The Weight of Gravity (12 page)

“Hell, there goes the sweetest ass in town,” Cecil said, looking out the window at the street.

“Yeah, and the most expensive, too,” Earl added.

All Max saw was a white SUV going by much too fast for him to see who was driving.  “Who’s that?” he asked.

“That lawyer’s wife, Hightower.”

“Yeah,” said Earl, “she’s probably headed over to the bookstore.  I seen her in there playing the piano last week.  Pretty damn good, too.”

The reality of why Max had come to Cottonwood came rushing back suddenly to hit him full face.  This was the second time in less than twelve hours he had come within a hundred feet of the object of his cross-country, cross-lifetime journey.  He’d been distracted.  Maybe he was subconsciously avoiding the moment, he thought.  “Eye on the prize,” he heard Doris say.  His meeting with Erika was long overdue.

             
“Say, Donny.  Mind if I borrow your pickup for a while?” Max asked.

             
Donny didn’t hesitate to answer, which made Max like him even more.  “Go for it!” he said, sliding the keys across the table.  “I’ll bum a ride with Cecil and pick the truck up later at Doris’s place.  It’s got plenty of gas, too.”

              Max drove to the bookstore.  He found the white SUV crammed among other cars lined at the curb.  It was going to take all his willpower to get out of the truck.  He peeled his hands from the steering wheel and rested them in his lap.  They were steady as a rock.  He forever thought he had his father’s hands.  They were square across the palms with muscular fingers and straight-cut nails.  He could see his age in his hands, now.  The skin looked weathered and tight, and the veins were close to the surface.  Yeah, they were Pop’s hands --
Damn it! 
For all of his life, Max could not remember a single moment he’d turned to someone else for advice.  Maybe it was pride, maybe it was cockiness, maybe it was just plain stupidity, but he always went it alone.  And for the first time, he was wishing his father were sitting in the cab of the truck, so that he could ask him what to do.  At the same instant, he heard his father say, “Get your skinny ass in there!  Stop acting like a piss ant!”  Max smiled and got out of the truck.

             
He listened hard for music as he approached the door, but there was nothing.  It was more crowded inside than his first visit.  He walked straight back in the direction of the “Kid’s Korner,” where the belly-bouncing counter-help had pointed, but still no music.  In an alcove just beyond the racks of children’s books and games, Max saw the piano, a full grand.  There were folding chairs in neat rows leading away from it, and a colorful carpet directly in front.  A handful of mothers with their children had begun to take seats, but there was still no sign of Erika.  He walked between the rows of chairs until he stood arms length from the Steinway. 
Hell of a nice piano for a town this size
.  Max touched the keys – her keys.  This was the closest he’d come to touching her in so many years, he thought.

             
He saw no one who remotely looked like Erika, so Max walked back through the store.  He couldn’t resist glancing up each aisle as he passed.  Maybe she isn’t here, he began to think. 
Perhaps today isn’t her day to perform.
 
A lot of people own white SUVs.

             
Max nearly reached the front door when he heard applause and cheers coming from the Kid’s Korner.  He slowly walked back.  Before he reached the alcove, he heard the piano.  In an instant, he knew it was Erika.  Like a voice from his past, a scent of his youth, the notes floated on the air and surrounded him, urging him forward.  “Remember me?” the music seemed to ask.  “How could I forget,” he whispered.

The lights in the alcove were dimmed, but Erika and the piano were bathed in a pale, white light – like moon glow.  A sea of tiny heads, their faces intently focused, surrounded her.  Erika stopped playing – it was only an intro to catch their attention – and waited for the exuberant applause to subside.  She smiled at her audience, and then directed her eyes to the keys. 

Max watched as time reversed itself.  To precision, just as she’d done at the recital a lifetime ago, Erika adjusted the seat, but he never saw it move.  She glanced down at her feet near the pedals, and then gently rested her fingers on the keys.  An eternity passed, then her hands began to dance, and the voice of the strings leapt into the air and spilled into every corner of the crowded room. 

A wave of emotion washed over him, saturating his skin, seeping into his pores.  The feeling grew more intense with every moment she played.  He felt like he was standing on the deck of a ship, rolling gently at sea -- subconsciously rocking first to the left, then to the right.  The motion was unavoidable.  He felt lightheaded, short of oxygen. 
Breathe, Max, breathe
.  It was a glorious journey that began with the very first note and ended only when the last string was silent.  All too soon the music stopped, the boat was moored, and the last note dissipated into the warm air. 

Erika turned in her seat to thunderous applause from her young audience.  He saw her reach out and muss the hair of a child in the front row.  The children then rose and engulfed her.  Max could only see the top of her head now.  He walked to the side and stood in a niche a few feet away.

As the crowd thinned, everyone gathering on the floor of an adjoining room where a storyteller had already begun to read out loud, Max moved toward her, approaching directly from behind.  When the last child was led away by his mother, Max stepped up close.

“Hello, Max,” Erika said, her back toward him as she watched child and parent depart.

“Ms. Morgan,” he said, sitting on the bench next to her.  He sniffed the air.  “God, I’d forgotten that smell.  You still smell the same.”

“That’s a great opening line after twenty-four years, Max, especially for a professional writer.  And the last name is Hightower, not Morgan.  Not anymore.”

She felt him lean into her shoulder blades until his lips brushed her sweater.  “What is that?” he asked.

“It’s called perfume, Max.”

“I haven’t smelled that scent since the last time I ... we ... well, we were together.”

“You actually remember?” She turned and studied his face.  “I don’t.” 
Liar.

“Yeah, I remember.  I remember the last time ... and the first.”

She closed the lid over the piano keys.  “That’s good, Max.  Ever the romantic, weren’t you?  Now it’s all coming back to me.”

“Erika, I don’t want this to be difficult.”  He stood and stepped away.  “I think I need your help.”

“To do what, Max?” 
And why now?  Don’t you know how painful this is?

“I’m not sure.  I’ve been operating on instincts for about a week now, but what brought me here has been going on longer than that ... a year or more.  At first, I didn’t want to come back, but it might be working.”

She spun around on the seat to face him.  “What are you talking about, Max?”
Oh my god, you look so good.

“My life has been a bit ... well, empty for a while.”
She watched as he picked up a volume of
The Velveteen Rabbit
, then a book by R.L. Stine, and mindlessly thumbed the pages.

Welcome to my world.
  “And you think coming back to Cottonwood will fix your empty life?”

“I don’t know.  I was happy once ... when I was here ... when we were together.”
              “Give me a break!” Erika stood and began to collect her notes, snapping the music folders under her arm.  “You weren’t happy when you lived here.  Whatever your feelings about me … about us … back then, it wasn't enough for you.  That’s why you left.  Remember?  And I can’t believe that after all these years, you’ve come to the realization suddenly that you were only happy when we were together.  It’s not logical.” 
Don’t cry.  Don’t let him see you cry.  He’ll know you’ve never forgotten him.

“What do you think’s happening to me?”

“Mid-life crisis,” she told him.

“That’s what Doris said.”

“Listen to her.”  Erika began to walk away.

“Erika, I’ve been nervous about this moment.  Maybe talking to you … seeing you again … isn’t the answer, but I’m short on ideas.  Seeing you now, and hearing you play, are enough to bring more of my emotions to the surface than I’ve felt in a long time.  I’m looking for keys … that I lost years ago … that might unlock whatever is missing in my life.”

“I don’t have your lost keys, Max,” she said over her shoulder.

“Your playing was incredible, as usual,” he called after her.  “You look wonderful, too.”

She turned to face him.  “What the hell do you want, Max?”

“I’m not sure.”

She walked up close to him, then. 
Not too close
, she cautioned herself. “Did you come all the way back here, after all these years, to find me?”

“No,” he told her.  “I came all the way back here after all these years to find myself.”

She studied his eyes; his intense stare, and knew in an instant that the well of feelings she had for Max so long ago were there between them suddenly just waiting to overflow.  The moment was too much for her; too many conflicting emotions were swirling around her.  She had to leave.

“Let me save you some time.  You’re not going to find him here.  He left a long time ago.”  She began
again to walk away.  “There’s nothing left of Max Rosen in Cottonwood.”

“Except you, Erika Morgan!” he called out to her.

“She’s not here anymore either, Max.  She left the same time you did,” she said, scared that her voice would crack and he’d know that she was crying.  She didn’t dare look back.

Chapter 16 - Max

Max drove the truck to the ranch, but no one was there.  He thought it safe to leave Donny’s keys in the ignition – who’d be desperate enough to steal it, he reasoned – and took his Jaguar back into town.

“Smooth, Max.  Charmed her right out of her pantyhose didn’t you,” he said into the mirror behind the bar.  Max was alone ... somewhere ... recalling his meeting with Erika.  He was swimming in self-pity,
he knew, but in his present state of mind he thought it justified.  “Where am I?” he asked the bartender.

“You’re at
Lalo’s
,” she told him.

“
Lalo’s
.  Great.” Max had spent the past hour chasing draft beer with sips of Courvosiere.  “Another, please.”  He moved his empty glass forward on the counter.

“This one could get expensive,” she told him.

“Why’s that?”

“When you wreck that Jaguar of yours, because you can’t drive a straight line.”

“Oh, I get it.  That’s a good one.  Yes, good joke.  Okay, I’ll pay.  Just put it on the bar.” She stared at him.  “Pretty please.”

“It’s your Jaguar and your life, Mister.”

“Yeah, that’s the problem,” Max said, taking a sip of Courvosiere.

             
“Buy me a drink, Cowboy?” Max turned to see Doris, sitting on the stool next to him.

             
“Where’d you come from?” he asked, then forgot he’d asked the question.  “Tell me something, Doris.”  He leaned in close to her.  “What is it with all the pet names?  I’ve been called ‘Cowboy’ and ‘Tonto’ and even ‘Dale Evans’ once.  How’d you find me?”

“Oh, it wasn’t hard.  For one thing, not many in Cottonwood drive limited edition Jaguar convertibles.  For another
, and you’re not going to like this, Max, but I reasoned you finally had your meeting with Erika and like your old man when you’re in a foul mood you come to a bar.”

“So, you found me because you thought I’d react like Pop?  I don’t drink...” he burped, “... Doris.”

“Well, you seeing Erika after all these years when your emotions are obviously right out on the edge of Apache cliff, I thought you’d behave like Nathan.  And you know what?  You did.”  She rubbed his back.  It felt good, he thought.

“Donny said something about you losing the
, the, the … land.  What did he mean?”

“I’m not going to lose the land, Max.”

“Good.  Have a drink then?  We’ll celebrate you not losing the land.”  He motioned for the pretty bartender and winked at her.

“Thanks, but I have some errands to run.  I’ll come back to pick you up, though.  Promise me you’ll stay away from the Jaguar.”

“Okay.”  He held three fingers in the air in a Boy Scout salute of sincerity.

“In fact, give me the keys, and w
hen you’re ready to leave, tell Nicole, and she’ll call me on my cell phone.”