she continued to think. ‘Maybe he doesn’t own it outright but is paying off a mortgage he can no longer afford.’ ‘Maybe he doesn’t own it at all, just works here and someone is selling it from underneath him.’ ‘Maybe he doesn’t want to sell, but the family is changing.’ ‘Maybe he’s moving away and doesn’t care what happens to it all.’ ‘Maybe I’m thinking way too much about something I shouldn’t be thinking about at all.’

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Maybe, maybe, maybe. She turned to look back at the store and the shift in perspective moved her perception as well. From the parking lot, one saw the old stone barn in front of trees that had been standing for decades. It was part of the landscape, seemingly as natural as the clouds that drifted by and the rain that faded the shingles. To think of the land in any other form without the building, even as it is now with the gravel lot, the dusty windows lit from inside, the comfort of the oak tree stretching over it all, leaving dappled shadows everywhere, would be impossible. Even if the same families still lived in the area the generations that may have once known the land before the barn was built had long since passed away. From the other side, the story was quite different. There was still plenty of old growth trees to establish a sense of permanence to the setting, but the road snaked less, the shoulders were wider, the houses newer. Visible on both sides were the familiar cuts of subdivisions, the scars of a slowly growing suburb, a suburb of what she couldn’t tell, but realized it didn’t matter. It was just the pattern of consumption throughout generations. People wanted the convenience of a thriving civilization coupled with the ability to live apart from it. They grew to criticize the commute yet constantly searched for ways to make it longer by moving again into previously unspoiled lands. She amused herself by slowly turning one way and then the other. Now it was a quiet oasis. Now it was an approaching town. Now it was a peaceful idyll. Now it was a slumbering giant. Now it was, regrettably, the past. Now it was, inevitably, the future. Now it was the present, and she wanted to know more. This time she did not look at the books, but at the store itself. She did not look with the eye of an appraiser, trying to see the plusses and minuses to such an investment, because she knew she didn’t have to. She took a bit of selfish pride in the fact that her career had made her rich enough that she didn’t have to worry about considering such things. Regardless of what the asking price of the property was, she knew it fit

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into one of two categories: one she could afford without a second thought, or one that she couldn’t because it was ridiculously overpriced. She did not need to know what it was worth, what it would cost her, because she would not be buying it as a financial investment. She had made other purchases for those eventualities. She was smart enough to know that nothing lasted forever and shrewd enough to prepare for that. Her tastes in what she liked had changed over the years, and she knew that made her like everyone else on the planet. Surely she could change her style to keep going, but someday she knew she wouldn’t want to. Someday she would have had enough, and she was content in knowing that when that day came, she would indeed have enough. This store, this opportunity, was beyond that. It was for something else. If this were to become hers, it would be something that would become part of her, just like it had the world around it, and if the time in the future ever came when she chose to sell it, there would again be no consideration about how it had performed for her bottom line. The investment was not in the body; it was in the soul. Davison was with a person, a regular she could tell by their easy nature, and she could see that today he was here more as a friend than as a customer. Her questions were still percolating and, much like the volumes that surrounded her, they were timeless enough that she could wait to talk to him. She walked through the aged comfort of her surroundings, feeling the peace that she always encountered in such a place and wondering if would be enough. Not concerned with what secrets and dreams she would find on the shelves beside her, instead she let them lead her, disappearing into forgotten alcoves and discovering hidden passageways around corners. Without knowing how exactly it happened she found herself both at the foot of a staircase and in direct eyesight of Davison. Without thinking her hand was on the bannister. Without asking he answered her anyway with a slight nod she felt she had been the only one to see. Stepping over the books that served as all the partition people needed to understand the sales floor was only here on the ground level, she went deeper into the secrets the higher she climbed. At some point part of the barn had been refinished, but it was left in such a state that she could not tell when it had started, why it had not

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been finished and if the craftsmen would be coming back. There was a tidiness to the incompletion, as if they knew enough in advance that they would be no longer needed, so at least the corners were smoothed out, the sawdust swept up and the tools packed away, but it still had the uncertainty one finds back stage of a community theater: walls suddenly ended when there was confidence they would be out of sight of the audience. She could tell that there were the makings of a house that had never been given the chance to turn into a home. Maybe, maybe, maybe. More questions came through her and she took her time. She almost wanted to run back downstairs and interrupt him, not because she felt the need to leave so quickly, but because the questions didn’t feel like hers to answer. Was there a reason they never finished the renovations? There had obviously been an intention to make this a place to live; had that been at the beginning and life got in the way, or was it a last-ditch effort to save the store and make everything work, eventually discarded as impractical? As she walked through the space, leaving behind the illdefined lines of walls not finished and into the open area of possibility, sunlight diffused by years of forgotten time, she understood that it didn’t matter what his answers would be to the questions. He was selling the property, and not the future that he had planned with it. Those dreams in whatever state they were still in and however they haunted him would come with him as part of the seller’s remorse. She would by the skin and bones of the building, but it would be her dreams and hopes that would give it flesh and blood. There was a novelty in her mind of living above a book store, the almost illicit thrill of sleeping above such a collection. She had seen a picture once upon a time in a home remodeling magazine of a refurbished country farm-house in Connecticut. The owner was an artist, and she had converted an old room that sat awkwardly down a few steps, connecting the main house with the modern garage, into a guest bedroom, surrounded by hundreds and hundreds of books. She imagined sleeping in such a room, as if somehow the magic of all those books would drift through the pages and into her sleep, empowering her dreams with wild visions and exciting tales.

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Of course the reality was she could easily afford to buy both the store and a separate home, a county estate she could design and decorate. She may have had the occasional fantasy of sleeping in a library, but it had been a lifelong dream to own a home, something timeless, classic, small enough to feel comfortable but large enough that she could fill it with friends and, later, children. She tried not to think of why it was so important, because she tried not to remember that specter of her childhood. Her parents were warm, loving, encouraging, and filled her with a passion and drive to accomplish great things. They also lived one step ahead of the bill collectors and landlords, never owning more than they could move in a hurry, never being comfortable enough to even hammer a nail in the wall to hang a picture on. Instead she began to picture the unfinished barn as an extension of what it was: a place to work. Brian would be downstairs, stacking books, drinking coffee, getting lost in conversations she knew little of and cared less, but always smiling at him, watching him as he tried not to sound too smart for his own good. She would visit him from time to time, simply to take a break from her upstairs studio, where she could write and sing, stretch and dance. She could create her own art; she could take some control of what she did next in her career. There was no denying that her popularity, her profitability was a check that anyone would gladly cash for her on her terms. Other artists were doing it, artists she felt were both less talented and less popular. There was a blueprint to a new success for her. He wanted the barn as a way to start over for himself; now she saw that maybe he knew she wanted the same thing all along. Back downstairs Davison was behind the counter, drinking coffee and reading a newspaper. Seeing Alexandra emerge from the staircase he once again motioned only with his eyes, and she joined him outside. He handed her a cup of coffee before lighting a cigarette, which he offered her as well. She declined. “It’s a beautiful building,” she said. He nodded and shrugged but said nothing, wandering over to a cast iron bench that had been a fixture for so long in the shade of the tree that a root had grown around one of the feet. He casually enjoyed his cigarette and when she repeated herself, he laughed.

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“Why is that funny?” she inquired. “Because it usually doesn’t take too long for the person to go from telling me how beautiful it is to asking me why I am selling it.” Was it that funny, or was it just the charm that he naturally had, the way that he spoke, that made her laugh? She didn’t care. “Fair enough. So, since we both know that it’s so beautiful…” Once again he just shrugged and nodded, so she waited. He brought her out here, he had something he wanted to tell her, a story that not every prospective buyer got. There was more to this building, more to the place it had in Davison’s life. She could tell that he both wanted to sell and didn’t want to, that he felt like he had to, but he wouldn’t until he knew he found the right buyer. How long would that take him, and would it soon become too late? She could imagine him rejecting one buyer after the next, for various reasons, each rejection building just another fine layer over the sand of the past. Soon it would be a pearl to him again, and he would forget whatever it had been that was the irritant to begin with, the reason he knew he had to sell it in the first place. She wondered if she was the right buyer, and she wondered if she would care too much if she wasn’t. He ground out the last of the cigarette on the underside of the bench and slid the butt into the pocket of his jeans as he stood up. She rose too, and he led them both farther away from the store. The grass brushed against her ankles and calves as they emerged from the shadow of the tree. Here, again, she could feel the former vastness of the area that was now no more than a memory waiting to be developed by the slow assault of suburbia behind them. “Would you be buying it for him, or for yourself?” The directness of the question caught her off-guard, and she hesitated, not sure just how to respond. But then she realized if he could see so much already, it would be no use to try and hide anything else. Being coy would get her nowhere; certainly not to his story. “For both of us. At least, that’s what I’m telling myself at the moment.” “What were you telling yourself an hour ago?” An hour ago she woke up next to him. They had come home, ate,

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showered, made love and napped. At least she napped, he slept the way he hadn’t the night before, which was good for both of them. Even before they had gone to the store that morning they had so much to talk about; even before she showed up there was going to be a lot on the table, but she had expected the focus to be on her. He was starting a new chapter in his life, pursuing another degree, studying and teaching in a department that excited him. His life was set for the next several years, so naturally they’d have to focus on her. The tour was over, the album had been out almost a year, there was already talk from the label about what she should do next. Greater than any time in the past she knew she had more control. Financially she could do absolutely nothing for the rest of her life except raise rabbits and she’d be able to live a comfortable life. Creatively she could decide to strike out in a brand new direction, reinvent herself again, and release an album of jazz standards or folk music. Personally, she could do…well, that she didn’t know. That was the one uncertainty, the area of her life that didn’t come with absolute veto power. That was why she had come here in the first place. But with his life turned on end, now the talk wasn’t just about how “us” affected her but both of them. To say she had come to him with a plan would be disingenuous, but there had definitely been an agenda that now had to be thrown out and rewritten. Time alone was suddenly important, time for her to sort out the new changes and time for him to find some comfort. He would never admit it, but she knew he was scared, at least a little, when everything he had been looking forward to had been taken away from him. Now, with her here, no longer alone, his perspective could change. She wasn’t sure how serious he was about the book store and how much was it just floundering, looking for any piece of flotsam to cling to for a while. Still, it had intrigued her for reasons she was sure he knew nothing about. As much as she loved him and as hopeful as she was for the two of them, she had still kept some stories from him. Some things were still too sacred to her, and if she was wrong about them, she didn’t want to lose those. Now, without meaning to, he had forced her hand. Other prospects could be dismissed out of hand or discussed intelligently. This was pure emotion, land of hopes and dreams stuff, and she had to go to that land on her own.

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“An hour ago I was telling myself that it makes no sense for you to sell this. This is a building that you take with you, which you bury yourself in.” “And it is a business that you keep with you until you die?” “Yes.” He said nothing and she suddenly felt mortified, sick to her stomach. “Oh my God, I am so sorry. I can’t believe how insensitive I was!” Again with the laugh, the smile, the shrug. “You are not insensitive at all. No, I am not dying. That is not to say that death hasn’t come to me, but…” He turned back towards the tree and she followed him as he spoke. “I should have sold it before. I thought about it then. Nobody would have blamed me, even if they would later not understand. Just as they don’t understand now. People find sense in grief, even when the actions they are watching are nonsensical. People would have let me walk away from this, knowing that it had been my dream, my life, even as they said to each other how they worried for my future, when I no longer had his. In my present they knew it was important. These same people,” he continued as he sat back down, “they understood why I didn’t sell it. They knew both sides. Now they don’t. Now some ask why I sell now, other asks why I didn’t sell then.” He smiled. “These are people we call friends. We love them even when we don’t understand them, even when we give them cause to misunderstand us.” “You’re selling it now for the same reason you didn’t sell it then. Then you needed it, now you don’t.” He nodded. “When your child is born, there is so much that you don’t know and you don’t ever know. That is the lament of every parent, the fear that they don’t know the first thing about raising a child and that they will screw it all up. You can learn how to raise a child. You can learn from your parents and in-laws, other relatives and friends who have raised children of their own. They can tell you the secrets and the insights as well as the practical and the plodding. There are books to read, videos to watch and every parent can learn to raise a child. They can learn, they

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do learn, how to feed their child, how to change their diaper, how to make their child laugh.” He paused, as if this was something he had wanted to say forever without ever knowing how to phrase it. Now he knew. “You can learn how to make your child laugh, but you will never know why it is that your child laughs. You will learn how to raise a child, but you will never understand them. You will learn where they are ticklish and what kinds of jokes amuse them, but you will never understand why. As they age, as they develop their identity, so much of them will remain inscrutable to you. And it is not something that comes at a certain age. It comes at no age, at the moment that they are born; you just simply know this is true. And no matter how hard you struggle to accept it you can’t. How can you understand something that you know you aren’t ever going to understand? This is your child, you created it, this isn’t some machine or inanimate object, this is your own flesh and blood, and you cannot understand the deepest truths to them, to who they are and what they are going to do with their lives. “Nobody ever accepts it. They may claim that they do, over drinks with their friends, explaining how they got their kid figured out, ‘I was a kid once, I know what they’re going through, I was just like them,’ but when they get home that night, no matter how old their child is, they will revert to the first days the child was alive and they will peek in on them while they sleep. They will feel lost and insignificant, and they will spend their whole lives trying to find that understanding, that magic passage inside of them to truly know who they are. “When your child dies, it is the cruelest of all because you will never have that understanding and there is no denying it anymore. Your world is turned so far upside down. At least when you had your child, you could watch them, examine them, make notes on how they did what they did in hopes of seeing a pattern emerge to explain why they did it, but now there is no more time to study. Now all you are left with are the notes that you took, the observations that you made, and just like any other situation when you have too much time to reflect on what you could have done differently, you will let it consume you, hoping to find some insight into who they were, the whole time dealing with the stable of

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emotions that rise forth in you. “I was devastated when he died, but my devastation did not keep me from coming to work. I was angry beyond words, but my anger was of no use in bringing him back, so I let it go. I was inconsolably sad, but my wife was much sadder, so I could not cry at home. I had to hide my tears in order to let her cry, and I saved my tears for when I came here, but I cannot talk to customers with tears running down my face, so I turned them off. I wanted to bargain, but there was no one to bargain with at the time. There could be no God, I thought, for my son would still be here if there was. And if there was no God then there was no devil, so there would be no bargaining. But no matter what emotion I wrestled with at any moment, I always also had the lack of understanding ringing in my ears. “All my life I just wanted to know why he did what he did, both the good and the bad, and I never learned. Now, not only would I never know any of that, I would never know why he died. It doesn’t matter what it was that killed him, when death comes it isn’t important if it is disease, an accident, drugs, anything. I know what killed him. I do not know why he died. That is the burden I have carried with me all these years, and that is the burden that finally made me realize now is the time.” Without saying anything he rose from the bench and she knew to follow him. Once inside the store he took a book, a thousand pages easily, and held it reverently in his hands. “When a parent dies, it may destroy you, but you always know that it is coming. You have not struggled in your life trying to understand them, because you have been conditioned to believe you didn’t need to. Your earliest memories are of them taking care of you, so naturally it is you who must be understood by them and not the other way around. The burden of their loss, no matter however painful, slowly lessens over time, because a parent dying before a child is the way that it nature should work. It is what is expected. Soon that burden is almost gone, small enough that it becomes something you carry comfortably around with you, proudly sharing. Maybe it grows a bit heavier when you realize you have reached the age they were when they died, but by then your own mortality is a surely known thing, and

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although the realization that you suddenly feel closer to death than you ever have before might sting in a debilitating way, once again you can accept it because it is the way it is supposed to be. “When your child dies, when your world is turned upside down, the burden never grows any smaller. It is the same size from the moment you first put it around your neck until the final day you breathe. It is not the weight that changes, that slowly works away at you, that stumbles your step and shortens your breath. It is the stumbling of your step and the shortening of your breath as you age that makes the weight seem to grow larger, until it becomes unbearable. Here.” He handed her the book. “Now with one hand, hold it out to the side of your body.” She took her right hand and extended it out. “Is it heavy?” “For a book,” she replied, and then added, trying to somehow lighten the situation a little. “Although the heaviest reading I do these days is People magazine.” He nodded and said nothing. He looked at her, he looked away, he looked back, no focus in his vision, while she held the book out. She started to become aware of the absurdity of it all, standing in an old book store, holding this book out while a few customers milled about her. She wondered if any of them knew who she was, and if they did, if any of them cared. Her arm was starting to tire and he must have seen a twitch because he spoke. “Does the book feel heavier now?” “It certainly does.” “But is it any heavier?” “Of course not.” He nodded his head again as he took the book from her. “The book weighs the same, but you can feel it grow heavier and heavier, and as it does it weighs on you more and more. It is not the book; it is you, it is time, it is life, it is everything around the book.” He walked back to go behind the counter. “The burden weighs the same, but you feel it grow larger and larger, and as it does it starts to take up more of your space. You held that book for thirty seconds. Imagine holding that burden for

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five years. Imagine the space it would take up inside you then. All of it, all the space. It gets no bigger, but eventually it leaves you room for nothing else.” Without even needing a second to switch his emotions, he turned to the woman who had been standing there, her purchases stacked on the counter, her attention diverted by her phone. Alexandra stood alone in the store, standing in the center, wondering just who she was going to be buying this store for, after all.

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Chapter Eight The house once again had all its doors open and music was playing. But somehow it seemed far more inviting and less foreboding than it had only 18 hours earlier. The music was bouncier, perhaps not quite as sugary as what would have been found on one of her albums, but light nonetheless, an older song with a simpler message of happiness. At some point he had known the song, because she could hear pockets of his voice come through with the tune, stronger when he remembered the words, more reserved when he was relegated to humming along, but always with a pitch that was right on target. Inside he had worked to clean and organize everything, and she could tell that the effort had been an apology for her, because she knew immediately that it was neater than he would ever keep it for himself. She could tell that he hadn’t heard her approach yet, so she found herself looking through his own collection of books and loving him just a little bit more. There were home libraries that were alphabetized, some by title, and some by author. There were people who built their shelves by genre, while others built theirs by height. People who thought themselves creative or artistic (but never derivative) would work by color, creating a mosaic that ultimately was no better than those who simply stacked books on shelves and didn’t worry about which title was where, much less even if the spines were facing the right direction. Someone who didn’t know better might almost confuse his collection for one of these, because there were novels next to textbooks, magazines in between volumes of medicine. The rhyme or reason was nowhere to be found by someone who didn’t know better. But she did. Not enough to know exactly what the order was, not

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enough to know if the order actually managed to go from one book to the next continually, or if there were spots along the way the connection became severed and a new conversation started. This was the system that always touched her so, the display of intelligence that he had first impressed her with, the reason she knew that she could love him in the first place, because he loved books the way she did. Almost for a second she thought she might have stumbled onto a piece of the puzzle, but as she tried to connect it her first thought was lost and she was back to just seeing all of it randomly. She could learn it, though. She could learn all of this and, in turn, watch him as he did the same thing, but only on a much grander scale at the book store. It seemed almost ludicrous that with all of his schooling he would never apply any of that knowledge in a class room or lecture hall; instead all of that knowledge would make up the shelves themselves. It was a crazy thought, but then again which part of this wasn’t? It was crazy enough that the two of them were even together. Surely having a used bookstore with its own affected way of categorizing books would be no crazier. From the other side of the bookshelves she could hear him cooking. He had to know she was home. By no means loud and obtrusive she also hadn’t taken any pains to sneak in. Yet he hadn’t offered any kind of greeting. Was it a game of chicken? If so she felt like she was going to lose, not because she knew she would speak first, but because she felt scared to speak at all. Her heart had made the decision, leaving her mind to find the excuses and reasons that it was the right one, but something still wasn’t right. It wasn’t just the idea of the bookstore or of anything else that they might do together, that held her back. Something wasn’t right, something still felt empty. Finally it came to her: her expectations hadn’t been met, but that wasn’t what bothered her. She felt bothered by the fact that it left her untroubled. In her mind, even before the disarray of the last week, she had created this time with him as such a specific event that without even thinking about it, she had imagined a way it would have all happened. Now that it hadn’t, however, she seemed somehow freer. Maybe if it had been just a little thing, a zig when there should have been a zag, she would have found herself unforgiving of the

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disruption. This had been so much more than that. The ground of the world she had stepped into had shifted so far from the world she had just left that having expectations was useless. And without a framework to follow, there was nothing lost for her to feel distraught over. She was scared because she knew that she would never be scared like this again. She never thought she was braver than anyone else; she only thought she was more impatient. It wasn’t that she was never felt fear; on the contrary she experienced it all the time. She hated the feeling of paralysis that fear brought with it, so she would blindly plunge through it, hoping for the best. Now would be no different. Now could be no different. She had to leave the fear behind, so she leapt. She was flying. She was falling. She knew the net was beneath her. She slid behind him at the stove, running her arms across his chest. “Isn’t it a little late in the day to be making breakfast?” “Not if you feel like starting the day over again.” “Let’s not plan on it being too long a new day. I still haven’t got much sleep to recover from the old one.” She had said it light-heartedly, or so she thought, but she caught his body stiffening, just enough of a hesitation to realize he had worked out a whole scenario in his mind. She didn’t want to create anymore turmoil, but she didn’t know how much of a production she could handle. The moment passed quickly, completely unspoken, and he quickly went about preparing their two plates. It was a full breakfast indeed: eggs, bacon, toast, muffins, fresh fruit, orange juice and coffee. The light was fading quickly enough outside that she found herself thinking it was not late afternoon but early morning, and somehow that helped it make sense to her. “How was the bookstore?” “Interesting.” He looked up from his plate. “That’s an odd word for it.” “It’s all I can come up with.” She pushed her eggs around with the crust of her toast. “I knew you’d be asking me – I correctly assumed

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you would have figured out that’s where I went –“ “You haven’t been here enough to know anywhere else to go,” he said, cutting her off two ways; she thought for a moment if he meant either one of them before continuing. “- And so I’ve been thinking about the answer all the way home. Unfortunately, ‘interesting’ is the best word I could come up with.” He ate in a hurried but controlled fashion, like a man who had only a few minutes before needing to get back to work, his arms almost circling his plate. She continued to push her food around, not hungry enough to eat, not comfortable enough to stop, the whole time keeping half an eye on him. She could see him wanting to ask more questions, waiting to push the issue. ‘He’s like a dog who knows you have a treat,’ she thought, ‘and he can’t wait to see when you’re going to give it to him.’ She needed to see how long his patience would hold out, and he surprised her by almost not bringing it up at all. Instead, he slid his fork and knife onto the empty plate and pushed back from the table with his coffee mug. “When I first saw the sign, I had to walk right up to it. I knew what it said, obviously, and it wasn’t an issue of not believing it. I had already been in the store enough times to know Davison and understand that his heart was no longer completely in it.” His gears started to turn, thinking of the analogy, but she knew he had come up with it while scrambling the eggs. “It was like watching a clown, I imagine, who finishes working and away from the center ring. Exhausted from a day of work he just wants to go home. But a child recognizes him and, in spite of how he feels, he rises to the occasion, his jokes and tricks as natural to call up as breathing and smiling. More so, he actually finds enjoyment while he is in the moment. He forgets the exhaustion and that he was on his way home, to put on street clothes and have a cold beer in his hand, watching the game. He is fully engaged, fully present. Then the act is over, the child leaves, and he suddenly feels that much more exhausted and spent. He can’t stop himself from responding to the opportunity, no matter how much he knows it will cost him, but he is a little less after every time. How many times can he do it until the one time there is nothing left at all?”

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She saw the image in her mind, the tired performer down a lonely street, and knew exactly what it felt like being called back one more time. “I guess you don’t really know until you get to that point.” “And by then it will be too late.” She knew now that he had been thinking about it longer than the eggs, longer than his lost job opportunity, longer than she could imagine, because she knew now he was talking about more than the bookstore. She wasn’t ready to let him know that right now, however. “How does that sign remind you of a clown?” “It doesn’t. It reminds me of the book ‘Watership Down.’ Are you familiar with it?” “Not in the least.” “Long story short it’s a book about a bunch of rabbits trying to find a new home, but it’s far more sophisticated than that.” He paused as he rose from the table to start clearing the dishes; she avoided the temptation to ask if it was a better book than ‘The Velveteen Rabbit.’ “The impetus for the move is the appearance of a sign, much like the one at the bookstore, announcing that the land is scheduled for development into houses. Of course the rabbits don’t know this – as smart as these rabbits are made out to be in this book, none of them are literate – but it infuses the dreams of one rabbit with such foreboding that it leads him and his companions to move.” He returned with the coffee pot but she covered her mug. He topped off his own and placed the pot carelessly on the bare table. “I thought of that sign as just that, a sign. One for my own life. Perhaps this was a chance to find some grounding in my life, a focus, an opportunity to stop constantly looking for what is coming next and instead focus on the present in my life.” “That’s a pretty heady omen. Don’t you think it might have something to do with the fact that your life had just been thrown into turmoil and you weren’t sure what you were going to do next?” A puzzled expression washed over his face, so she explained, surprised that she even had to. “You make great plans for your next degree, you have a focus, it unravels majestically in the last few days and, in your emotional state, you see a sign and think that it’s, well, a sign.” His puzzlement became a smile. “The store has been on the

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market seven, eight months now.” It was her turn to feel confused. “And you never brought it up until now? You never even told me about this place until now?” “I wasn’t sure.” He measured and clipped the words precisely. Neither one of them wanted her to ask exactly what it was he had been unsure of, but they both wanted to understand that they each knew, so they sat in silence, cautiously regarding each other across the table. When he could tell they were both satisfied, he continued. “The first time I found the store was almost four years ago. I came here for a conference that the now late Professor Hinkley chaired. That was when the seed was first planted in my head about eventually coming here to study with him. I was driving around that Sunday afternoon, after everything was over, just exploring the land, when I found the store. They eventually had to kick me out because I kept them open a half an hour beyond closing time. I made up for it by purchasing a couple hundred dollars’ worth of books, but there was one book I didn’t buy. It was the very first book I picked up when I entered the store. A first edition of …” “Let me guess. ‘Watership Down’.” “As soon as I held it in my hands I knew that I would never buy it, but instead I would take it as a gift when I purchased the entire store. Whenever I would go back, I would always look to make sure it was still there.” “What if it wasn’t?” “Well, thankfully I never had to find that out, but truthfully I don’t know. 95 percent of the time I don’t believe in fates and omens, but the five percent of the time I do it more than makes up for it. Finding that book there the first time told me this store was somehow my destiny; seeing that for sale simply confirmed it. Had the book been sold, I’m not sure what it would have meant to me.” He laughed. “With the way my luck has been running lately, it wouldn’t have surprised me if somebody had bought it over the last few days. I had two life rafts when Hinkley died. That book being gone would have made me think that one of them had sunk.” “So what was your plan, then? If you knew it was for sale, why wait this long to do anything about it?” It wasn’t the first time she had

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thought it, but it was going to be the first time she said it. “Is this plan of yours contingent on the fact that you can’t afford to buy it but I can?” “The contingency on you had nothing to do financially. I looked into what I could afford, the mortgage I could take out, the cash flow through the business. It would not have been easy, but it would have been doable.” She realized she did need more coffee. “Now I’m more confused. If you could do it, why did you wait? All this talk of omens and signs, why risk someone else stepping in front of you?” “He wants to sell, but he isn’t just looking for a buyer. It is prime real estate, and will only grow in value and prestige. Someone could come in, knock down the barn, unload the books by the crate for pennies on the dollar, put up a bunch of houses and in five years’ time earn 10 times what they paid for it. He doesn’t want that. Even if he doesn’t want to shepherd it any more, it is still his legacy, and he is concerned about leaving the proper one.” “And you just assume that you’re the only book barn lover in a fifty mile radius foolish enough to want to save it for him.” He shrugged his shoulders. “That part I just crossed my fingers for and hoped for the best.” The smile was sly, and it caused a glint in his eye, and she laughed. She loved nothing more than being reminded absent-mindedly why it was that she loved him so much, and love him she did. Possibly even enough to buy herself a recording studio that came in a barn. He stood up and reached across the table. “Come here.” He led her out to the back deck, fully ensconced in its evening clothes, but bypassed the chairs and table. Instead he stopped at the lip of the stairs where he sat down and laid back. Without asking she knew what he wanted and joined him, her head resting on his chest. The house blocked what little unnatural light came from the street, and above them the moonless night had exploded into a hundred million stars. It was beyond peaceful, it was deeper than calm, and as she found her place among the heavens, she knew she had to tell him the truth. She rolled over so her face was above his. It seemed impossible to her that the stars could be giving off so much light, but she swore she

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could see the thinnest line of a shadow from where her head and body eclipsed the sky. “I came here thinking all about me, and what I needed and wanted after finishing the tour. I never considered that it might happen any other way. I figured you had everything lined up in your life, a built-in stability from the program for the next several years, and that we could talk, and we would talk about what I was going to do next in my life. I don’t mean for it to sound like I expected it to be a career counselling session simply for me. I wanted to figure out what was next for both of us together, but I just assumed we wouldn’t have to talk about your individual life and goals right now. I’m sorry if I’ve seemed unconcerned about how all of this has affected you. I came here selfishly because I wanted to be with you, but also because I needed you. You’re my lighthouse, strong and supportive, and I guess I just took that for granted.” “Only because I let you. You couldn’t know what I was going through if I wouldn’t tell you. I chose to keep it all from you because…well, I told myself it was because I didn’t want to affect the last days of your tour, but if we’re being honest, the truth is I didn’t want you to know I wasn’t always as strong as I tried to seem. Maybe I didn’t know if I could expect you to offer enough support for me.” She felt her bottom lip curl behind her teeth because she knew it was true. Could she be as supportive as he had always been for her? A week ago the answer was most likely no; she had enough on her plate that there was no room at the inn for a distraught boyfriend. Even today, she knew what she wanted for the truth, but wanting it to be true didn’t necessarily mean it would happen. “You can give me the opportunity, I can try, and we can hope for the best.” He smiled in the starlight; she leaned in and kissed him slowly, before settling her head back on his chest. For a few moments they lay there in silence until she saw his hand point skyward. “Look at that star, the bright one, not quite directly overhead.” “You might need to narrow it down a bit. You just described about a third of the sky.” “It doesn’t really matter. Pick any star you like. That star has been

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sending its light to us for hundreds of years, some hundreds of thousands of years. It doesn’t know it at the time, and it doesn’t know that it’s going to make it to us, but it has to trust in it and do it anyway. Who knows what’s going to happen to that light in all that time? Who knows what’s going to happen to us, or to that star? There’s no way of telling, so we just have to keep at it and somehow trust that it will work out.” She picked a star but as she tried to concentrate on it, it would seem to diminish. She remembered something her father had taught her as a child, and she shifted her gaze just enough so that star was now in her periphery. Suddenly it seemed to blaze with life again, and she fought the urge to switch her focus, so the star would stay fixed in her vision while she thought about his words. All that starlight, all that time, all the things that could happen to it, all the uncertainty, she kept rolling it over in her mind until it finally clicked. “That doesn’t make a freaking lick of sense! Why would a star’s light from that far away matter a hoot to us, or to it, or to whomever? And just what the hell is going to happen to it on its journey? Slip into a black hole?” She felt his chest rumble and shake beneath her head as he broke out in laughter. “I know, right? That might be the dumbest thing I’ve ever said.” She could feel his body shifting so she moved to allow him to sit up. His laugh was full-bodied, bringing tears to his eyes, and it was contagious, and she joined him as the leaned against opposing ends of the railing, him looking over the yard, her looking at him. “I mean, we’re sitting here under all this beautiful starlight, we just had this pretty deep conversation, over bacon and eggs no less, there was definitely a sense of deeper bonding between us, and, I don’t know, I figured I had to say some deep profound shit.” “I don’t know about deep and profound, but it was definitely shit.” That only caused them to laugh harder, their echoes filling the night. Finally they tapered off, and he turned to face her, their feet touching across the opening of the stairs. There was silence. There was nothing but the night around them. There was nothing but the night itself. They were nothing but part of the night. And for a flicker of time so short that it would make a moment

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feel like a year, she felt everything, she knew everything. It lasted only long enough for her to acknowledge that it happened; her awareness drove it away, but it was more than enough. She knew her answer, but she knew so much more. She knew that the night had not grown too chilly yet, but soon it would. She knew that her clothes felt too constricting, but not for long. She knew that the grass was still soft, the stars were still beautiful, that the night was too perfect and that her love was still complete. Most of all, she knew that almost none of that would last. Almost. But she knew what would last, for days and years and seconds and months. She stood and reached out her hand to him. She knew her answer, she knew their answer, but as he took her hand she slipped it away and stepped into the yard, asking him to follow, daring him to chase her, begging him to have her. From the starlight she called out. “Ask me tomorrow.” From the night, he answered.