My Redacted Life: Chapter 22 (Cont._2)

“Where the hell have you been?” I never heard such wonderful words. She had noticed I was gone, maybe even missed me, the Redhead had.

She was standing in my living room giving me “the look.” I was just back from a week of working out of town, and she had taken charge.

I gazed in wonder. “Where the hell have you been?” Have you ever heard anything so sweet, Dear Reader?

I was still holding the pair of wind-chimes I had bought. My heart beat and the chimes responded weakly. I laid them on the couch with a non-melodic thump, and asked if she cared to sit. She did. I trembled. “Want a glass of wine?” I asked.

“Are you having one?”

“Sure.”

“A small one.”

I fetched the drinks and sat across from her. “The company,” I said, “sent me to Hope for a week to interview downtown business owners. I had to leave in a hurry.”

“So, you didn’t bother to tell anyone you were going?

“I, uh, didn’t have time to think about it.” Yes, it was a stupid answer, but I was befogged.

“Did you enjoy yourself?”

I saw a trap yawning, ready to close. “The work,” I said, “was interesting. The nights were long and empty. Do you know anything about retail merchants?”

“Do you mind if I smoke?” She reached toward a britches pocket.

“No,” I said, much too eagerly. “No, wait one.”

I rose, fled into the bedroom and returned with the ash tray I had purchased along with the wind-chimes. “Here,” I said. “I bought this just for you.”

She smiled, actually smiled. I didn’t sit. “Need a light?”

“Please.”

I fetched the book of matches I kept in the kitchen, returned, and struck one. She held my hand, lit up, and said, “Thank you.” She leaned back on the couch with the ash tray beside her. She took a puff and exhaled, away from me. “Now,” she said, “tell me about these folks you interviewed.”

An hour later, we were still swapping tells about local characters we had known. I told her about the palsied man who drove an ice cream bicycle in my hometown, who had once been a star athlete before being struck with a strange disease, how his wife had sold tickets at a local movie theater to support them, and how he had been miraculously cured in later years.

She told me stories her father had told her about life in downtown Lonoke in the old days: about the man who stayed in a coal bin all day and tried to lure young boys, about the town bully who kicked over the shoeshine kit of a retarded boy each time he passed, and about how her uncle had broken the rich-kid bully of the practice.

We laughed and drank wine as the sun set over our new city. At the very epitome of good cheer, she said, “I think I’ll go now.”

A great sinkhole opened in my heart. “So soon? “Maybe a drive somewhere tomorrow?”

“Helping Daddy plow his soybean field tomorrow.” Non-committal.

“Maybe later.”

“Maybe.” Still non-committal.

“One more drink?”

She looked at me as if I were a specimen laid out in a dish. “A short one.”

We enjoyed the last drinks as she told me about the intricacies of plowing fields. The conversation lagged at last, and she stood. She looked at the wind-chimes on the couch. Smiling, she reached over and picked them up and held them by their string. “What’s this?” she said.

I thought, “It’s now or never,” I said, “I bought them for you. Thought you might like to hang them on your patio.”

She examined them and held them up. She moved her hand slightly and they made a tentative sound. “Bought them for me?”

The wine emboldened me. “They might not be as romantic as a carton of cigarettes,” I said, immediately regretting it.

I can still see her there
with a doodad in her hair.

She leaned her head to one side and moved toward me, her face less than six inches from mine. “And what did you mean by that?”

“Nothing,” I said. “Don’t pay attention to me. I’m tired, and I’ve had a few drinks.”

“You’re worried about a carton of cigarettes?”

“Oh, no, not really. I just know you might have others in your life.”

She held the wind-chimes at arm’s length and moved them slightly. Their sound was stronger, more melodic, than before.

“Would it help,” she said, “if I told you that you don’t have a thing to worry about?”

Before I could answer, she stepped forward, rose on her tiptoes, and kissed me full in the mouth, her arms encircling me, one hand grasping my neck from behind, and the other holding the gift I had bought for her. I tasted the wine, the cigarette, and something I’d never known before. I smelled the freshness of her hair, and, through closed eyes, saw her face.

Behind me, the wind-chimes rang, making a joyful sound.