The day she told me she was leaving I suppose that I wasn’t all that surprised. Even at the age of thirteen I realized that if there ever had ever been a connection between Chuck and Colleen, it had long been severed. Her laughter was gone. I suppose she went to find it. Right or wrong it didn’t lessen the pain any. I told her that I hated her. I might have even told her that I was glad she was leaving. I’ve always regretted those words and hoped she knew them for the bald-faced lie they were. In my heart I wished that she would take me with her. But she didn’t. And Chuck never left.
Looking back I realize that I spent much of my life seeking Chuck’s approval. But I learned not to expect it. It would be like waiting for a train after its route had been cancelled. I was both amazed by and envious of Allyson’s relationship with her father. What a difference a father can make. Allyson was confident and independent. I was insecure and fearful. To this day I don’t know what drew her to me.
I flew in to Portland, where I waited nearly three hours for a commuter flight to the small Medford airport. My thoughts were bent on Allyson and what I was walking into. I had called from the Portland airport and spoken briefly to her, but she wasn’t herself. It was like talking to a stranger, and from her voice I knew that Carson’s death was very close.
The taxi left me in the dirt-and-rock driveway that led to the Phelps residence. The hills of Ashland were a quilt of color, unlike during my first trip to her home, last Christmas, when all was snow. Though the land was even more spectacular than Allyson had described it, her home was nothing like what I’d expected. It looked as if a trailer had taken root in the fertile Rogue Valley soil and grown rooms and steps and a porch with a mosquito screen.
Carson was a handyman and he liked to fiddle with things, his residence being his most frequent victim. Allyson told me that the house had changed form every year for as long as she could remember. She grew up thinking that people just lived that way. She’d come home from school to find her father, hammer in hand, knocking out a wall or building an addition. He had been that way up until the last few months, when his sickness had sapped his strength as well as his ambition. But still he talked about the guest room he was going to build when he felt good enough to get out of bed. They both knew it would never happen, but it was a pleasant fiction all the same.
The taxi’s meter read nine seventy-five. Through the open car window I handed the driver a folded ten-dollar bill. “Keep the change.”
“Gee, thanks,” the driver said sarcastically, stashing the bill in his front pocket.
The taxi’s back tires spun as the driver reversed out of the drive. I slung my duffel over my shoulder, climbed the wooden stairs of the front porch and knocked on the door.
An elderly woman opened the door and welcomed me in. She was short and broad-hipped, with silver hair. She wore a pink hand-knit sweater. Her smile and her eyes were pleasant but appropriate for the circumstances. I could see the family resemblance.
“You must be Robert.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She reached out and touched my arm affectionately. “I’m Allyson’s aunt Denise.”
Allyson had spoken of her many times. Allyson was very close to her. She had become Allyson’s surrogate mother after her own mother had passed away. I had not met her last December only because she had gone on an east coast trip with a few of her friends.
“I’ve heard much about you,” I said. “Allyson thinks the world of you.”
She smiled. “Allyson is my sweetheart. Please come in.”
I stepped into the house, onto the umber shag carpet. I looked around for Allyson. There were a dozen or so people congregated inside, strangers, standing or sitting, speaking in somber tones like people in a hospital waiting room. In the center of the room was a coffee table with a plate of sugar cookies and a pot of coffee. The only person I recognized was Nancy, Allyson’s roommate. I turned back to Aunt Denise.
“Is he still . . . ?”
In the land of the dying, sentences go unfinished.
She nodded. “He’s still with us.”
“Do you know where Allyson is?”
“She’s with her father. Down the hallway.”
At that time Nancy crossed the room. I set down my bag, and without a word she put her arms around me in the way people do when words are not enough. Nancy had been here last Christmas when I flew out to meet Allyson’s father. Nothing was the same now.
“How is he?” I asked.
“He’s still hanging in there. The nurse told us that he was going to die yesterday. But he’s a tough old bird. He’s holding on.”
“Is Ally alone with him?”
She nodded. “She’s been in there for nearly six hours. I checked on her about an hour ago.”
“How is she?”
She frowned. “Not well. She asked if I had heard from you.”
“Which room is it?”
She pointed. “The room at the end.”
I anxiously walked down the shadowy hallway, my footsteps falling softly in the corridor. I opened the door just enough to look in. The room was dark, illuminated only by the light stealing in from the partially opened blinds above the bed. When my eyes had adjusted, I saw Allyson curled up on the bed next to her father. It wasn’t hard to imagine that this had happened a million times before, on dark nights when a thunderstorm shook the mountain, a little girl crawling into the safety and warmth of her papa’s bed.
She looked up at me. Her eyes were dark but not dull, as there was a peculiar energy in them. I tried to read in her face an invitation or dismissal but saw neither, for she looked at me not as if I were a stranger to the home, but as if she were.
I stepped inside, gently closing the door behind me. Allyson stood up and walked over to me. I put my arms around her and held her in the shadows, her soft face nuzzling against my neck. It seemed, for a while, that only the two of us were in the room; then Carson suddenly groaned and Allyson immediately returned to her father ’s side. I sat down on a chair at the side of the bed to wait.
The last time I had seen her father he was a mountain of a man, rugged and large as the land he lived on. He was a man who could be thrown by a bull or stepped on and walk away with nothing but a few cuss words. This man in the bed was more desert than mountain. The cancer had left him frail and helpless. I wondered if he even knew that I was there.
For the next hour Allyson and I sat quietly by the bed. Carson was quiet, though he mumbled from time to time and once he looked toward the ceiling and said what sounded like “Not yet,” and I followed his gaze, almost expecting to see some personage of another world suspended in the air. But still he showed no sign of dying. It was apparent to me that he was holding on. I knew why. And I realized that I was to play a role in Carson Phelps’s passing.
An hour and forty minutes later, when Allyson left to use the bathroom, I took my chance to speak to him. Though I spoke softly, my voice seemed loud and misplaced in the silent room, like a stone thrown into a well.
“Sir, I’m Robert. Allyson’s fiancé.” He showed no reaction and I had second thoughts about continuing. But I went on. “I know that Allyson loves you very much. She’s told me so. I know how you love her. She’s told me how you’ve always been there for her.”
My eyes began to water. “I know that’s what you’re doing now. You’re holding on for her. But with all due respect, you don’t have to anymore. You don’t know me that well, but I love your daughter too. I love her with all my heart. I think she’s the most amazing woman I’ve ever known. And I promise that whatever life brings, I’ll do my best to take care of her. I’ll never leave her. You have my word.”
When I finished there was only silence. I leaned back in my chair and the room fell again into shadow. For the next few moments Carson was as still as the room. Then his eyes opened and flitted toward me and he said something unintelligible, as much a gasp as speech.
I leaned forward. “What?” I said. “I didn’t understand . .
.”
Again silence. His eyes closed. I sat back in my chair.
Allyson came back into the room. She sat on the bed and again took her father’s hand in hers. And then his eyes opened. For a minute he looked at her and she gazed back at him. A single tear rolled down the side of his face. Then he gasped twice and was gone. For a moment all was still. Then Allyson began to shake, as the reality of his death enveloped her. I quickly went to her, as if to stop her from being swept away with her father. I held her body against mine, my hand around her head pulling it into my shoulder. “He’s gone,” she said. “My daddy’s gone.”
Chapter 3
EIGHT YEARS LATER. SALT LAKE CITY, UTAH.
I was a card-carrying regular at the deli across the street from the radio station. My lunch order was as consistent as my attendance: club on wheat, oil and vinegar, extra sweet peppers, no mayo, Sun Chips and a lemonade. The workers at the shop didn’t even ask anymore. I ate there every day except for when I was taking a client to lunch at one of the restaurants where my station traded airtime for food. I knew that I frequented the place too much when one of the workers invited me to her wedding.
Though I usually ate alone or brought my lunch back to the station, today I sat across the table from Mark Platt. Platt had joined KBOX three years after me and was my closest friend at the station. He was younger than me, not yet thirty, tall with an athletic build. He had the largest hands I had ever seen.
“I thought you had a lunch appointment today,” Mark said, sandwich visible in his mouth.
“So did I. Ellis cancelled. He said he had a crisis.”
“What kind of crisis?”
“Of character.” I lifted a chip, rubbing the salt off of it between my fingers. “He’s lying. He really just didn’t want to tell me to my face that they’ve spent their entire fall budget on KISN.”
“You know that?”
“I heard it from one of the KISN reps. I’ll bet you lunch that I have an e-mail from him when I get back to the station.”
“That’s gotta hurt.”
“Road rash hurts. This is excruciating. I tell you this isn’t my week. First I lost Kinko’s, now Kyoto. That last Arbitron was a killer. If our ratings fall any more we’re going to have to start paying people to listen.”
“We already are.”
“I just hope these slicky-boy consultants Stu’s bringing in have some magic up their sleeves.”
Mark frowned. “I don’t know why he wasted the money on them—I can tell you what they’re going to say. First they’re going to tell us to ax the PD and buy canned, market-tested music. Then dump the morning show and bring in some syndicated program like Imus. It’s the way of the beast. In ten years there will be only one big radio station in America.”
“If that’s what it takes.”
“You mercenary. These consultants are turning the industry to pabulum. Radio used to be interesting. Now it’s the McDonald’s of media.”
“McDonald’s is profitable.”
“But how many Big Macs can you eat before you swear off hamburgers?”
My mouth rose in a half smile. “Is that a Zen question: like how many angels can fit on the head of a pin?”
“Something like that.” He leaned forward. “So level with me, Rob. Did you get it?”
“It?”
“You know.”
I raised one eyebrow. “What are you talking about?”
“C’mon. Doug’s job. Word around the station is that Stuart’s called a meeting with you.”
“He did. But who knows what he wants?”
“Everyone assumes you’re taking his place. Why do you think I’ve been so nice to you lately?”
I laughed. “I’m hoping. I’ve been working my tail off for the last six months—staying late, working promotions on the weekend, everything.”
“I’ve noticed.”
“I just hope Stu has.” I took a bite of my sandwich. “The weird thing is, I never thought that I would be at the station this long. This has been the longest temporary job in history.”
“Welcome to life, pal. I was only going to hang out with Becca for kicks. I’m still trying to figure out how I ended up married.”
“I’m sure she’s wondering the same thing.”
“I’m sure she is. Speaking of the devil, Becca wanted to know if Carson could come over sometime and play with Madison.”
“Of course. I’ll have my people call your people.” I finished my sandwich then found a napkin to wipe my mouth. “So ten years ago where did you think you’d be now?”
“Ten years ago? I thought I’d be a millionaire football player with a bad back and a Ferrari.”
“You played football?”
“Did I play football?” he repeated as if the question ranked high in the stratosphere of stupidity. “Don’t you ever read the sports page? I was an all-American. I started as a receiver for BYU my sophomore year. I can’t believe you’ve known me for so long and didn’t know this.”
“Sorry, I don’t follow college football. Never have. So what happened to derail your career?”
“I tore a tendon the second game my junior year. Against Air Force. I never got my speed back.”
“Bummer,” I said, though it sounded ridiculous.
“Yeah, all I got from that gig was a good-looking wife and chronic back pain.”
“Funny how you combined those two in the same sentence.”
He smiled. “Freudian. Now I’d be happy with just the millionaire part.”
“You mean you’re not a millionaire?”
“I guess I’m the only one not getting rich at the box,” Mark said. He broke an oatmeal cookie in two and put the larger of the pieces in his mouth. “Where did you think you’d be?”
“I thought I’d be churning out novels in a remote cabin somewhere.”
“Like that Jack Nicholson movie where he types the same sentence over and over.”
“Yeah. Just like that.” I bent my straw like a pretzel.
“So have you actually written something?”
“I’m halfway through my first novel. But it’s taken me almost four years. Seems whenever I get started on my book, life caves in.”
“What’s it about?”
“You wouldn’t be interested. It’s a love story.”
He popped the second half of the cookie in his mouth. “You’re right. Give me something with assault rifles and stun grenades. How long until you finish it?”
“If I did nothing else, maybe three months. At my current rate, another three years. There’s never enough time.” I glanced down at my watch. “Speaking of which, I’ve got to go. You headed back to the station?”
“No, I’ve got some clients to visit. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
We carried our trays to the trash bin. Mark said, “Hey, after you’re promoted to sales manager, don’t forget your friends.”
“What’s your name again?”
Chapter 4
“This is Mick and Angel of The Breakfast Bunch, where we play the best mix of today’s hits and yesterday’s favorites. Join us at noon for the KBOX lunch box and see what we’re serving up.”
I reached over and turned off the radio alarm, silencing the morning banter. I kissed Allyson on the forehead then went into the bathroom to shower. A half hour later I was knotting my tie in the mirror when Allyson walked up behind me. She wrapped her arms around me and kissed my neck. “Hmm, Calvin Klein. I love that smell. Dressing up for the meeting?”
“Yep. How do I look?”
She released me and stepped back. “Handsome. Like always. Would you like waffles for breakfast? I just opened a new bottle of that apricot jam I put up last fall.”
“Maybe just toast. My stomach’s queasy.”
When I walked into the kitchen, Allyson buttered my toast and brought it to the table with a cup of coffee. “So what time is your meeting?”
“First thing.” I poured milk into my coffee and stirred it with a spoon
from Carson’s bowl. “Where’s Carse?”
Allyson looked at the vacated cereal bowl at the table and rolled her eyes. “She was at the table.” She shouted, “Carson, come back in here and finish your cereal. No cartoons before school.”
Carson walked into the room holding a miniature violin in one hand and its bow in the other. “I was practicing my violin.”
“With the television on?”
“Yes.”
“You need to eat breakfast.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“You will be. Now finish your cereal.”
“Hey, sister,” I said, “come sit by me.”
She scurried over and climbed up on the stool next to me, her blond hair falling over her face.
“So how’s school?”
She pulled her hair back from her eyes. “Good.”
“What are you learning about these days?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
She shook her head again, tossing her bangs into her face.
“You must have the same kindergarten teacher I had,” I said. I turned back to Allyson. “So yesterday I talked to Doug about the job. He says that the sales manager makes an additional fifteen percent, plus retirement benefits and profit sharing. And, the best part is—the sales manager goes on all the media incentive trips. Next year ’s trip is to Italy: Rome, Florence and Venice.”
Allyson’s face lit. “Oh, don’t tease me.”
“It could happen. Assuming I’m not completely crazy and Stu actually plans on making me the sales manager.”
“Of course he does. You’re his best salesman and you’ve been at the station longer than anyone else. Who else would they choose?”
“They could always hire from outside.”
“Why would they do that?”
“Last week Stu brought in some out-of-state consultants to check out the operation and make recommendations. They’ve been nosing through everything. Who knows what they’ll have to say?” I downed the coffee. “I better go. I’ll see you tonight.” I kissed Carson on the forehead. “See you, sister.”