Now, I had a job here and prospects, including a new little
sports car I called The Green Angel. And, speaking of angels, I had a steady
girlfriend who seemed, when the planets were all aligned, to like me. San
Francisco seemed far, far away. There was this safe harbor, though, that I
couldn’t seem to reach, no matter which way I tacked.
In short, I wanted to drop anchor, but the shoals were
rocky, the distant ports were many, and the lure of Bougainville blossoms on
the ears of South Sea maidens still haunted my dreams. Male insecurities generate
a lot of indecisiveness in life.
There wasn’t anything I could do about it that morning, so I
filled a thermos with coffee, grabbed an empty cup, and wandered down by the
little white church that backed upon the Arkansas River. As I eased around the
building, the Sunday morning music started. The mysterious guitar player kicked
off a version of “I’ll Fly Away.” I stopped and listened.
In a moment, I eased down the trail and found my seat on the
“Big Rock” overlooking the river. Several more hymns filled the air, then
voices. My mind drifted away with the river and I lost myself in wondering why life
was never as simple as I had thought it might be.
I finished the thermos of coffee there, as confused with the
last of it as I had been with the first. I rose, nodded to the river, and
started back to my apartment. As I walked along the church, I heard the faint but
familiar sounds of a sermon being finished. With “every head bowed and every
eye closed,” I heard that old exhortation that had been such a part of my
youth.
Then the strangest thing happened. The guitar player began his
thing. I couldn’t believe it but a familiar tune eased through the walls of
that little building and out to where I stood. I knew it immediately, even before
the congregation started in with “Oh, Why Not Tonight?”
Crap. I hastened on, thermos and cup in hand and confusion
in mind.
Later, I drove to the office and pretended to work. Deciding
I needed to straighten out my life, I drove home and spent the afternoon cleaning
my apartment. I would clean awhile and look out the window.
No Brenda.
Then I took a leisurely walk to the dumpster.
No Brenda.
As I walked by my neighbor’s apartment, she walked to the screen
door, fastening her bra, and looked through at me. She just made a “Harrumph,”
sound and turned away.
I finished cleaning and took a nap. Sometime late in the
afternoon, I heard the familiar scratch on my window screen. I jumped up.
Brenda.
She stood at my door in fading daylight, her long hair
shining brighter than I had ever seen it. She had applied makeup. Unusual …
she was a person who was as beautiful without makeup as she was with it, I thought. She
wore her favorite yellow shirt, the one that matched her hair so well. She had on loose
fitting jeans and tennis shoes with white socks.
“I’m bored,” she said. “Been cleaning all day and
straightening up things. Take me for a ride.”
I thought, “You just walk up, after ignoring me all day, and
start making demands? Just who the hell do you think you are?”
I said, “Okay.”
We started out Cantrell and I didn’t say a lot. Neither did
she. I broke first. “Talk to your folks today?” I said.
“Yeah.”
“And?”
“They are fine. Went to church. You talk to yours?”
“Yeah.”
“How are they?”
“They asked about you.”
“Oh? Asked what?”
“How you were.”
“And?”
“I told them you were fine.”
“And?”
“That I would tell you they said ‘hello.’”
This line of sparkling conversation occupied us until we
reached the entrance to Walton Heights subdivision. I turned and followed the twisting
path to Rivercrest Drive. There, I turned left and followed it to where it
ended with a magnificent view of the sun beginning to set over the Arkansas
River Valley and Pinnacle Mountain. I parked my car and we got out.
The view was particularly enchanting that evening. The
darkness enclosed us as if making a safe and special spot. We leaned against
the car and watched. She took my hand. That emboldened me.
“Brenda,” I said.
“What?” she said. For a second or two, I feared I had spoiled this precious
moment for her by intruding upon the silence.
I thought, “What the hell?”
I said, “I know we haven’t known one another that long, and
I know I might not be the best catch in the world, and I know you could do
better, but I was just wondering if you might marry me?
It just doesn’t get any more romantic than that, does it?
She turned her face away from the view and looked at me. The
setting sun made it glow. I would have jumped over the drop-off into the sunset
had she asked me to. Instead, she said, “I don’t even have to think about it.”
“I don’t even have to think about it?” That wasn’t an
answer. I looked her in the eyes for a clue.
“Yes,” she said.
“Yes, I will.”
“Yes.”
 |
| Marry a farmer's daughter? Why not? |
No comments:
Post a Comment