Providence (11 page)

“I’ll take them,” I said.

“If you like the fit of the olive pants, take the tan slacks as well—they’re identical. This way you can vary the look. You’re also going to need shirts.”

I had to smile. “Mr. Duroth, you’re quite a salesman,” I said, genuinely complimenting him. “I’ll take the pants, the shirts, and the jacket.”

“What about shoes? Please don’t tell me you’re one of those men who wears tennis shoes with a sports jacket,” he said.

“I repent, Mr. Duroth. Show me some brown shoes in a size ten.”

Almost immediately he was lifting a shoebox and rustling the tissue paper as he took out a pair of dark burgundy handsewn leather loafers. The kind you don’t see for less than two hundred dollars.

“These are
the
shoes for that jacket, Mr. Clayton. You’ll feel like a million dollars when you wear them,” he said. I hoped he wasn’t hinting at the price.

Mr. Duroth looked at me from behind the counter, and now it was my turn. He’d shown me his best, now would I take it or leave it? I asked the Boss, the One I ask all questions. The One who tells me to go backward or to move forward. He answered immediately.

“Wrap ’em up. I’ll take ’em.”

I returned my new jacket to the rack and changed back into the clothes I’d walked in wearing, shabby by comparison. By the time I’d returned from the changing room, everything had been bagged, except for the dress slacks, which Mr. Duroth was hemming at a sewing machine behind the counter. I reached for my wallet.

Charles Duroth carefully folded the dress pants onto wooden hangers, using the same fluid strokes of an artist brushing watercolors onto parchment. His black-framed tailor’s glasses slid down on his face as he worked.

“I wonder if you know my son, Mr. Clayton. He’s a graduate of Providence College, and he went through your … what do you call it … training program?”

“Really?” I said. I didn’t recall anyone named Duroth. “What’s your boy’s name?”

Looking at me over the top of his bifocals, Mr. Duroth looked like an old-world craftsman. “Justin,” he said. “He’s a good-looking, tall kid. Six foot two. Brown hair.”

“I can’t place him … That’s odd.”

The craftsman continued his work.

“He’s always said nice things about you. He gave us one of your books—I think it was for Easter, or maybe Christmas. Signed. It was very nice,” he said, because it was a gift from his son, not because it was my book.

“I’m glad you enjoyed it. What’s Justin up to now?” I asked, hoping more information would help jog my memory.

“He’s a missionary in London. Works with World Missions Outreach. Ever heard of a guy named Howard Cameron?”

The expression “small world” took on new meaning as chills prickled the skin on my neck. Goose bumps the size of goose eggs rippled up the back of my arms.
Mr. Duroth, you’re stepping into my cellar. You’re standing near my unopened boxes.

“Yes,” I said.

“He and his wife started a missionary church over there. Justin’s been on board for about a year now. He works with the Camerons. They got their whole family over there. The daughter works with them too.”

Tiny beads of sweat appeared at my temples.

“What do you hear from Justin these days?” I wondered if God was about to send me a telegram.

“Oh, he’s doing great. He got married right after graduation, and he and his wife moved right over there. They love it. We have two grandchildren now—twins. My wife and I took a vacation to see them this past August.”

What’s that like? Having a family, I mean.

“I’m sure you and your wife had a wonderful time.”

He smiled, and I knew that they had.

“Yes, we certainly did. We all went to see Buckingham Palace. Well, not the twins. Howard’s daughter Jenny looked after them.”

I can’t believe I’m here, Mr. Duroth.

I stepped closer to the counter, held on to it so I wouldn’t fall over from the shock. I’d come here for a change of clothes. What I was getting was the first report on Jenny in more than a dozen years.

“So she watched the twins, huh. Must have had her hands full,” I said.

“Well, she’s got a couple of boys herself. Cute little guys.”

Did you know I was the girl’s first love back in college? I never got over it. Was she wearing the silver necklace I bought her? Did she speak of me?

“How long did you say you’ve been in business?” I asked.

“Thirty-five years I’ve been here, rain or shine, snowstorm, ice storm, economy good or bad … whatever. It’s not easy to stay in business here when everybody wants to shop at the mall.”

“No, not easy. But I don’t think they have service like this in any mall.”

“I like to think they don’t have service like this anywhere else in the free world, Mr. Clayton.” He smiled a warm, peaceful smile as he stuck the last item in the garment bag.

“What do I owe you?” I asked, bracing myself for an astronomical total.

“Nothing, Mr. Clayton. Your money’s no good.”

I studied the tailor’s face. The peaceful grin had been replaced by weathered, rougher features. His face revealed deeply etched worry lines, like a rug that’s been paced on for years.

“Now why would you say something like that?”

“Mr. Clayton, in all these years, you’ve never stepped inside my store. I don’t know why that is … Maybe you get your clothing at the mall like everybody else. Maybe you don’t get downtown much. But if you’d have come in here anytime before today, I would have told you then what I’m going to tell you now.” Mr. Duroth pulled his glasses from the bridge of his nose and wiped at his face with a handkerchief slipped from his front pocket.

“Justin was always a good kid. But he got in trouble with drugs when he was in high school. Dropped out. Got busted for selling and had to go to juvenile detention for ten months. While he was in there, you came to speak at the detention center.”

“Ah …” Finally I remembered a piece of this story.

“He read your book, and that’s when he decided he wanted to come to school here and be a part of the program. It turned his life around.”

“God turns lives around, Mr. Duroth,” I told him, hoping I didn’t sound like I was correcting.

“You’re right, Mr. Clayton. But then God doesn’t need new slacks, and you do, or you wouldn’t have come in here today.”

I asked Mr. Duroth again to let me pay for the clothes, but he refused.

“Mr. Clayton, I hope you will enjoy your new clothing. You know, every man should dress his best.”

“Thank you. And please tell Justin I said hello the next time you speak with him.”

On the walk back to the hotel, more downtown businesses were opening up. Lunch with Howard and Angela was set for 1:00 p.m. at the Schneider Haus, a German restaurant west of downtown. There was a good chance they’d be open now. Whether or not Howard and Angela would be there, I wasn’t sure. However, I was sure I’d left the Oslander’s number back home.

Howard loved the Schneider Haus. At least he did twenty years earlier when he and Angela had taken Jenny and me there for lunch while visiting Providence. Howard had an affinity for all things European, a quality that sustained his work in England over the years, I’m sure.

Seeing myself in my new clothes back in my hotel room, I was pleased I’d taken this detour from my usual mall-based clothes-shopping routine. This was just the sort of impression I wanted to make with Howard and Angela. And in general.

Howard and Angela loved their daughter. Like so many parents, they were keen to protect her from the dangers that can accompany first loves. I thought about the stories they must have heard years before, wondered if they felt any lingering bitterness toward me. Howard mentioned that my book had made a positive impression. Why would they bother seeing me after so long?

I shut off the bathroom light and put on my coat. It didn’t match the new sports jacket, so I left it in my room and caught a cab in front of the Hyatt. In less than twenty minutes I was going to have lunch with two of the most important people in my life. Not this life, but the one I lived in 1985.

As the taxi pulled away from the curb, I tried to think of another situation where the characters from a book come to life. And the writer, dressed finely in his new wardrobe, drives off in a taxi to meet them.

~
E
LEVEN
~

Ooh baby, do you know what that’s worth?

—Belinda Carlisle

“Heaven Is a Place on Earth”

Mitchell and I stood at the front entrance of Lillian Hall. This time we weren’t dressed in running clothes but in sports jackets without ties. In the cool evening air, we’d walked from the apartment in a state of excitement, thinking about how to properly celebrate Jenny’s birthday. The mood was reminiscent of the complex blend of naïveté and sophistication that accompanies prom night.

Earlier in the day we purchased fancy ice cream from a shop called I LUV MOO. We played Billy Joel’s
An
Innocent Man
album—music that’s more about falling in love than it is about innocence. I pressed a pair of khakis and a white oxford to “Uptown Girl,” assembling my best party attire from a closet full of blue jeans and sweatshirts.

We were buzzed in at Lillian Hall by a girl reading a magazine at the front desk. She knew Mitch, so we were granted permission to head upstairs without an escort or chaperone.

On the third floor we drew wide-eyed stares from women in sweats while we walked past their open doors. I suppose we did sort of stand out. We were, after all, the only men on the floor … and we were carrying a half gallon of ice cream and an oversize bottle of sparkling grape juice.

Mitch knocked on the door at the end of the hallway, room 335. Jenny opened the door, and we immediately launched into an off-key rendition of “Happy Birthday,” the only preplanned event of the evening. The faces of envious women popped out of doorways all along the corridor, followed by loud applause and unrestrained squeals.

“Come on in, guys. That was
wonderful.
”

Their dorm room was small compared to our apartment. In fact, it was small compared to a Volkswagen. They’d utilized every square inch like sailors sharing quarters on a ship. A birthday banner hung above the dressing mirror, and a bouquet of white and purple balloons sat on a dresser.

Mitchell greeted Erin with a hug and kiss like they’d known each other for years. Jenny and I said “Hello” and “So we meet again,” and those kinds of things. It wasn’t awkward. Well, maybe it was.

“Can I get you guys something to drink?” Erin took the heavy juice bottle out of my hands and nearly buckled under its weight. Mitchell came to her aid.

“Why don’t we make
this
a little lighter?” he said.

“I’m surprised you got in here with that.”

“It’s grape juice,” I said. “It’s only bottled to look like champagne.”

The girls turned to collect four glasses, and Mitchell and I shared a brief knowing look—we knew we’d scored points, since neither Erin nor Jenny drank wine.

“Could one of you strong he-men open this thing?” Jenny asked.

I tore off the fancy foil wrapping and popped the cork like it was New Year’s Eve. We cheered and filled the glasses with effervescent grape juice.

The four of us got along famously. Maybe it was because every twenty-year-old woman wants her birthday remembered and celebrated. Maybe it was because Mitchell had already told Erin he loved her, and she’d already realized she was falling in love with him. I was just a freshman from Overton who had been in the right place at the right time, landing a leading role in place of someone special not yet in Jenny’s life. She didn’t know me, but she appreciated the kindness, the regard Mitch and I showed her.

Jenny graciously donned the pointy paper hat we insisted she wear while blowing out her candles. Her expression went from ridiculous to delicate when she closed her eyes to make a wish. With one perfect exhale from two perfect lips, she extinguished the circle of blue candles on the chocolate-frosted cake.

The four of us talked, dined on cake and ice cream, and toasted with the mock champagne. We shared about our lives and revealed the most outrageous escapades, the kind only lifelong friends tell, confident that the stories wouldn’t escape the safety of our friendship.

We talked about college, about the classes we were taking, about what Erin and Jenny were going to do after college, a future just a year away. That night my affection for Jenny became hardwired in my brain. It was the way she looked when she talked about her family, the cadence and rhythm in her voice.

I watched Erin and Mitchell kiss each other good night as we were leaving. This was no high-school fling. I doubted Mitch would confide his feelings for Erin when we walked back to the apartment, but he didn’t need to.

Jenny and I ended the evening awkwardly, shaking hands as if we’d just finished a job interview. I had feelings for Jenny, but clearly they were unrequited. We made no plans to see each other again.

Later that night, before I fell asleep, the wind picked up, blowing strong, portending harsher, colder days. The clouds closed our blue-sky Indian summer like heavy red velvet curtains at the end of a play. As I lay in bed before the last tick of conscious thought, I wondered if the time for Jenny and me had also been closed behind those curtains.

~
T
WELVE
~

Every day is Christmas, and every night is New Year’s Eve.

—Sade

“The Sweetest Taboo”

Howard and Angela Cameron were already seated when I arrived at the Schneider Haus. I stood motionless inside the doorway, ensconced behind fluted columns and an oversize fern. They looked younger than I’d expected, considering it had been two decades since I’d last laid eyes on them. They were in their early fifties then.

Excitement and apprehension filled me. And guilt, too, over how I’d treated Jenny. Surely they’d heard how Jack Clayton had broken their daughter’s heart. I shouldn’t have worried; I was certain they would have long since forgiven me. But I did nonetheless. Why did they want to see me? Were they just passing through, their memories rekindled by a best-selling book? Maybe they were doing some creative fund-raising for missions work. I wouldn’t be offended. I’d give whatever they asked.