The Cubicle Next Door (18 page)

“Give yourself a chance. There’s got to be something else you enjoy doing.”

“I used to play football, but it’s not like I can do anything with that. The football team already has a sponsor. I checked. The same colonel’s been doing it for about fifteen years.”

“You don’t
like
teaching?”

“I do, but…I guess I just have to get used to this being what I do.” He smiled. I’m sure he probably meant it to be cheery, but his smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Hey, I’ve noticed
you’re
having lots of not-so-good days lately too.”

“Why do you say that?”

“You haven’t been your normal snarky self this week.”

“Shouldn’t that be a compliment? Maybe I’ve become a reformed communist mercenary. Ever think of that?”

“No. I think it’s something else.”

I got a tingly feeling up and down my spine. He knew. Somehow he’d figured it out. This was it. “What do you think it is?”

“I think it’s like that girl on the Internet says.”

No question as to which girl he was talking about. “What does she say?”

“You find yourself behaving in completely unexpected ways…you think you might not even like being snarky. You’re starting to have fun. So you’re trying to figure out which perception of yourself to reinforce. The snarky one or the nice one.”

“That wasn’t TCND. It was NozAll.” As if he knew anything at all.

It was the dimples that gave me the warning. “I thought you didn’t read that blog. I thought you said blogs were a waste of time.”

Think fast.

“Um…”

Think faster!

“I don’t. Really. It’s just that…you’re the one who reads it. To me. All the time.”

The dimples disappeared. “Well…that’s true.”

“It is. Every morning.” Every
single
morning.

“So, you have plans for tomorrow, for Veterans Day?”

“Always.” At least this year, Veterans Day fell on a Saturday. Ironically, the past year when it fell on a Friday, it was just a normal school day at the U.S. Air Force Academy.

“What are you doing?”

“Visiting the cemetery.”

“Which one?”

“The Academy’s.”

“By the roach clip?”

“The what?”

“The Polaris Memorial. That weird statue. It used to be by the chapel…we’d twist sheets to put in the middle of those metal tongs. Made it look like a giant roach clip. You know.” He put two fingers up to his mouth. Pretended to smoke a joint. Crossed his eyes with the effort.

“I visit to put flowers on my father’s grave.”

His eyes uncrossed his eyes and sobered up. “He’s buried there? You’re kidding.”

“No, I’m not kidding. He died in Vietnam.”

“I’m sorry. A lot of people died in Vietnam. A lot of good people.”

I nodded. Then I stood up and walked over to the coat tree where my jacket and scarf were hanging. Pulled the scarf off and wrapped it around my neck.

“Nice scarf.”

“Thanks.”

“It…uh…pretty much matches anything.”

“Pretty much.”

“You didn’t pay for it, did you?”

“No. I made it.”

“Why?”

“Because I needed a scarf. And I felt sorry for all the yarn at the Salvation Army.” It had been sitting there in a giant plastic bag. All of it dyed in colors nobody wanted anymore: various shades of brown. Rust. Orange. Garish green. Startling purple.

“And now we can all feel sorry for you.”

“It’s just a scarf. And it’s indestructible. Feel it.”

Joe took hold of an end and rubbed it against his cheek. Dropped it. “It’s scratchy.”

I picked up the end he’d dropped and tucked it into the coil I’d wound around my neck. “It’s acrylic. It’ll last forever.”

“Are you sure you want it to?”

“It keeps my neck warm. That’s all it has to do.” I pulled my green duffle coat on and fastened all toggles but the top one. Pulled the hood over my head.

I went down the stairs and out by the Aero Lab parking lot and sat on the wall. I had a prime view of a tangle of trees and bushes and frost-browned grasses in the valley below. I let the cold chill of November seep into my thighs and then into my bones.

I hunched my shoulders and felt the coat stretch taut against my back. I found that if I dropped my head just the slightest bit, my chin dropped down into the scarf. It was scratchy, but I could also smell the lingering scent of Joe.

The next day I removed some sprigs from a rosemary plant growing in a pot in the kitchen window. Then I put on my coat and scarf, got into my car, and drove up the interstate toward the Academy. Pulled into the cemetery and parked the car. Stayed inside until I was certain I was alone.

I’d told Joe I was going to put flowers on my father’s grave, but, in truth, I never had. I’d always taken rosemary. It’s the one thing I’d remembered from English class, that quote by Shakespeare about rosemary being for remembrance.

And I did remember.

I remembered things my father had never had the chance to know.

There were already flowers on top of his grave. A dignified ruffle of blue carnations, white daisies, and red roses interwoven with red, white, and blue ribbons. The same arrangement as the year before. And the year before that. As long as I’d been paying my annual visits, in fact. I assumed they were from my father’s parents.

I knelt to tuck my sprigs of rosemary in between the flowers.

Because I remembered too.

“Hi, Dad. It’s me.”

I touched the marker. Read the words I had memorized years ago.

Michael Murray O’Flaherty. Captain, U.S. Air Force. His graduating class. The date of his birth and the date of his death. Four lines which encapsulated everything I knew about him.

I rose to my feet and stood beside his grave for a while. Watched an airplane trace an arc high above me, leaving white contrails stretched across the sky.

Joe called me later that afternoon. Wanted to talk about church.

“Are you ready to concede?”

“No. I just thought maybe we should change strategies.”

“How?”

“Maybe we should consider proximity instead of—”

“Personal recommendations?”

“Yeah.”

“The closest is just down the hill.”

“Isn’t that Catholic?”

“We don’t have to take communion. We could actually walk. Save about—”

“A gallon of gas. I know. What time should I stop by?”

“Just a second.” I searched the Internet for the name of the church. Ended up having to specify “Manitou Springs.” “Service…er…Mass starts at ten fifteen.”

“So I’ll pick you up at ten.”

“Fine.”

“We can do lunch after. Instead of breakfast.”

He picked me up at 10:00 on Sunday. I wore my darkest jeans for the occasion. I had the feeling Catholics were probably dressier than Protestants.

We walked down the hill, turned the corner and came upon the church. Just walking into it was a magical experience.

Low stone walls enclosed the lot. We walked across a stone-and-brick bridge that breasted Fountain Creek. A grotto to our left offered a chilly haven. A statue of Mary, sheltered inside, implied infinite peace. A listening ear. A willingness to give you the benefit of doubt. God knew what he was doing when he gave Jesus a mother.

Would that I had been so lucky.

We walked through the iron gate, now pushed open, and toward a small white church. Its narrow windows were lined in blue. The roof over the door and the roof over the church were both topped by simple white crosses. But the best part was walking inside.

People noticed we were there. They validated our presence by smiling. Or simply by looking at us. Not in our direction or over our shoulders, but into our eyes.

We listened to a sermon. Homily. Whatever it’s called.

There was a moment, when people went up for communion, when I thought I might feel awkward, but I bowed my head and began to pray instead. Let my mind revisit the beauty in my world.

A recent view of Pikes Peak, the wind fanning the snow off the top of the mountain. The solid, steady rhythm of the anniversary clock on the mantel in the living room. A clock that had marked the hours of my grandfather’s days and the minutes of his grandfather’s before him. The brilliant intricacy of a computer and its interlocking pieces. A machine made up of incredibly small parts that had the power to map out the universe.

I had just finished sampling that particular thought when a hum began to infiltrate my consciousness and lower my thoughts to more mundane levels. Like who was doing the humming and why.

As if I couldn’t guess.

I opened my eyes and slid a glance toward Joe.

His elbows were propped on his knees, his head resting against clasped hands.

Maybe…maybe it wasn’t him.

I glanced around. Didn’t notice anyone being overtly odd. Resumed my prayer.

Heard that hum again.

Opened my eyes. Noticed Joe’s feet.

They were tapping.

I nudged him.

He flinched. Straightened. Looked at me and mouthed,
What?

I put a finger up to my mouth.
Shh
.

He looked around. Looked at me.
What?

I leaned toward him. “You were…” He really didn’t know he had been humming. Communion was over by that point, so I just dropped it.

Afterward, we walked out of the church and into bright sunshine. It warmed our faces even as our bodies hunched against a chill wind.

We walked over the bridge and up the hill toward home.

We were almost at Grandmother’s before Joe remembered about eating. “Want to grab lunch somewhere?”

“You could…do you want to come in? I could fix us something.”

“Sure. Thanks.”

We turned at the house. Climbed the steps from the street.

Joe retrieved the key from under the mat. Opened the door and then stood aside to usher me in, his hand at my back.

We walked together into the kitchen. Found a note on the kitchen table. Grandmother was out with Oliver. Didn’t say out where. Didn’t say when she’d be back.

I sighed. It was her day. She could spend it with whomever she wanted to. I opened the refrigerator and took a mental inventory of the contents. “Do you want an omelet?”

“I’d love an omelet. I always burn them when I try and make one myself.”

“You probably cook it too fast. You have to be more patient.”

I gave him some mushrooms to slice while I grated the cheese. Then I started some butter melting in a pan and whisked the eggs while I waited. I knew Joe ate out for lunch when he was at work, but I had no idea what he usually did for dinner. “Do you cook? For yourself, ever?”

“I get by. Tacos are easy. And spaghetti. I grill. You want me to wash this for you?” He was holding up the cheese grater.

“Thanks.”

He put the grater on top of the cutting board he’d been using and took everything to the sink. Turned the water on high. Squirted dish soap over it all.

I walked over and turned the faucet off to stop the water from going straight down the drain. “Most of the time, people don’t need as much water as they think they do. You don’t need any really until it’s time to rinse.”

“Yes, ma’am. Where’s the sponge?”

I handed him a washcloth.

“And the problem with a sponge is…?”

“That most sponges aren’t made of sponge. They’re synthetic.”

“Which is evil because…?”

“They aren’t biodegradable.”

“And smelly old washcloths?”

“Can be washed. Again and again and again.”

He shook his head and started scrubbing. “When they start making washcloths with a scrubby side, that’s when I’ll make the switch.”

While I put the remaining eggs and cheese away, Joe finished up the dishes and set them in the rack to dry.

I saw him glance at his watch. Look over in the direction of the living room. “Can we eat in front of the TV? Would you mind? The Seahawks are playing. They’re my team.”

I shrugged. It didn’t matter to me.

When the omelets were done, we took our plates out into the living room. I handed Joe the remote and let him find the game.

After we had finished eating, I took our plates into the kitchen. Joe started to get up, but I motioned for him to stay. He smiled at me and then slouched into the corner of the couch and got comfortable.

On my return to the living room, as I passed in front of him, he reached out and grabbed my hand. He tugged me down to the space beside him and spread his arm along the back of the couch. “Are you afraid of me, Jackie?”

“No.” I was telling the truth. I wasn’t afraid of him…I was afraid of myself.

“Then lean back. Relax.” He crooked his arm around my neck and pulled my head in toward his shoulder. “I won’t bite. I promise.”

“Will you let me out of this headlock?”

He released me immediately. “Of course.”

I folded my arms across my chest and settled into the couch. Leaned against him. Just a little.

There were the rules in the game I was playing. I didn’t have to acknowledge anything I didn’t want to. That was one of them. And as long as I knew what was going on, I could pretend I didn’t.

I only let myself play because something in me needed what Joe was offering, devoured the attention he gave me, and craved the warmth of even casual contact. But I trusted myself. I knew I wouldn’t become tempted by him. Addicted to him. I knew I would recognize the moment I started to need him too much.

And when that happened, I planned to flip the game board over and walk away.

THE CUBICLE NEXT DOOR BLOG

Little things about you

I can tell what kind of day you’re having before you figure it out yourself. I can tell by how high you fill your coffee mug. I can tell by how long it takes you to start typing. Some days, you even hum. Did you know that? But mostly, I can tell by your smile.

Posted on November 12 in
The Cubicle Next Door | Permalink

Comments

There are some people known as chronic hummers. But they don’t hum. They hear hums. Hums that appear to be at such low frequencies no one else can hear them.

Posted by:
NozAll | November 12 at 04:02 PM