Providence (14 page)

“Just getting a bite to eat,” I said, trying to make it sound as normal as it was. Joe spun his chair around the other way and yelled back to the kitchen.

“Hey, Antonio! Lookie here.”

Antonio stepped out of the kitchen to see what was causing the commotion.

“It’s that writer guy! The one that sold all them books!” Joe turned back to me. “Hey, what’s your name?”

Antonio looked at me. The waitress looked at me. Everyone in the now-quiet room looked at me.

“Jack Clayton,” I said to him in a near whisper, pretending ours was still a private conversation. “You can call me Jack.”

“Jack Clayton!” he shouted, his volume doubled by the drinks he’d already consumed. “You are awesome, man! What you did for those people! Hey, and don’t worry about the wine, okay, pastor? Nobody’s gonna say nothing.”

“I’m not a pastor, Joe, and it’s okay for me to have a glass of wine.”

The buzz in the restaurant ground to a halt, the brake cord pulled by one of its patrons. The dark-haired man with the mustache turned out to be
an
Antonio, but not
the
Antonio. Just then,
the
Antonio stood up from his table in the back and spoke to me from across the room.

“Are you Jack Clayton?” The beefy sixty-year-old man asked, closing the last of the open mouths in the room, including Joe’s.

“Yes,” I said from my seat at the bar.

Big Antonio pointed his index finger at me, then dotted it around the room. “Anything you want tonight,” he said with authority, “is on the house. Whatever you want.” Then to the other Antonio, “You take care of him.”

The silent, serious-faced Antonio gave the owner an exaggerated nod of compliance and snapped his fingers at a busboy now speeding up the clearing of an open table.

“Yeah!” Joe shouted, tossing his fist in the air the same way he’d done when Derek Smith had scored that touchdown. A few other customers cheered from their booths. These people wanted to celebrate. Antonio continued talking.

“What’s brings you down here by yourself tonight?”

“Someone wanted me to have the best Italian food in the city, so he sent me here.”

With that, the room exploded in applause, patrons celebrating not only the good food but also that they were at the right place at the right time.

Antonio smiled, pleased with my answer. He raised his hands, soaking in the applause, a confirmation of what he’d been telling his customers for years.

Before the clapping died down, Antonio walked around the curve of the bar to shake my hand. I stood. He placed his hand on my shoulder and turned us to face the diners, addressing the room like the village mayor speaking to his townspeople.

“For those of you who don’t know who this guy is, this is Jack Clayton, the man who wrote the best-selling book to come out of Providence, ever.” The restaurant hollered again.

“His book, my wife, Louise, bought for me, and I read it, loved it, recommend it.” He looked at me. “Not that you need any more sales, right, Jack?”

Laughter erupted, and I looked across the room at the welcoming crowd, then laughed just a little bit myself. By the time Antonio pulled me from my seat, each heartbeat brought with it a flashbulb explosion of white. I heard low humming in my ears and could feel perspiration rolling past my collar.

One hundred eyes looked up at me, smiling. I concentrated on breathing—and prayed he wouldn’t ask me to speak.

“Why don’t you say something to the people ’cause I know they’d love to hear you speak.”

Antonio and I stood together in the center of the dining room, his arm wrapped over my shoulder like I was his son. The first thing to pop into my head was “Like what?” Thankfully I stifled that inane response. I looked into the faces, surprised to see something I couldn’t have predicted: These people seemed happy for the interruption. The room blurred and slowed in the racket of applause. I sensed God’s presence in the room. I silently reframed their cheering—it wasn’t for me, it was for what God had done in their town. It was for the expression of sacrifice and the infusion of hope. I prayed for words—wisdom and words.

“I’m sure you all came here tonight hoping an author would stand up and give a speech.” This got a laugh. “I want to thank Antonio for his warm hospitality and his gracious introduction.” I’d spoken at enough fund-raisers and faculty and alumni dinners to know the importance of thanking everyone for attending. But that was all I had. There was nothing but a flash of prayer, and I opened my mouth to speak.

“I’ve had … a pretty amazing couple of years. I can’t begin to tell you what it means having so many people read a book and care about the things you really care about. A lot of folks here in Providence got to have their stories told, and you know how much it means when someone listens. I’m not a pastor; I’m just a regular guy, your neighbor, someone who happens to live in Providence. I work at the college each day teaching students to remember those in need.”

I had started to ramble, but I knew where I was going. I read it on their faces. They weren’t excited because an author stood before them. They were excited that someone who knew God would step into their smoky world and watch a football game with them on their TV. They didn’t want to hear from me. They wanted to hear from God. I spoke the words God gave me as if they had been written out on a teleprompter.

“Everyone wants to know if there’s a God. They want to know if He loves them. I’m here tonight to tell you He lives, and that He died for all. And that He wants you to come home, to Him.”

I paused, waiting to see if there was more, but no more came. “Thanks, thanks for listening.”

I turned to go back to the bar, but Antonio grabbed my arm and escorted me to his personal table. The silence and reverence of the moment reverted to normal conversation, and Antonio sat down with me. He gave my order to the waiter.

“Jake, San Marino, portobello mushrooms … and bring another glass of wine.”

Jake was gone in an instant, and Antonio fixed his friendly, day-worn eyes on me.

“Mr. Clayton, it’s wonderful having you here, and while you’re here, I want you to enjoy yourself. I’ll keep people from bothering you.”

“They won’t bother me.”

“No, no, let you eat your dinner in peace.”

“You’re very kind, Antonio.”

He leaned back in his seat and smiled like a proud father. “This means a lot to me that you’d come down here. I want you to know that.”

“You’ve got a great place here.”

“I want to tell you … Your book, it did something for me.” He pointed up toward the bar. “You see that picture over there behind the bar?”

I turned to look. High on the back wall was an eight-by-ten color photograph of a Little League baseball team in blue jerseys and white pants. All the players on the team were black. Antonio and two other men stood behind them.

“That’s a team up in Indianapolis called the Blue Jays. We sponsor the team … You know, pay for their uniforms, equipment expenses. At the end of each season, win or lose, we invite all the players and their families into Antonio’s to have a pizza party.”

“I’m sure they love it.”

“How could they not; it’s Antonio’s?” He grinned. Then he got quiet and leaned into the table, extending his arm across the white tablecloth. “Your book, Mr. Clayton, made me see the boys up there differently. Those boys …”—Antonio pointed up at the photo—“they formed that baseball team at the Boys Club.”

“That’s a good thing you’re doing.”

Antonio leaned in closer and spoke softly, so softly I had to read his lips through the noise of the restaurant. “Mr. Clayton, I don’t like black people.”

He waited for my reaction, but I didn’t give him any.

“I’m sixty-two years old, and I’ve never liked black people. But you know … those boys come from broken homes …
I
come from a broken home. I saw myself in that book of yours, Mr. Clayton. And then I saw these kids and realized they needed some help. That’s when we started sponsoring teams. We got three up there now. Do you think you could help us start something like that here?”

“I’d love to.”

After dinner I thanked Antonio and left what I thought was a reasonable tip, considering they’d fed me the best meal in the house for free. Another taxi took me back to the hotel.

Back in my suite, I took off my jacket and hung it carefully on a wooden hanger. I relaxed into a soft leather chair and grabbed the yellow legal pad to jot down the thought fragments that had come to me during the taxi ride. The pages were starting to pile up.

I knew as I wrote that this was going to be my last book. After writing it I would leave the literary world to real writers. If
Laborers
was the hit song, this would be my encore. The last installment in my brief four-book career.

As I sat there, I realized that remembering Jenny, Mitch, and Erin—the way we all were then—was worth the trip. It was worth the tears when the memories appeared thick and powerful. I would write this book to remember—and for all the other young, untested college students who would walk alongside the four of us as we were then, forever young, filled with dreams and innocence and love.

Writing in longhand this weekend had made the story more intimate, like the letters I used to write to Jenny.

I shut off a multitude of lights and climbed into bed. The sheets were crisp and fresh. I clicked off the bedside lamp and rolled over to face the Providence moon shining brightly through my window. A thought occurred to me, a daydream that had me wishing the book could be finished by morning: I would check out in my new clothes, drop the manuscript in an anonymous FedEx box, then disappear forever.

~
F
IFTEEN
~

And when we hear the voices sing
The book of love will open up and let us in.

—Mr. Mister

“Broken Wings”

It was a conversation, not a date. I knew that. Still, I showered and carefully groomed myself in the bathroom mirror, glad I’d washed my best pair of khakis. I borrowed a striped maize and blue polo from Mitchell’s closet, sprinkled on Drakkar Cologne, and set out on foot for my third visit to Lillian Hall. This time would be different. I was going because Jenny Cameron asked me. I wondered why she wanted to talk with me. A few possibilities crossed my mind: I’d said something that offended her; or she was involved with someone else and didn’t want to hurt my feelings; or I was a freshman, and she was only a year and a half from graduation, and spending any time with me now would undoubtedly lead to heartbreak in … a year and a half.

The reason didn’t matter. I was elated at the thought of spending time with her. But still … whatever she had to say must be important. Anything inconsequential she could have told me on the street.

“Your name?” The brown-haired student covering the reception desk barely looked at me.

“Jack Clayton.”

“Go ahead and sign in.”

I scribbled my name on a clipboard while she dialed Jenny’s room.

“Jenny, there’s someone here for you.”

“Be right there.”

No sooner had I finished giving back the pen, Jenny was in the room with us. Her chestnut hair was pulled back in a black band, and she wore a simple gold cross, visible above the top button of her white blouse.

“Hi, there,” she said, as if we did this sort of thing all the time. “Wanna come up?”

She took the two of us to a small recreation room on the second floor. It was little more than a couple of stuffed reading chairs, a fake-leather couch and TV, and a coffee table covered with magazines like
Seventeen
and
People
. The room was empty, but I doubted it would stay empty for long.

I took a seat on the faux-leather sofa. Jenny sat in one of the chairs. She wasted no time getting down to business.

“Jack, I’ve been thinking about what it is I want to say to you. And I haven’t got it exactly right, but I think it’s important I just come right out and say it.”

In time I would learn this was trademark verbal cadence for Jenny. Her careful selection of words was like a chef selecting the finest ingredients, then measuring them in the right amounts before combining them into a gourmet feast.

“This afternoon you asked if we could spend some time together, and I said no. You wanted to know why, and I think you have every right … but …” Jenny paused for a moment, then continued. “Here’s the tricky part to put into words,” she said, clasping her hands together, entwining her fingers. “The part I wasn’t prepared to tell you this afternoon, and the reason I said no to you is … I’ve found myself thinking about you since the night of the party.” She stopped speaking to see how much of this I was getting.

“I’ve been thinking about you quite a lot … which isn’t a bad thing, unless of course you’re dating another man, supposed to be focusing your attention on an important paper, applying for an internship, and investing yourself completely in work you believe in. Then it’s not so good. Do you see what I mean?”

“I see … Do you want to go on, or should I say something?”