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Abbey Sparling. Mrs. Abbey Sparling.
Professor Sparling.
Abbey sat on
a sofa in the women’s room, a refugee from her own reception, running her new
name through her head like a starry-eyed teenager. Anyone in the university
chapel would have predicted the bride as a party girl, the groom as a
shellbound turtle. But Randy was upstairs, regaling the hoi polloi with amusing
stories from their courtship, while Abbey was absolutely burnt out, praying
that the women in the party had strong bladders. They had warned her about this
– the blurring time warps of wedding day, the frustration of twenty-second
conversations constantly interrupted by twenty-second conversations. None of
which went anywhere. To a recent recipient of a Masters in Literature (with a
thesis about Whitman’s influence on the development of American free-verse
poetry), this was maddening! Uh-oh. Ten minutes. Better get back before they
begin the annulment. She took a look at herself in the mirror – still shocked
to find herself in a wedding dress – and set out for the hallway. Standing in
the lobby was Billy, dressed in white tux and tails like an envoy from a Busby
Berkeley musical. She raced his way; he lifted her into the air, as he had
since she was a toddler. At the apex of her flight, she planted a kiss on his
cheek, and he set her back down.
“I hope that
isn’t too hard on your back yet, ‘cause it sure is fun.”
Billy
unleashed his ringing, high-pitched laugh. “Just don’t gain any weight, or I’ll
have to pass those duties on to your husband.”
“I’ll consider
that an incentive. Oh, Billy. Thank you for the songs. I knew you would come up with something brilliant.”
“When the
bride and groom hail from Chicago and Georgia, the choices are fairly obvious.”
“You made me
cry, too. You jerk.”
“I hope to
God you were cryin’ about Georgia.”
That sent
them into a good laugh, followed by an awkward silence. Abbey could guess the
cause. She and Randy were moving to Seattle, which meant she and Billy wouldn’t
be seeing each other for a while. Maybe Thanksgiving. Maybe Christmas. Every
other year. When Billy looked at her again, those intense blue eyes were
misting over.
“Honey. You are, without a doubt, the most beautiful
bride I have ever seen.”
Abbey
wrapped her arms around his neck and held on for a long time.
“Any
requests?”
“You think
they know ‘Someone to Watch Over Me’?”
Billy
snickered. “They want to stay in business, they better.”
She took his
hand and they started up the broad staircase. She felt like an animated Disney
princess.
“Oh!” said
Billy. “I forgot to tell you my news. Frankie won the ticket lottery. I’m going
to the playoffs!”
Abbey
stopped and gave him an excited grin. “The Blues?”
“Game Six. I
tell ya, honey. You gettin’ married and all – this is the year. I can feel it!”
Knowing the
travails of Memphis baseball fans, Abbey thought it best to smile and say
nothing.
David is reading Stephen Ambrose’s
account of Lewis and Clark and is fascinated, as always, by the way the two had
to bribe their way across the continent, ingratiating themselves with the
Indians by giving them beads, tools, tobacco and whiskey. Today he walks the
ocean side of Point Damon with his own offering: an ice-filled Zip-Lock bag
holding two beers, tucked into his backpack. He learned this trick from Elena’s
cousin Esteban, who works a vineyard in California.
The day is
50/50 clouds and sun, with a brisk wind and impressive waves that curl up like
a fist and smack the sand. He keeps a weather eye; he has heard too many
stories about “sneaker waves.” Lately, his life is nothing but sneaker waves, and that’s why he’s here. Perhaps this is
endemic to those who forgo human contact and speak little, but David is
convinced that Billy has some sort of answer for him.
The
driftwood teepee is there, along with the customary plume of smoke. David keeps
to the shore, taking in the carousel, which today is pulling along like an
express train. There has got to be a way,
thinks David, that an extreme sports
athlete could take advantage of a circular current.
He makes a
point of whistling “Take Five” as he approaches, to avoid causing an alarm.
Billy is perched on a log next to the fire, reading a tattered book; he looks
up as if he’s been expecting him.
“You didn’t
bring your bass?”
Already
feeling like a trespasser, David does not immediately recognize this as a joke.
He recovers quickly.
“Couldn’t
find a long-enough extension cord.”
Billy
chuckles and sets down the book. “Pull up a crate.”
David squats
on a red milk crate, sets down his pack and liberates the Zip-Lock. Billy’s
eyes perk up.
“Are those
what I think they are?”
“They are.”
He undoes the seal and hands him a Tecate. Billy pops the top, takes a swallow
and looks like he’s about to cry.
“Have I told
you lately that I love you?”
“Van
Morrison.”
“I sometimes
talk in song titles. So. I imagine you have brought me a question.”
“Really?”
“I don’t
give answers much, so naturally people ask me questions. Also, you’re a history
teacher – and boy do I have a
history. Not that I will tell you the least bit of it.”
“So I
surmised. Tell you what. Give me some of that soup, and I will talk completely
about myself.”
“You realize
you’re taking your life into your hands. A homeless person does not have the best access to fresh
ingredients.”
“But isn’t
that why one makes a soup? To boil
away the nasties?”
“Touché.” He fills a tin cup and
hands it to David. The concoction is just as delicious as it smells, and coats
his mouth with a spicy warmth.
“Now that could get you through an Ocean Shores winter.”
“Abbey found a ridiculously good deal
on curry and gave me half a shitload. I may have to convert to Hindu. You know,
I used to get some ingredients from your son.”
“Really?”
“One of the few who didn’t shoo me
away. In fact, he began making me a special bag of leftover food and leaving it
next to the back door. Sweet kid. Sorry about the holdup.”
David takes another swallow and lets
it soak in. “That was a trauma.”
“You’ve had quite a summer. Losing
your friend, Derek’s poem… Well. I apologize for knowing so much, but I’m sure
you know where I’m getting my info.”
“Yes.”
“She’s very fond of you. She says she
couldn’t have made it without you.”
They fall silent. Billy adds a piece
of kindling to the fire, then slaps his knees.
“So! What’s the question?”
“Well, you’ve got the first part –
this continual shitslide beginning with Larry. But now I find that various
superheroes – my eldest son, my new singer, Parthenia – have swooped in and
spun it all into gold. So what’s my problem? I should be having one hell of a
time!”
Billy cannot resist the obvious move
of rubbing his beard. He drinks the last of his beer and lets out a contented
sigh.
“Tell me two times, this month, when
you were one hundred percent happy.”
“Okay. When the three of us were
playing for that packed floor of dancers. And… last Sunday, when Pablo and I
were up against a tremendous rush.”
“What do the two have in common?”
“Let’s see. Large crowds. A bit of
fear. Um… focus. Full occupation.”
“Lack of thought?”
“No. Lots of thought.”
“But not worry-thought.”
“Being in the moment?”
Billy laughs. “I’m sorry. You’re
right, of course. But God we have
slaughtered that phrase, right along with words like ‘spirituality’ and
‘patriot.’ Absolutely devoid of meaning. However! Here’s the question: if full
and focused occupation is the medicine that’s working for you, where do you
think is another place that you could get some of that?”
David gives it a full effort but
finds himself stumped.
“I got nothin’.”
Billy produces the small miracle of a
grin and holds up two fingers.
“Two words. Soft. Ball.”
Photo by MJV
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