Providence (10 page)

“I’m sure Erin can take care of herself.”

As we approached the Tillman-Aubry Center, Jenny’s body began to blend in with the dusk, mellowing it with her presence.

“I’m going to have to make another quick exit, Jack. This is where my meeting is.”

Jenny climbed the first of the wide cement library steps and turned around. Behind her the building’s facade was lit by yellow light shining through tall rectangular windows. The smell of smoke from a campfire drifted in the air as Jenny said good-bye to me for the second time that day.

“Good-bye again,” I said. “I hope you have a great meeting and a great birthday. Um … I already said that, didn’t I?”

She offered a sweet smile.

On impulse I added, “Well, if you’d like to have dinner with someone who’d love to make your birthday special …” The words met the air sounding brash and forward. They hung precariously until Jenny replied, instantly turning my awkward words into a friendly invitation.

“That’s very nice of you, Jack,” she said. She paused for a moment, processing the request, I suppose. “Actually, I’m sure Erin and Mitchell will be in the mood to see each other. Would you and Mitchell like to come over for cake tomorrow night?”

I had my answer ready before she’d finished her question.

“Yes. We’d love to come over for cake. We’ll bring the ice cream.”

“I’m sure Erin will approve.” We stared at each other in the final moments of twilight. “Good night, Jack. I guess I’ll see you tomorrow.”

She walked up the steps into the building, and I turned for home. I don’t recall wondering if I’d made an impression on her. But the impression she’d made on me was transformational. I felt there was something significant about the way we’d met, and then met again. About how Jenny had invited us over to watch her blow out the candles on her birthday cake. About how lucky I was to be one of only two men on campus, or in the entire world, with such an invitation.

As I walked back to the apartment in my sweat-damp running clothes, I replayed everything that happened over and over again in my head. I barely noticed the chill in the air or the lingering smell of burning campfires.

~
T
en
~

At night I wake up with the sheets soaking wet
and a freight train running through the
middle of my head.

—Bruce Springsteen

“I’m on Fire”

The next morning I opened one eye to find myself in a strange world. A magnificent clear blue sky filled the enormous hotel window. I climbed from the king-size bed and pressed against the glass for a better view. I’d never seen Providence from so high up before, and the city below looked as quaint as a snow village. But it was a quiet village, shut down by a blanket of fresh wet snow. Nothing moved on the streets.

I looked around my room by the light of day.

My suite was amply stocked with every comfort from Pellegrino water to toothbrush and toothpaste, deodorant, and Hershey bars. A yellow legal pad and black-felt pens invited me to sit down and write at the work desk. I ignored them and called room service, ordering eggs, bacon, and a pot of decaf. No one knew I was here except the front-desk clerk, and if he wasn’t talking, neither was I. I’d checked in feeling as taut as piano wire. But what a way to unwind.

While waiting for breakfast, I called Peter’s cell phone.

“This is Peter.”

“So I’m not fired, right? You’re going to let me come back to work when the book’s finished?”

“No, you’re fired,” he said, kidding, I hoped.

“In that case, maybe I
will
consider moving to Jamaica. I could get used to a little relaxation.”

Peter Brenner grew up fifteen miles south of Providence. He’d come on board less than two years after I did, and we’d hit it off straight out of the box. Peter has been like a brother, calling on weekends, checking in on me. He drove me home from the doctor’s office once after a minor outpatient procedure. And he helped me move in when I bought my house.

“Aaron said he thought you were down at the shop yesterday afternoon. You aren’t going to make these stopovers a habit, are you?”

“No, I’m done for good, Peter. I needed to get CMO out of my system, but I won’t be back.” I’d meant during the sabbatical, but the words sounded more emphatic, and perhaps prophetic, than intended.

“Where was everyone? I thought I’d at least see Mrs. Burman.”

“Don’t you watch the weather where you live, Jack? Aaron closed the shop at two thirty so we could all beat the blizzard home. We got more than a foot last night. Everyone with any sense left Dodge by midday.”

“No kidding.” I took the phone over to the window and looked down to the street again. I could see only the whitewashed concrete and huge drifts that, upon further study, turned out to be buried cars. “Anything new going on?”

“The office isn’t the same without you, if that’s what you wanted to hear. Aaron’s asked Nancy to go back to a five-day workweek.”

“What’d she say to that?”

“She doesn’t want to do it, but we’re down one man. I mean, I’m glad you’re taking this time off … I am … but January is going to be a real challenge if we don’t stay on top of stuff right now.”

“I don’t think she should do it. Aaron should hire someone else, someone new.” I caught my reflection in the mirror. Even ignoring my bed-head hair, I looked ragged.

“He hasn’t said anything, but I’m sure he’s thinking about it. I’ve hinted too, not that we’re replacing you, old buddy. I mean, is that even possible?” He smirked.

“I’ll talk to Aaron,” I told Peter.

“Enough shoptalk. Why don’t you tell me how the book’s coming?”

“I’d almost forgotten about it for a second.” I picked up the remote and clicked on the Weather Channel.

“That bad, huh?”

“The words are going on paper, Peter, but I’m not the superstar people believe me to be. This is definitely not the book Arthur’s expecting.”

“What kind of book is that?”

“You know, ‘I did it the right way, I care about people, my life is perfect, go and do likewise.’ Your basic inspirational pep talk.”

“You’re not trying to please people are you? That can’t be done, you know.”

“Maybe.” Wandering into the kitchenette, I opened the fridge looking for other surprises. “Peter, you’ve known me for ten years. What do you think I’m writing?”

“You’re from Iowa—might want to leave that part out. You graduated from Providence College, left for a number of years to do something, possibly chase wild women and work the rodeo circuit. Then you came to your senses and helped inspire a nation to love their fellow man and serve the poor. The end.”

“An inspiration?”

“Well, listen, in all seriousness, Jack, you are. It doesn’t mean you don’t have faults. I can write that chapter if you like. But you’ve done enough. People are going to be inspired. What’s wrong with that?”

“What’s wrong is sometimes people don’t tell even their best friends what they’ve been through.”

“What haven’t you told me?”

The fridge was empty. I headed back into the living room. “Just everything, that’s all.”

“What’d you do … kill a guy?”

I was silent.

“Jack, listen, I’ve got no idea what you’re writing, no idea whatsoever, but if it’s what you believe God wants you to do, then tell your story. Something good will come of this. And if it just so happens you’ve …”

His voice trailed off. He was thinking about what I might have been capable of in my younger days. He was thinking about what it must be like having your shadows flooded by a public spotlight.

“You see, Peter, that’s the problem,” I interrupted, rescuing him from the uncomfortable silence. “I thought I could sketch a story of my life—where I grew up, my years as a Providence student, what happened when I returned, and how I wrote
Laborers
. But that’s not the story God wants me to tell, and I want to run away like Jonah.”

“And look what happened to him.”

“Do you know how scary it is standing up in front of the world and telling them the truth about yourself?”

“Oooh,” Peter groaned.

“I don’t expect you to be able to solve this,” I said.

“I’m not trying to solve it, but at least I have a better grip now on your hesitancy in the meeting. Aaron thought you were just being humble.”

I laughed. “Will you pray for me? I could use your support.”

“You’ve got it. Always. Say, where are you, man?”

“I’m out at sea in my little boat, whale watching.”

“Don’t get lost out there.”

“I won’t. I hope I won’t.”

Peter and I hung up, and I made a second call. This one to the concierge.

“Good morning, Mr. Clayton,” said a voice on the other end of the line.

“Good morning. Can you recommend a men’s clothing shop downtown that might be open today?”

“If you can give me your measurements, Mr. Clayton, I’ll call Duroth’s Menswear. If they’re open today, I’m sure they can deliver whatever you need.”

“It’s all right,” I said. “I can stop by.”

A moment later room service knocked at my door. A young man rolled in a breakfast cart. I was out of cash, so I asked him to add a 20 percent gratuity to the bill. He thanked me and left. I was on my second cup of coffee when the concierge called back with the news that Duroth’s was open. He gave me walking directions that gave purpose to the black-felt pen and the pad of yellow paper.

Charles Duroth is a stout man in his midfifties with a full head of black hair. He looks every bit a tailor in his silver and white houndstooth vest over a crisp white starched shirt, his sleeves rolled up to midforearm. He greeted me at the door. I stepped out of the frozen cold into one of the warmest greetings I ever recall receiving.

“Mr. Clayton!” Charles Duroth clapped his hands together, accentuating my name. “I hear you’re looking for some new clothes.” The concierge had obviously mentioned my name.

“Yes,” I told him. “Just a few things … pants, a shirt.”

“Mr. Clayton,” Mr. Duroth shook his head. “A man like yourself … you ought to look your very best. What you need is quality clothing. Am I right, sir?”

Something told me Mr. Duroth had a subscription to
Time
magazine. I had a sneaking suspicion he was glad he’d battled the weather and opened his store that Saturday morning. He’d surely sell me his most expensive suit, and a shirt and tie to go with it. I suspected the warmth of his greeting had been heated by the thought of a big sale.

“I’m really just looking for a new suit.”

“And that’s just what I’m going to help you with. Do you mind if I get a few measurements?” He lifted his tape measure inches off his shoulders and held it, awaiting my answer.

“No,” I said.

With the open palm of his small hand, Mr. Duroth gestured me over to a tailor’s stool set in front of three angled mirrors.

“Step right up here, Mr. Clayton. You probably know your measurements already, but I like to take them anyway, just to be 100 percent.”

“No problem,” I said, stepping up on the stool while he went to work quickly and efficiently. “You work fast, Mr. Duroth.”

“You’re a busy man, Mr. Clayton. I understand that. In fact, I understand people. You don’t spend thirty-five years in this business and not learn something about people.”

Mr. Duroth kneeled to take a pant-length measurement. The snowstorm had kept other customers away, and when we didn’t speak, it was completely quiet in the room. My eyes roamed the displays. I spotted a rack of specialty jackets Mr. Duroth must have rolled out in anticipation of my arrival. There were at least fifteen separate articles of clothing, jackets of different styles and colors for all occasions, business and pleasure.

“Please don’t go to a lot of trouble, Mr. Duroth. I don’t need much. My stay downtown this weekend was unexpected, and I didn’t bring a change of clothes.”

He didn’t look up from his work. “That’s my business, Mr. Clayton. That’s exactly what I provide. A change of clothing, a change of style.”

I had to admit, I was impressed by Mr. Duroth’s legerdemain. He wasn’t about to let me tell him what I needed.

“What are you … a thirty-eight regular?”

“Forty, actually.”

“No, I think you’re more of a thirty-eight. Here, try this on.” Mr. Duroth stood and rested the tape measure back across his narrow shoulders. He pulled a brown-checked sports jacket off a hanger and slipped it up my arms. “Take a good look at this jacket in the mirror, Mr. Clayton, and tell me it’s not a beautiful coat.”

I turned back to face the mirrors. I had to admit it was a gorgeous sports jacket. While I adjusted and admired my new look, Mr. Duroth brought me two pairs of pants, olive and tan. He gestured to the curtained dressing rooms.

“Why don’t you try these on, Mr. Clayton?”

I stepped down from the stool, still wearing the jacket, and took the pants inside the tiny dressing room. There was a lot to like about Mr. Duroth. He was pushy, but like Debbie Holms at Liberty Deli, he worked hard and clearly knew what he was doing.

I stepped into the olive pants and walked back outside. I looked again at my reflection in the trifold mirrors. I didn’t know if I’d ever looked this good. Chalk up a win for Mr. Duroth.