The Weight of Gravity (8 page)

Fifteen minutes later, he turned onto Elder and drove to the end of the block, passin
g half a dozen cars and twice as many duel-axle trucks before he found a place to park. 
Is one of them hers
, he wondered --
the Beamer, the Lexus maybe?
  The granite and brick exterior was the same, but it belied the contemporary decor inside.  This had been his favorite hang out.  From childhood, he loved the smell of new books and the glossy, colorful jackets of new fiction.  It was always a joy to roam the neatly stacked paperbacks and magazine racks.  He also loved to thumb through newspapers from exotic locations like New York, Chicago, and Los Angeles.

He took a deep breath and walked in.  Decorative glitz and cardboard promotional displays were everywhere.  A gourmet coffee counter with six high-top tables and stools had replaced the newspaper and magazine racks.  Overstuffed chairs were tucked in
to corners between the racks of books, CD and DVDs.  It was a clone of the upscale bookstores he frequented in New York and LA.

“Do you have a music time f
or children?” he asked a sallow-faced teenage girl at the counter.  He didn’t mind the navel ring, but didn’t see the attraction in the way her baby fat hung over the top of her jean shorts.  She kept bouncing her tummy against the register.

“Sure.  Back there,” she said, pointing toward the rear of the store.  “That’s our Kid’s Korner.  We spell it with a ‘K,’ see?”

“Got it.  When’s the next show?” he asked.

“How many kids ya got?” she asked, looking behind Max.

“I don’t have kids.  Just looking for a friend.”

“Oh, I get it,” she said, smiling.  Max was sure she didn’t.

“Great.  Let’s try again.  When is your next piano concert for kids?” he asked.

“Three-thirty.”  The smile was forced, as if she mouthed “cheese” and was waiting for the click of the camera.

“Wonderful.”

“Monday,” she said.  “We don’t have the piano lady on Saturday … just Mondays and Thursdays, and sometimes Sunday afternoon, but not tomorrow.”

“Thank you.”  It was looking less likely he’d see Erika today. 
What the hell, I can wait.
  He ordered coffee and set out to see how prominently his own novels were displayed.  His work wasn’t in the short stack of “Local Authors,” but that wasn’t surprising considering he left Cottonwood a long time ago.  And he wasn’t among the “New Fiction” or “Best Sellers,” because he hadn’t written or published anything new in over a year.  There were several paperback copies of
Photoplasm
and
Veritas
, and one hardback edition of
Principle Keeper
.  The resemblance to the New York and LA bookshops was complete.

Max sat in a leather chair at the end of the aisle on “Contemporary Fiction, M through Q” and sipped his latte.  At one point, an attractive, dark-complexioned woman with curly hair came down the aisle, and his heart stopped, but he quickly realized it wasn’t her.  A half hour later he left for the ranch.

“Fox & Hound.  Com’on, I’ll take you.”

Doris was encouraging him to meet his friends at the club, but Max was exhausted from the daylong roller coaster ride of emotions.  He wanted to go to bed and read.  Now that he was here, so close to his goal, the second-thought monkeys that plagued him from the beginning were climbing up his back.  If he didn’t see and speak to Erika soon, he would hit the road for another twenty-four years.  It was his nature.

Regardless
of how he felt, it was easier and more fun to say, “I haven’t dated anyone for nearly a year, so let’s go dancing, Woman!”

Max dressed in a sport coat over a collarless, short-sl
eeved knit sweater, with a puka necklace -- very southern California.  Doris wore a full-length black skirt, a rainbow colored long-sleeved blouse with mother-of-pearl buttons -- very Loretta Lynn.

Doris ran her hands over the soft leather interior of the Jaguar as Ma
x lowered the roof.  She giggled when he turned onto the highway and raced through the gears until they hit eighty miles per hour.  Her hands were now holding her hair tight against her neck. 

"Do you want me to raise the top?"

"Don't you dare.  I'm loving this!"

Max swore he heard music before they turned off the highway.  This did not promise to be an enjoyable evening.  He hated most social gatherings, and all parties with more than six people.

The parking lot was absurdly jammed, but there was valet service.  Inside the club was more congested than the parking lot.  People were standing four deep at the bar, congregating at the counters surrounding the dance floor, or dancing.  There didn’t appear to be anywhere to sit.  Doris and Max shouldered their way through the room, toward the largest bar at the opposite end of the club.  She stopped along the way to greet friends, but mercifully refrained from introducing Max.  He continued on and got in line at the bar.  He envied the bartenders, who had plenty of room to move around behind the counter.  An attractive blond bartender caught his eye through the masses and smiled.  She wore a white leather mini-skirt and low-cut, sleeveless top.  She was showing more skin than fabric.  She turned to her associate, another attractive bartender, and pointed at Max. 
Damn it!
 
Please don’t point me out in this crowd.
 

White leather motioned for Max to approach the counter.  He squeezed through bodies until only the bar separated them. 
“What do you call that necklace you’re wearin’?”

“They’re puka shells,” he told her.  “Very Hawaiian.”

“Well, aloha, then.  Tell me something,” she shouted over the din.  “Aren’t you Nathan Rosen’s kid?”

“I think his kid grew up a long time ago.”
Old joke.
  “Why do you ask?” Max shouted back.

“You look like the old man!”

“Really?  How would you know?” he asked, and she smiled.  “Wait, don’t tell me.”

“Nah, wasn’t like that.  I was a waitress at the truck stop diner a few years back.  He always sat at my table.  I knew your daddy, but not that way.”

“I’ll bet.”

“No, see he always tipped me well.  Gave me a hundred dollars once.”

“And you gave him great service, right?” Max said.

She motioned for Max to come closer.  He leaned in, and she did the same, and then slapped him hard across the face.  The crowd immediately to his left and right laughed, but quickly went back to their drinking and conversation.
 
Obviously, waitresses slapping patrons happened often in the Fox and Hound
, he thought.

“That’s because your daddy was a good man and he’s not here to do it himself.  Don’t be a prick, Mr. Rosen.”  She leaned back and began mixing drinks.  “What would you like to drink? First one’s on me.”

“Not sure I’m safe drinking something you mix for me,” he said, rubbing his cheek.

“Ah, come on. 
Relax your puka shells.  I was just letting you know you went over the line.  Have a drink and loosen up.”  She turned around and began drawing a draft.  “Here,” she shouted over her shoulder.  “Let me start you with a beer.”  She placed the glass in front of Max.

“Thanks,” he said, and turned back into the crowd searching for Doris.  He found her with a group at a table next to the dance floor.  When he approached, she motioned for him to sit.  There were two couples sitting with Doris, and an unattached, attractive woman dressed in a red leather jacket with fringe across her shoulders and bust line.  Max was sure her jeans – cuffs tucked inside red cowboy boots -- were so tight they’d never come off in one piece.  She was staring at the dance floor with a cigarette perched between fingers that were doing double duty pulling on the fringe.  She had a drink in the other hand.

“Max, that there is Jolene and Carl,” Doris said, pointing at the first couple.

“Hey, Max,” Jolene said, waving her fingers at him.

“Henry and Janet, next to them,” Doris continued.  “And the fashion queen at the end of the table there is Jackie.”  In one fluid movement, with her stare locked on the dance floor, the woman in red finger-waved, took a draw on her cigarette, and went back to pulling fringe.

“Jackie ain’t much for words,” Jolene said, “but she’s a hell of a boot scooter.

“Boot scooter?” Max asked, thinking it had something to do with her fashion prowess.

“Hell of a dancer,” Carl explained.

The music changed to a soulful ballad about a man going home to visit his dying father. 
Perfect
, Max thought.

“Come on, son.  Time we did some buckle polishing.” 

Damn, this place is a writer’s dream
, he thought, as Doris grabbed his arm and pulled him onto the dance floor.  He was learning a whole new language.  “Doris, I’m not much of a dancer, especially country.”

“No problem.  I’ll take the lead,” she said, pulling him close. 

They joined the traffic of dancers.  It seemed choreographed to Max, with lots of variation on the same theme and everyone moving counter clockwise.  He was grateful Doris kept it simple; a straight-line, two-step shuffle.

“Don’t look now, Cowboy, but the object of your affection just came through the door,” Doris whispered in his ear.

Max was moving backward.  With his concentration broken, he lost balance and fell to the floor.  He’d suddenly become a large boulder parting the waters in the middle of a stream of dancers.  Doris helped him to his feet.

“Don’t take much to get you drunk, does it?  I’m cutting you off.”

“I’m not drunk.”

“I know, Hon. Didn’t mean to shake you up like that,” she said over her shoulder as they walked back to the table.

Max nonchalantly scanned the crowd, but all he saw was a sea of coifed hair and cowboy hats.  It had been too long, he thought, annoyed with his inability to find her.  His mental photograph was of a seventeen year old Erika.  He began to concentrate on finding someone with the physical attributes not likely to have been altered in twenty plus years; curly auburn hair, delicate square shoulders and arms, piercing green eyes.  No one came close to what he remembered of her.

Doris leaned forward and rested her arms on the back of Max’s chair.  “By the bar, to your left,” she whispered.

Max turned.  At first it was more hair and hats, but then he saw her.  Her back was to him, and she was at least fifty feet away, but he knew it was Erika.  Her hair was shorter, less curly, but full and smartly styled.  She was dressed in a lacy cotton blouse and designer jeans.  She and the people around her were more fashionably dressed than anyone else in the club.  Their clothes and demeanor set them apart.  This was the jet-set crowd of Cottonwood, if there was such a thing, Max imagined.

Her gestures were animated. Max watched as she laughed and turned side-to-side in conversation with her companions.  She never turned completely around, so that he could see her full face.  He was watching when her group began moving toward the door.

“Better get going, Tonto,” Doris urged, nudging his shoulder.

Max stood and moved in Erika’s direction.  He struggled to make headway through the crowd, but it looked promising he could catch her if he cut a path diagonally toward the door.  When he closed within fifteen feet of his goal, Max thought about calling out to her, but decided to simply touch her shoulder, and let Erika turn to see him standing there.

“Let’s dance, Mr. Writer Man.”  Max had no idea how Jackie came to stand directly in his path, blocking his progress to reach Erika.  “Come on, show me how they boogie in the big city.”  Over Jackie’s shoulder, Max saw Erika and her friends disappear through the door.  “What?  You don’t find me attractive?” Jackie was so close Max could smell the stale odor of alcohol and nicotine.

“Look, I’m not much of a dancer,” he told her, his eyes still on the door.

“I’m not interested in dancing anymore either.  Wanna go somewhere private?” she asked, taking his face in her hands, forcing him to look into her eyes.

“I’m sure that’d be fun, but I was thinking about calling it a night,” Max said.

“Exactly!  My place it is.  Let me get my purse.”

Max followed her back to the table.  She stumbled over her chair before sitting down to stuff a cigarette
case and lighter into her fringed red leather bag. 

Max turned to Doris.  “Here,” he said, handing her keys to the Jaguar.  “I know you want to drive it.  Distract Jackie there for a few minutes while I catch a cab, and then make some excuse when she goes looking for me.

“Excuse?”

“Yeah.  Tell her I had too much to drink and I’m praying to the porcelain god in the Hombre room,” Max told her.

“You are a writer, aren’t you?” Doris said.  “But that’s no good.  You wouldn’t be the first cowboy Jackie chased into that men’s room.”

“Then make up something, anything.  I’m not going home with Jackie.”

“See you later, Son.  Be careful.”  She kissed his cheek.

“Thanks, Mom.” 
With Jackie distracted and turned away from him, Max headed for the door.