[10]
Galveston, 1972
In 1972, with the money she’d earned at Roger’s Gourmet Pork ’n’ Beans, Abigail bought a yellow Vega hatchback. She and Buckley packed it with their scant belongings, mostly clothes, but Abigail also took the electric griddle because she’d bought that too with her money from Roger’s. She packed her diaries—five total—and her photo album.
It was mid-August, and so hot in Mont Blanc that the red clay roads, dusty and cracked in the sun, were bleached pink and seemed to want to give way, to split open and swallow the pair. Buckley feared it could happen. How could it be possible to leave this place? He’d packed nothing but his clothes, and if it weren’t for necessity, he would’ve left them behind too. He didn’t want anything reminding him of Mont Blanc.
It was a Tuesday. The reverend was at the Holy Redeemer Church, and Winter was in town at her friend Violet’s house. Violet had recently lost her cat, Twinkle, and as a result she refused to eat. Winter had baked Violet a pie. Winter didn’t like cats, and it seemed ridiculous that anyone should carry on so, refusing to eat over a missing cat, but Winter believed in charity. She could count this visit as a good deed. Since the reverend had married her only daughter and moved into her home, she thought more on good deeds and heaven, and what it might take to enter heaven if heaven was a real option. What did she have to lose? An hour baking a pie. A morning listening to Violet’s woeful kitty-cat tale. It was worth it.
Winter was already an hour at Violet’s when Abigail and Buckley left Mont Blanc. The Vega had no seat belts, but it did have a radio, and as Abigail and Buckley drove west on I-40, Abigail turned up the song “A Horse with No Name.” She smiled. “We’re going to see the ocean!”
When Buckley was older, he would remember the brown vinyl interior of the little car, the yellow foam bunching out of his mother’s seat where the vinyl was torn, the cigarette burn on the dashboard, the song lyrics “I’ve been through the desert on a horse with no name,” and the skin hanging from his mother’s right arm. It was too much to hope that things would turn out right for them. But now he was hopeful, imagining a blue ocean. Counting cars and splintered mailboxes. Wondering about his new school. Would he keep his name Buckley or change it to something cool like Keith or Cliff?
As they drove farther away from Mont Blanc, Abigail wrestled with whether or not she was doing the right thing. Would Buckley be all right? Would she be all right? Was it possible to start life over? She’d never been anywhere.
When they crossed the state line into Oklahoma, Buckley sighed. The radio newsman said, “The last American combat ground troops are leaving Vietnam.”
Abigail said, “About time.”
“Do you think we’ll live near the ocean?”
“That’s the idea. You can’t help but live near the ocean there. It’s an island. Did you know that the man who invented condensed milk, something Borden, was one of the found ers?”
“Who likes condensed milk?”
“I think it’ll be a nice place. There’s the ocean and it’s an island, and—”
“Who told you that? About the milk?”
“I read it in the encyclopedia.”
“Are you going to be able to get a job? Where are we going to live?”
“Oh, honey, don’t worry so much. I already have a job. Sandy Burkhaulter’s sister Jeanette lives in Galveston. She owns a restaurant, and she told Sandy she could use an extra hand. Everything’s going to be okay.”
It was hard to believe, but he wanted to believe. The farther south they drove, the dusty wind tangling his brown hair, the oppressive heat rising up through the Vega’s floorboard, the more animated he became. The more questions he had. Each time they stopped for gas, Abigail added a quart of oil, and the little Vega didn’t want to start. But Abigail pleaded, “You can do it. I know you can,” and as luck or fate or God would have it, the car started.
Before falling asleep, Buckley thought about starting over. He thought about being one of the cool kids. He could reinvent himself. He could be any kind of boy he wanted. He’d learn about the sea. He’d learn to swim. He’d get a tan and the red bumps on his face would disappear, and he’d let his hair grow longer because girls liked long hair and boys thought it was cool. Maybe he’d wear a headband.
He slept grinning. Abigail drove across the state line into Texas, and when she saw the billboard WELCOME TO TEXAS, HOME OF THE DALLAS COWBOYS, she too grinned. The next billboard was shaped like a ten-gallon cowboy hat, and the one after that was a red, orange, and green sombrero. It read MEXICO IS CLOSER THAN YOU THINK. The billboard for Roy’s Steak house had a smiling cow, its tail oscillating in the heat. Abigail was having fun. Then the billboards were gone and there was more road. More heat. Three hundred miles of I-45 South leading her closer to Galveston. Abigail couldn’t find a radio station. She tried to picture the ocean. Could it be as beautiful as she’d always imagined? Her father had seen the ocean. He’d said, “Sometimes it’s green and calm. Sometimes blue and gentle. Other times she’s spitting and gray. Stormy. The sand gets into everything. It’s gritty between your toes, letting you know you’re alive. I’ll never understand a person who walks the beach in shoes.”
She’d told him, “I wouldn’t.”
“At night,” he said, “the sand is cool, and the water serenades the moon.”
Oh, he told stories. “The water doesn’t sing, Daddy.”
She felt as if he were with them now. He’d be proud. She should’ve made this move sooner, but her dad always said, “You don’t step up to the plate until you’re ready to swing.” Boy, she was swinging now. She’d better keep her eye on the ball.
When Buckley awoke, they were pulling into the driveway of a small house on Sealy Street. Abigail cut the ignition. “We’re here.” Buckley looked at his mother, at the sleeveless canary yellow blouse she wore, at the pinkish white skin hanging off her arms, and hoped she’d put on a jacket or a long-sleeved shirt. It was hard to look at all that empty skin. He personally didn’t mind. Of course not. But he worried what others would think. Abigail stood in the driveway and said, “You coming?” She hadn’t put on a jacket.
“Where are we? Is this house ours?” It was a three-story row house fronted with two columns and a wide porch. The house was painted lavender with white shutters. There was a red swing on the front porch, and seven pots of ivy hung from the lintel. Their vines curtained part of the front door, which was painted eggplant.
Buckley rubbed at his eyes. The wind had knotted his hair on the right side, and the hair on the left side was greasy and matted. As they stood waiting on the front porch, Buckley noticed the tiny hearts cut from the corners of the white shutters. He thought about the story of Hansel and Gretel. This place was like a gingerbread house. He moved an ivy leaf off his shoulder and yawned. Abigail said, “Smile.”
Mrs. Joan Holt opened the door. She was an old woman with downy snowflake hair worn loosely in a bun. Around her eyes were deep crow’s-feet. She had smile wrinkles too. “You must be Abigail.” Buckley looked again at his mother’s uncovered arms, grateful that she hadn’t worn shorts.
“This is Buckley,” Abigail said.
“Hello, young man. Come in, come in.”
“What about our stuff, Mom?”
“I’m just making lemonade,” Joan Holt said.
“We’ll get our things later.”
“Where’s the ocean?” Buckley asked.
“Five blocks that-a-way.” Joan Holt pointed.
“I can’t wait to see the ocean.”
Abigail smiled at Joan Holt, who poured lemonade from a clear pitcher into three blue-tinted glasses in the dim light of the kitchen. The window-unit air conditioner buzzed and surged.
“Did you drive straight through?”
“We did,” Abigail said.
“Did you have a good trip?”
“We did.”
“Well, let’s get a few things straight now,” she said. “I know from Jeanette Burkhaulter that you know Sandy Burkhaulter, and that you probably don’t have a lot of money saved. Don’t worry. You ought to make good money at Jeanette’s—not so good in the winter, but when school’s out, you’ll rake in the bucks. I am not one to believe charity is a bad thing. I am for charity. I am not for pride. If you’ve come here with too much pride, know that I will wear you down. My house is your house. I have heard kind things about both of you, and I won’t have you running off or crying if you’re short on rent one month. Another thing: I am old and lonely and done with eating by myself. I enjoy cooking, and I hope that we can have our meals together like a family. If you prefer not, I understand.”
“Oh, no,” Abigail said. “That’ll be lovely.”
“Can we see the ocean now?” Buckley asked.
“Another thing: call me Joan.”
“If it’s just five blocks, can I walk to the ocean?”
“After we bring our things inside and get settled.”
“But Mom …” Buckley chugged his lemonade. He was ready to see the ocean now. The glass, perspiring and slick, slipped between his thumb and forefinger, shattering on the green tiled floor.
Joan Holt wiped a splash of lemonade off her cheek. “Well, now you’ve done it. You’ve really gone and done it.”
“I’m so sorry, ma’am. I’m sorry.”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Holt,” Abigail said. “Do you have a towel? I’ll clean it up.”
“For the love of Jesus, I’m just joshing you. I’ll get the mop.”
Abigail searched the counter for a rag, and Buckley picked up large shards of tinted blue glass.
“I’m sorry, Mom. It slipped,” he said.
“It was an accident.”
Joan came back with a broom and a mop. “Excuse me,” she said to Buckley. She nudged him in the thigh with the broom. He couldn’t help but notice her breasts through the sheer cotton blouse she wore, how they hung the way his mother’s skin hung. He watched her sweep, her breasts lolling back and forth, how he imagined the women’s boobs in National Geographic probably lolled. She said, “There’s a good picture show this weekend. Diamonds Are Forever. Have you seen it?”
Abigail said, “No, ma’am.”
Buckley realized that Joan Holt probably hadn’t even noticed his mother’s sagging skin. He felt ashamed for noticing her saggy breasts. It wasn’t as if he was excited by them. It was just that his grandmother and all the grown women he knew had always worn brassieres.
Joan swept and Buckley mopped. He said, “I’m sorry for breaking your glass.”
“There’s nothing to be sorry about. Accidents happen.” Her breasts swung back and forth.
Abigail wasn’t sure what word she might use to describe Joan Holt: maybe screwball. But she sure was nice.
“Can we go to the ocean?” Buckley asked.
“Let’s go,” Joan said. “I haven’t had my exercise yet.” To Abigail, she said, “Come with us. There’s always work to be done. It doesn’t go anywhere.”
There’s no point in describing what they felt. If you remember seeing the ocean for the first time, you know what they felt, and if you don’t remember, try to remember. It’ll come back to you. If you’ve never seen the ocean, board a plane, train, bus, or car and go now, today. If you’ve seen the ocean and walked a sandy beach or rocky cliff, you’ll be familiar with the ocean’s powers, how it washes things away, how it erodes minerals, shells, and glass, reducing them to sand. The ocean also erodes the past, and already, with Buckley’s bare feet and toes digging into wet sand, the water lapping up to his waist, he forgot, albeit briefly, the pea green cinder-block house, the book of Job, Reverend Whitehouse, Winter, and the bullies at Mont Blanc middle school.
Abigail worked at Jeanette’s Pier Restaurant at Stewart Beach Park. In the mornings, she served eggs sunny-side up, scrambled, or fried, with toasted Wonder Bread and gold packets of margarine. She served pancakes and sausage links, and every few minutes, slipping her pen and order pad in her apron pocket, she looked up to see the green waves sweep white and foamy across the gold sand. Mesmerized and daydreaming, sometimes she forgot the customers sitting, eating the food she’d just set before them, and Jeanette would call to her, “I think they got it, honey,” meaning, Back away from the table and let them eat in peace.
At lunch and in the afternoons, Abigail served Jeanette’s specials, her meat loaf, mostly, and the catch of the day, bottles of Budweiser, and greasy french fries. When it was slow, she watched surfboarders paddle through the breaking waves. She was in awe of them, these boys walking on water. These boys in their bright swim trunks swallowed by the waves, only to reappear and paddle out again.
Jeanette’s Pier Restaurant had two sections, Sec One and Sec Two. “It’s not very original,” Jeanette had said on Abigail’s first day. “Sec One’s in here.” And then, pointing, “Sec Two’s out there.” Sec One was the area connected directly to the pier. Entering Sec One, there was a beige sign with brown lettering that read PLEASE WAIT TO BE SEATED, but no one did. There was a bar with six stools, the cash register, and eight tabletops. Sec Two, on the other hand, was basically outside, so there was a lot of room and a lot of salty air.
Sec Two extended out over the dune. Exposed to the elements, the cedar walls only reached as high as the tabletops. The rest of the walls were rectangular frames stretched with metallic screens. The ocean was never out of sight. There were wooden shutters to protect the restaurant when storms blew through, but most of the time Abigail kept the shutters open. Like Abigail, her customers wanted to feel the salty air. Sec Two was her Sec. She had picked it even though Jeanette had warned her that the tips weren’t as good: “The locals don’t give a lick about listening to or staring at the ocean in this heat. Most of them is bored of it, and some of them are the best tippers.”
Jeanette explained that there were a lot of tourist folks and teenagers in Sec Two who just wanted to sit, have a beer and a plate of conch fritters, and watch the waves curl and lick the sand. Abigail wasn’t concerned. The folks who were new to the ocean were just like her.
After only two days at Jeanette’s, Abigail was happy with her decision. It was never oppressively hot. There was always some breeze blowing off the water, and her customers, their hands on the thin screen between them and the dune, stared out at the waves—just like her.
Abigail met Padraig John McGowan, Galway born and American bred, in Sec Two. Abigail’s new friend Sissy had decided to play matchmaker. Sissy was a full-time political activist. She lobbied for the Equal Rights Amendment, and she was “damn proud,” as she liked to say, that her amendment had finally been sent to the states for ratification. She said, “Five years. No more, no less, and we’ll be guaranteed equality. And I’m part of it. Women make things happen, Abigail. You and me. All of us, and it’s overdue we got a fair shake.” She bragged that she’d met Alice Paul. She told Abigail, “I’m changing the world. It starts with one.”
Abigail was unconcerned with changing the world, but Sissy was extremely entertaining to be around. Like Joan Holt, she didn’t wear a bra. She was brash, and she liked to brag about all the good work she did for the poor, the disenfranchised, and the downtrodden. She herself was disenfranchised, although she claimed her poverty was a personal choice in protest to the corruption that wealth breeds.
Today she was going to help Abigail. “I found a man for you. Because I’m intuitive, I’m skilled at this type of thing. I’ve known him a long time, and after you and I met, I just knew you two should be together.”
“Please tell me you’re kidding.”
“You have to meet him. That’s all I ask.”
“No way. I am done with men.”
“Fine, Abigail,” Sissy said, “but men have to eat too, and I’m not kidding when I say that I’m gifted at matchmaking.”
“Please don’t bring any men in here to meet me. I’m serious.”
“Men have to eat. That’s all I’m saying.”
Two days later, Padraig John sat across from Sissy at one of Abigail’s tables. He had boot black shoulder-length hair and a full mustache. It was October, but ninety-two degrees. He fanned himself with the greasy menu. “I don’t know what I want,” he said when Abigail came to take their order.
“Take your time.”
“Why don’t you sit down?” Sissy said—immediately clueing Abigail in that this was the man she wanted her to meet. He was weathered; his nose angled slightly to the left, as if maybe it’d been broken once or twice.
“I’m working.”
“There’s no one else here.”
“I need to fill the saltshakers.”
Sissy said, “Do it later.”
“Sit,” said Padraig John, still fanning himself. “You’re making me nervous.”
Abigail sat in the rickety plastic chair beside Sissy. She smoothed her green apron over her thighs.
“Sissy tells me you’re new to town.”
Abigail thought, He’s put the menu down. He’s never going to order. I’m going to have to sit and make small talk. “I’m from Arkansas.” How can he order with the menu under his elbow?
“Whereabouts?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Jesus god, Abby,” Sissy said.
“What?”
“It’s a reasonable enough question.”
“Mont Blanc,” Abigail said.
“Never heard of it.”
“No one has.”
“Abigail loves the ocean,” Sissy said. “She’d never seen it until she moved here two months ago. Paddy John loves the ocean too.”
“I have a son named Buckley,” Abigail said. She hoped it would discourage Paddy John. He might order sooner than later. Besides, she liked putting her cards on the table.
“My boy’s name is Tide,” Padraig John said.
“How old is he?”
“Five. He was born when I was over there.”
“Over where?”
Sissy said, “Paddy John was in ’Nam. I thought I told you that.”
“How old is your boy?” Paddy John asked.
“Buckley’s thirteen.”
“Sadly,” Paddy John said, “I’ve only known my boy a year.”
“Your wife must like the ocean to name your son Tide.”
“My wife’s a loony hippie.”
“She’s his ex-wife, and she’s not a loony hippie. She’s a drug addict. There’s nothing wrong with hippies, and there’s everything wrong with drug addicts.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Me too.” Padraig John picked up the menu again and began fanning himself. A bluish-gray seagull flew past close to their window.
Abigail said, “I love birds.”
“I told you Abigail was far out.”
“Are you ready to order?” She hadn’t intended to be “far out.”
Paddy John set the menu back down and rested his head in his hand. “It was nice to meet you. I don’t want to bother you, and I have more baggage than any woman need carry.” He turned to Sissy. “Let’s go.”
“Why?”
“Don’t go,” Abigail said, feeling sorry for the man. “What can I get you?”
Paddy John scanned the menu. “What do you recommend?” While Abigail thought about it, Paddy John said, “Can you do something about that?”
“About what?” Abigail asked, pencil and pad in hand. She was going to recommend the meat loaf. It was spectacular, and he looked like a meat loaf kind of guy. She smiled.
“Can you do anything about the skin hanging at your neck and off your arms?”
“What do you want to order? I have work to do.”
“Jesus god, Paddy. What the fuck’s wrong with you?” Sissy asked.
“It’s a question. I’m asking a question. Is it some kind of disease? I don’t mean any harm.”
Abigail slipped her pad and pencil in her front apron pocket and said, “I don’t have any disease. I lost one hundred and sixty pounds and I didn’t lose the skin. Skin doesn’t miraculously disappear along with the fat when you’ve spent ten years eating macaroni and cheese and Oreos.” She grabbed Sissy and Paddy John’s menus. “I recommend the meat loaf.” A strand of Abigail’s dark hair, red in the light, fell across her eye, and she tucked it behind her ear. “I don’t have all day.”
“I didn’t mean no offense to you. I didn’t know you used to be big. I wouldn’t have known.”
Abigail repeated, “The meat loaf’s on special.”
Padraig John said, “I’ll have a High Life.”
“And you, Sissy? Do you want anything?”
“The same, I guess.”
The beers were not delivered to Sec Two by Abigail, but instead by Jeanette. She slammed both bottles down. “I don’t know you,” she said to Padraig John, “but you, Sissy, with your ‘sisterhood’ mumbo jumbo, ought to think twice before making one of my waitresses, one of my friends, upset.”
Sissy chugged her beer and slunk from Jeanette’s. She hadn’t meant to upset Abigail. She really did have a gift for matchmaking. Her mother had been a matchmaker. It was a real calling. Padraig John told Sissy, “I’m staying.”
“Suit yourself.”
He drank four more beers and ate the meat loaf—as suggested—until Abigail’s shift ended. When she departed, he departed, following her home, keeping his distance, to make sure she was safe.
As Abigail met the locals and breathed in salt spray at Jeanette’s, Buckley and Joan Holt got acquainted. She took him shopping for school clothes at Morton’s department store on Rosenburg Street. (It was their secret. “Don’t tell your mom,” she said. “She’ll try and pay me back.”) As they walked past the palm trees lining the snug street with its shops in pastel pinks, blues, and greens, Joan said, “I didn’t have any children. We didn’t think we wanted any. My husband didn’t think he wanted any, but now he’s dead and it’s just me. You can’t have any grandkids if you don’t have any kids.” She reached for Buckley’s hand.
“I guess not,” Buckley said, stuffing his hands in his jeans’ pockets.
“Where are your grandparents?”
“I only have one. Grandma Winter.”
“Is she good to you?”
“I don’t like her. She’s not like a real grandmother. You know … she’s not nice. She wouldn’t think of spoiling anyone. Spare the rod and spoil the child. That sort of thing.”
Joan pulled a folded paper fan from her purse. Opening it, revealing yellow butterflies, she asked, “Do you like it here?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“What did I tell you?”
“Yes, ma’am, Joan.”
“Just Joan.” Fanning herself, she added, “Maybe I could be your surrogate grandmother.”
“What’s that?”
“A step-in. A replacement, so to speak.”
“If you want.” Buckley frog-jumped over the cracks in the sidewalk.
He couldn’t remember anyone but his mother ever saying “Be careful” to him and meaning it—until now. When he forgot and let his hand fall loose from his pocket, Joan Holt snatched it up. He couldn’t hold hands with an old woman—he was thirteen! But he did anyway.
For the rest of the afternoon, Joan Holt talked about her dead husband, how he had been her best friend in the whole world, practically her only friend. That’s how it was with them. They did everything together. They never got sick of each other. “Well, maybe on occasion,” she said, “and then he got sick, really sick, and I took care of him until the end, until he died. Since then, I’ve been alone. Some days,” she told Buckley, “I don’t want to get out of bed.” She coughed. “After he passed, I wanted to die.”
Buckley said, “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. I understand now that God has His plan. He brought you and your mother to me.”
God? Buckley thought of the reverend and of Job, but he didn’t back-talk. Let people believe what they will. “What was your husband’s name?” Buckley asked.
“Wally. His name was Wally Holt. He was a good man. Wally is short for Wallace. Sometimes I called him Walrus. He would’ve liked you, and you would’ve liked him. He was intelligent and kind, with a sharp wit.”
Buckley squeezed Joan Holt’s hand.
Padraig John was stuffed full on breaded shrimp and beer. He’d been to Jeanette’s every evening for the past three days. When Abigail got off work, he left too. Jeanette told Abigail, “You ought to call the police if he doesn’t leave you alone.” The last thing Abigail wanted to do was file a police report. She was frightened that John Whitehouse and Winter would find them. Tonight, Padraig John followed a few steps behind Abigail. The wind gusted. His boot black hair rose like wings from his part.
“Stop following me!”
“Maybe I live this way.”
She rolled her eyes. “No, you don’t.”
“Does your boy like the ocean?”
She wasn’t saying another word. She was done with men. It was mid-October.
Paddy John kept eating at Jeanette’s. Every so often, he apologized for asking about her skin. “I didn’t mean nothing.”
She nodded and smiled that it was all right but she didn’t have time for his silliness. “Stop following me.”
In mid-November, Paddy John was still following a few paces behind. He took his dinner regularly at Jeanette’s. Clearly, Abigail thought, the man’s got a screw loose. Some nights he ate steak, sometimes shrimp, but always beer. Just like a man, she thought. A worthless, no-good man. He left better-than-average tips—always twenty percent—but that was no reason to talk to him. She was civil in Jeanette’s. Outside the restaurant, she would not speak to him. Then he left a bunch of daisies—her favorite flower—with her tip. Still, she thought he was no good. Then he brought his son Tide to Jeanette’s. He explained to Abigail, “His mom’s not doing so good.” That wasn’t Abigail’s problem.
The boy wrung his hands and stared at his lap. Padraig John said, “There’s nothing to be afraid of. Have some.” Tide prodded his tuna steak with a knife and shook his head no. They sat there, Padraig John eating his fish, telling the boy how good it was. “Do you want something else?”
Tide didn’t speak. He moved his french fries around with a butter knife.
Abigail came to the table with a bowl of ice cream. “When Buckley is sad, ice cream cheers him up.” She smiled at Padraig John.
Padraig John said, “Thank you.”
“We don’t know.”
Abigail sat down beside Tide. She said, “Ice cream is cold so it makes you feel better inside. It’s like medicine. How old are you?”
Padraig John said, “He’s five.”
“I asked Tide, not you.”
Tide picked up the spoon Abigail had brought. She smiled. Stupid! This little boy’s happiness isn’t your responsibility. Padraig John smiled. Tide took a bite. Then another. Then he ate his french fries cold.
“I can get you some new fries,” Abigail offered.
“Can I have more ice cream?”
He ate a second bowl.
Padraig John confided to Abigail, “He doesn’t talk much.”
“His dad makes up for that, I guess.” She cleared away the dishes.
“Tide looks like his mom,” he said.
“He’s got your dark hair,” Abigail said, “and kids switch. He might look like you next year.”
“Does Buckley look like his dad?”
“I don’t remember.” The ocean had kindly eroded her memories of Richard, reducing them to sand.
“I have to take Tide home.”
“It was nice to meet you,” Abigail said.
Tide didn’t speak, but shook her hand.
“He seems smart,” she said.
No one had ever said that to Padraig John about his son.
The next night, Padraig John trailed Abigail again. “I’ll probably give up soon,” he said, “but Sissy said she was sure we’d hit it off. I don’t know how well you know Sissy, but she’s never wrong about a thing like this. She and I went to school together. I don’t know if you know, but she’s psychic.”
Abigail heard his shoes on the sandy road and thought, Your psychic needs to wear a bra. All of Galveston needs to wear a bra. Joan Holt was an old woman and her boobs were like something out of a geriatric Playboy. Abigail could see the woman’s nipples, the size of half-dollars, through her blouse.
Paddy John said, “I don’t guess I’m going to convince you to go out with me.”
You’re not. She turned to him. “Just leave me alone.”
“I don’t know why, but I can’t do it.”
She let her head fall back, her face to the moon. Paddy John stood behind her. Without turning around, she said, “I don’t need a man in my life. I don’t want a man in my life. I am content for the first time in my life.” The moon was full. It was beautiful, and she heard the hush of the ocean. She righted her shoulders, adjusting her purse strap, and said, “Just stop.” Turning to see him, his face pensive, she added, “Please.”
He didn’t say it, but he thought, That’s not what you want. It isn’t. You want to be pursued. You need to be pursued. The next night at Jeanette’s, Paddy John was absent. The following night as well. Abigail even looked for him. On the third night, she received a dozen yellow roses. The note said: Do you know “The Yellow Rose of Texas”? I’d like to play it for you.
Padraig John hadn’t given up, and to quote Sissy, “No living person can give up on love and keep living.” She shook Abigail by the elbows. “I see it. You’re in love!” Abigail stiffened in Sissy’s hippie embrace. “I told you! I told you!”
Abigail freed herself. “I’m not in love.” Her face told a different story. All night, she glanced at those roses, admiring them, their orange and red tips. They were the first roses she’d ever received. That same night, walking home, carrying her flowers, Paddy John walked behind, following the small of her back, her shoulder blades, her dark hair trailing in the wind. She was about to ask him to walk beside her when he said, “I’ve been having bad times. I think you’ve had the same. I get that sense. Sissy says so too.” He paused, thinking what else to say without begging. If she wouldn’t let him take her on a date after tonight, he was throwing in the towel. He’d never bought his ex-wife a dozen roses. Not that it made any difference. He continued, “I always say what I mean. Sometimes to a fault, but that’s who I am. You’ll never have to worry that I’m lying to you or telling you something I don’t mean. Since I got back from over there, I’ve been bad off, and my ex-wife has been bad off for more years than my son’s been alive, and you, Miss Abigail Pitank, give me hope. You are a raven-haired beauty, and I know a little poetry, like Poe, and I know a little music, mostly folk, and I’d like to get to know you—if I haven’t made that clear enough.” He cleared his throat. “I think Sissy’s right about us. I think we were destined to meet. I think we need to know each other.”
No one had ever said anything like that to Abigail. She answered quickly, instinctually: “You’re right.” Rushing to him, the flowers at her side, she kissed him. It felt like her first kiss. She got to experience the flutter of butterflies in her gut. She got to experience warmth brewing and spreading through her legs. She got to experience the things that some of us take for granted. If fireworks had exploded, she wouldn’t have been surprised.
“I like being with you,” he said, “even if it’s just watching you watch the ocean.”
“You don’t have to talk so much.” Abigail grabbed on to his windbreaker. “Kiss me again.”
As he walked her the rest of the way home, she said, “You’re right. I’ve had bad times, and so has Buckley.” She looked at her freckled shins, her brown sneakers. “My skin’s getting better. The doctor says I need to keep exercising.” The wind blew from the south, lifting her hair.
“I was hoping you might have a beer with me?”
A beer? After following me for two months? A beer? “I like beer okay.”
“Or we could get a milk shake?”
“I love milk shakes.”
“And I’ll play ‘The Yellow Rose of Texas’ for you.”
“And I’ll make the milk shakes at my place, and you can invite Buckley, and Tide will be there, and I won’t kiss you until late, and then only if you ask me to.”
“Uh.” She shook her head.
“What’s the matter?”
“You,” she said. “Do you do this to all the girls?”
“First time in my life that I bought any woman roses. I think you bring out the romantic in me.” He crossed his heart.
“I better keep playing hard to get.”
“That’s what I’m trying to tell you: You don’t have to do that with me. You never had to. It’s exhausting.”