The Splendor of Ordinary Days (20 page)

The Perfect Moment

M
y plan was to go to Moon Lake, build a fire, and have a cozy evening of food and wine under a soft sky of pristine stars. At nine o'clock, provided Gene was in his right mind, “Over the Valley” would be playing on the radio and I would propose to an enchanted, radiant Christine. The plan was for us to share something sweet, endearing, perfect.

At least that was the plan.

That afternoon, winds of early autumn began to sweep down the high rim of hills that surrounded Watervalley. A cooler breeze blew in from the fields and brought with it the tender expectation of a beautiful twilight. But it also brought something rather unexpected. Rain.

Before leaving the clinic, I checked and rechecked the radar on my phone. A band of showers was moving through. With any luck, it would move out by eight o'clock, leaving a low, thick cloud cover. My plans were still intact, but now without the stars.

Christine had called me around four as she was leaving school for the day. At first she wanted to stay in and watch a movie, saying that she was tired from a very active week with sixth graders. Without showing my hand too strongly, I persisted with the idea of going out to the lake and building a fire. She finally acquiesced and told me to pick her up at seven.

But when I arrived at the farm, I found her sound asleep on the wicker couch on the front porch, curled up under a quilt. I eased in beside her and kissed her on the cheek. “Hey, Sleeping Beauty. Wake up. Prince Charming is here.”

She opened her eyes slowly and stared vacantly for a moment. Then she pulled the quilt back over her shoulder and buried her face in the cushion. “Go away. You're still a frog. Come back in an hour and try again.”

This was not in the script.

I bent over and kissed her again, applying slightly more pressure. She did nothing. Not a movement, not a sound, not even a demure and cooing moan. Nothing.

­More ­aggressive action was needed.

I began to rub her back. Her face remained pressed into the cushion. “Sweetie, I think the pizza is getting cold.”

“Let it.”

“And the wine is getting hot.”

“Fine by me.”

“And we're missing the sunset.”

“Whatever.”

I was at a complete loss. She had yet to even open her eyes.

“Do you want me to leave?”

“No.”

“So you want me to stay?”

“No.”

“Do you want me to put my pants back on?”

That got her eyes open. She sat up abruptly and looked at me with something less than an adoring regard. “That wasn't even close to funny.”

“Woke you up, didn't it?”

“I'm not liking you right now.” She widened her eyes and inhaled deeply, lifting her arms above her head in a stiff, contorted yawn. Held by an elastic tie, her disheveled hair was pulled back and a little tousled to one side. She was sloppily attired in a sweatshirt and blue jeans. Sleep lines from the creases on the cushion were still faintly discernible on her face, and she looked at me in a drowsy stupor.

I spoke with a false earnestness. “Seriously, if you want to just pass on the evening and go back to sleep, that's fine by me. I'm sure Rhett would love the pizza.”

“No, no, I'm awake now. Let's go.”

Perhaps it was my predisposed ­mind-­set for it to be a perfect evening, but I spoke the next words before thinking. “Do you need to go, you know, freshen up first?”

Her response convinced me that this was something you should never say to a woman, especially when she is still in the vexing fog of ­post-­sleep. Christine dropped her chin in a look of sharp reproach. “Just what are you implying, Bradford?”

Now she was definitely awake.

I laughed at my own foolishness and ran my hand over the side of her face, smoothing back a stray lock of hair. “Okay, Sleeping Beauty. You are always gorgeous in my eyes.”

“But what?”

“Well, as long as you're gorgeous in your eyes too, then we're good to go.”

She frowned lightly and gathered up her hair, redoing the small elastic band. “Oh, you're probably right, but I'm too tired to care. It'll be dark soon, so just squint your eyes a lot.”

By the time we loaded up in the ­Austin-­Healey, the rain had completely stopped, leaving a fine, stinging mist. There was still something of a sullen, quiet reserve to Christine's mood. I had awoken Sleeping Beauty, but instead a fairy-tale character more like Grumpy had gotten into the car with me.

Enchanted and radiant no longer seemed part of the plan either.

At Christine's insistence, we stopped and picked up Rhett, taking him with us. Given the surprise visit we'd had on the previous trip to the lake, apparently Christine felt more secure having Rhett along. So the “we two” part of the evening turned into “we three.”

Earlier, I had loaded some cordwood into the trunk. But it was soaked with rain, making for a difficult time starting a fire. I finally got a flame going by dousing on some gasoline I had brought along. Some of it got on my hands and, try as I might, I was unable to clean off the smell. This left me reeking with something less than a fetching aroma for the rest of the evening.

The orchard grass had been left uncut for quite some time and had fallen over in lumpy clumps, disguising the fact that the ground below was a mushy soup from the earlier downpour. I had innocently spread the blanket out near the fire, and Christine sleepily sat down and hugged her knees into a tight bundle. Suddenly she shrieked and popped up as if she had been stung.

“What's the matter?”

“My bottom's wet. Water must have leached through the blanket.”

I bent down on one knee to feel the spot, only to discover that just as quickly, my knee was also soaked. Christine stood with her backside to the fire, none too happy. Ever the optimist, I was determined to salvage the moment and make the night magical.

I picked up the blanket and folded away the wet spot, placing it on the hood of the car. Warmed by the glow of the fire, we sat there, eating cold pizza and drinking red wine from Solo cups. I turned the radio on low and Rhett ventured into the darkness. In time, Christine again pulled her knees up under her chin and wrapped her arms around her legs in a tight ball. She snuggled in close beside me and rested her head on my shoulder, staring lost into the fire.

“You're awfully sweet, Bradford.”

“And why is that?”

“You're trying really hard to make a nice evening out of a pretty dreary situation.” She covered her mouth for a long yawn. Afterward, she shook her head briskly. “I'm sorry. I don't know why I'm so tired tonight.”

“Oh, it's okay. It's been a while since we've been out here, and I just wanted it to seem special.”

She took my arm and embraced it in a firm hug, pulling it tightly to her. I glanced at my watch. It was ten minutes before nine o'clock. Finally the moment and the mood seemed to be coming together. For the twentieth time that evening I put my hand in my jacket pocket and gently felt for the small case that held the ring. Satisfied yet again that everything was in place, I leaned over and kissed Christine's head, and we sat in silence. All we needed to do now was wait.

But Rhett had other ideas.

In the black of the night a short distance away, we heard a brief “woof” followed by a huge splash. Christine and I both sat up, looking at each other with quizzical faces. I called out to him, “Rhett! Come here, boy!”

There was no sound except for the faint lapping of water. I stood and called out again, imagining that Rhett would respond with some kind of bark that would signal the all clear. I mumbled under my breath, “I better see what's going on.”

I grabbed a flashlight from the trunk, and we both walked toward the lake's edge, only to find the reflection of Rhett's eyes swimming toward us from about twenty feet out. He was carrying a large stick in his mouth. He proceeded to climb out of the water and, after a vigorous head-to-toe ­full-­body shake, walked over and dropped the stick at my feet. Christine put her hand over her mouth, holding back a laugh.

I bent over and picked up the stick. “Nice job, fellow. Just whose car do you think you're riding in now?” We walked back, and I casually tossed Rhett's prize into the fire. We were about to sit again, when a thick pattering sound began to shimmer across the water. A chilly, biting gust of wind swept over us. We were being pelted.

It wasn't just rain; it was hail.

Christine frantically gathered the blanket and our things and threw them into the car while I fumbled to get the soft top pulled over and fastened. It was a brief chaos of shouts and movements under the barrage. Rhett casually made his way into the small backseat and plopped down quite comfortably while Christine and I plunged into the front seats and simultaneously rolled up our windows, finally closing off the onslaught. We both were partially soaked and took a moment to catch our breath. The fire had all but died out under the drenching rain and hail.

“Dang,” blurted Christine. “That sure happened fast.”

“Unbelievable,” I responded, still somewhat rattled. Then I gathered myself and looked at my watch. It was three minutes after nine, so I instinctively reached over and turned up the radio. A commercial was playing.

“Are you listening for some kind of weather alert?”

“Um, yeah. Sure.”

Christine exhaled a deep breath. “I think it's time for this girl to go home.”

I needed to stall. Gene would be playing our song any moment now, and I was holding on blindly to the idea that all the cosmic tumblers would somehow realign.

“Let's give the storm a chance to blow over,” I suggested.

We sat for a few moments longer, listening to what was now a pouring rain and the low squawk of the radio advertising the latest sale on canned goods down at the grocery store. The ideal mood of only minutes ago had all but vanished. As well, the charming air of romance was quickly being replaced by the permeating smell of wet dog. That along with the growing heat of Rhett's hot panting had promptly saturated the small enclosure. I started the car in a ­last-­ditch effort to get some air circulating. And just as it roared to life, Gene Alley's smooth radio voice finally poured into our ears.

“We have a special request going out tonight for a special lady by a special fellow.” Notably, Gene wasn't blessed with a diverse vocabulary.

“I'm not going to give out any names, but let's just say he's a doctor. A doctor of love, that is. This is WVLY, ‘the Voice of the Valley,' and I'm your host, Gene Alley, hoping that tonight, all you lovebirds take flight and give a chance to a little romance.”

At the mention of the word “doctor,” Christine turned her head to the side and regarded me with surprise, as if I had made an unpleasant body noise. Undaunted, I began to reach in my pocket for the ring. The music started, and I was about to speak the endearing, magic words of love I had so meticulously practiced.

But instead of “Over the Valley” by Pink Martini, Gene was playing “Young Lust” by Pink Floyd, a song about a fellow who is new to town and looking for a dirty woman. I immediately froze with my hand holding the ring box in my coat pocket, my mouth dangling open, and my face in a locked panic. Christine's neck stiffened, and her scowl became even harsher.

“Wow, that's pretty sick. For a half second there, I thought Gene was talking about a song you had requested.”

I jerked my hand out of my pocket and released a forced laugh. “What? Are you crazy? I sure didn't request that song.” Not only was the moment blown; my evasive commentary was failing miserably. Christine lowered her head in a look of cautious skepticism.

The ring of her cell phone saved me. She retrieved it from her pocket and answered.

“Hello. Hey. Yes, he's right here.” She smiled and winked at me. “Yes, he's right here too.” She glanced back at Rhett. “Oh, that's really exciting.” Christine was using her schoolteacher voice. “Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Okay, we'll be right there. Bye now.”

She looked at me with a face of pure delight. “That was Will Fox. Dr. Davidson just arrived. Maggie is having her babies.”

We drove back to Fleming Street. I had turned off the radio, and fortunately there was no further discussion regarding the song request. Oddly, I felt relieved. My ­best-­laid plans had gone completely awry, and I had quietly decided that I would find a discreet moment after the dance the following night in which to propose.

We arrived at the Fox house in damp clothes but good spirits and found everyone huddled in the back utility room. Maggie had just finished delivering six perfectly healthy, ­squinty-­eyed puppies. They had already instinctively moved toward the warmth of their mother and the hope of their first meal. Will and Louise were sleepy, but wrapped in a joyful, excited air. Karen smiled warmly at Christine and me.

Rhett seemed unusually subdued. He approached Maggie slowly, carefully sniffing his way. They regarded each other and eventually he lay on the floor just outside the whelping box, calmly keeping guard. It was all quite sweet and wonderful.

We chatted for a few minutes, but soon Christine and I headed back to Summerfield Road. As we made our way through the dark countryside, Christine sat consumed in thought. Eventually, I turned to her.

“Do you ever think about children, Christine?”

“Sure. I'm with children all day, every day. I think about them a lot.”

“I don't mean in that way.”

“In what way, then?”

“In the way of having some of your own one day.”

“Sure. Although call me ­old-­fashioned, but I've always had this silly notion about getting married first.”

I grinned. “Probably a good idea.” Silence ensued, and we continued into the solemn darkness, both of us feeling the sag of weariness. Faintly illuminated by the dashboard lights, Christine spoke guardedly, tenderly.