Leaves shook in the breeze, causing Ryan Puckett to shiver. The zipper on his jacket was iffy, so he jammed hands in his pockets, bringing the worn brown leather together. The jacket was at least ten years old, but sentimental value was more important than keeping warm, especially in coming home. Ryan would rather be caught dead than be without this jacket.
He’d left his car at his parents’ house, didn’t want Jane to see it. Better for her to see him slightly chilled in the early autumnal winds, not that he actually wanted her to see his teeth chattering. Only that he was still wearing the jacket, which she had given to him as these October sojourns became the rule. He’d been twenty-one then, feeling like the whole world was in his grasp, which had included her. Her smile, when he opened the box to reveal this gift, well, it was like the first time they’d made love, back in high school. She’d given him the sort of grin that made the five-block walk in the wind preferable to her seeing the piece of shit car he was driving now, a vehicle that had barely gotten him home. His father was already grumbling about it, and the last thing Ryan wanted was to hear any crap from Jane.
She might say something, although it wouldn’t have to do with his car. Or his jacket, even if several rips were visible. But he didn’t want to think about that, as cool air seeped through the leather, making him wish he could have zipped it up, or that his car was presentable enough to drive those measly five blocks, or that it had enough gas to do so. Reaching the town limits, he’d been coasting on fumes. He could wheedle some cash out of his dad, when Fred needed more cigarettes, and was too lazy to run to the liquor store to get some. Ryan wouldn’t offer to make the trip, but let his father bring it up, then Ryan would sheepishly note he was nearly out of fuel. Fred would shake his head, pull a twenty from his wallet, telling his son to get two packs of Camels, and put the change in his gas tank. Ryan would shrug, like he was doing Fred a favor. Then he would pray to reach Ernie’s Liquors first, thankful that if he didn’t make it, Big Boss Gas was right across the street, and an empty gas can waited in Ryan’s trunk.
But that was for later; Fred had been finishing a pack while asking his son what was up. The same-old same-old, Ryan had wanted to say, but words weren’t necessary. He always came home as leaves fell from trees, dusty sidewalks and streets aching for cleansing rains. Baseball playoffs were battling with football to make the most noise, while his mother’s crock pot was pulled from obscurity. That morning it had been full of cheap cuts of beef and the usual root vegetables, but the scent had been captivating, onion soup mix a staple of Ryan’s childhood. It was the second of October, and Fred and Hannah Puckett had been waiting for their son’s return. Not that Ryan was a prodigal, but as their youngest, and the only male, they were probably hoping he would win the lottery or at least get a better job to support them in their old age. Keep dreaming, Ryan thought, passing by the Shulman’s house, seeing Jane’s up ahead. Then Ryan grimaced. Did Jane feel the same?
Her car was parked in front of a brown picket fence, no concrete sidewalks in this part of town. None waited where he lived either, the houses all built in the 1930s, some still looking that dated. Not Jane’s, although it wasn’t brand-spanking new; it had been renovated in the… Ryan wasn’t sure, but he could smell that savory goodness drifting from Jane’s place. Onion soup mix had been the backbone of Jane’s culinary upbringing too.
He knew most of the neighbors, or assumed it was all the same people as last year. Small towns in Middle America didn’t alter much; people died, of course, but this wasn’t the West Coast, or New York, or Chicago. This was… Ryan smiled as cats darted across the road, a yappy Chihuahua to the right of Jane’s house barking wildly at one particular tabby. Ryan didn’t know the animals’ names, but maybe he should, for they were the same pets he’d seen for at least three or four years running. Well, maybe the cat wasn’t the exact same feline, but that yippy Chihuahua; how did Jane not poison that damned dog just to bring some quiet to her street?
Then Ryan trembled; she tolerated that dog for the same reason that allowed him to again approach her brown picket fence. A few weeds grew between the slats, and leaves gathered inside the yard, which made him relax. No one had been around to clean up the outside.
Jane had little free time, or Ryan assumed her days were just like the last time he had been here, in October, during baseball playoffs and the second month of NFL action. Not that he’d called or written to her, nor had she contacted him. They just waited, as if the whole year boiled down to four weeks culminating in Halloween and Ryan’s annual I’ll see you around. Since Jane gave him the jacket, that had been their routine. She would kiss him goodbye after a month of spectacular sex, then their worlds separated as if by a surgeon’s knife. He never knew if she continued watching Monday Night Football, or all the Sunday games. He never knew what she did, or with whom she associated, for it was as if time had stopped. Then every October, Ryan and Jane picked right up where they had left off last October. And in four weeks, once again Ryan would hit the road.
The roads he traveled looked nothing like the pavement in front of Jane’s house. This street was quiet, but it was mid-day, people either at work or… Or inside, filling crock pots with onion soup mix and whatever else was handy. Jane liked vegetarian food, but she wasn’t adverse to meat, made a mean pulled-pork dish that called for a can of Dr. Pepper, if Ryan remembered correctly. His mother would never stoop to putting soda in a recipe, but Jane was creative, or at least open-minded. He smiled. She had put up with him for long enough.
But then, he accepted that she wouldn’t go with him on the road, that she preferred living in their small hometown, working at the bank, she must still work at the bank. Yet, it was a Wednesday, and her car was parked in front of her house. He studied the lot; same pomegranate bush to the far right, heaving with ripe fruit. Same honeysuckle along the fence, brushing up against the pomegranate, but spreading the length of that side of the property. It stopped where another fence, and door, led to the backyard, but honeysuckle edged the entire perimeter of Jane’s lot. Rose bushes intermingled in front on the left side, and a few still bloomed, red and pink and yellow. They had no fragrance; the honeysuckle overwhelmed everything in the area, except for that yapping dog. Maybe the Chihuahua was allergic to honeysuckle, Ryan smiled.
The house itself was simple; three bedrooms, two bathrooms, kitchen, living room, dining room. The front porch was Ryan’s favorite place, other than Jane’s bedroom. They would sit in the porch swing that faced the road, holding hands and sipping beers, observing all the comings and goings of this tiny section of… The United States, the North American continent, Earth. But it was only a street in another ancient town of another small state, even if on those cool evenings it felt like the most important place in the whole frigging solar system. It was the most precious spot in the universe, for it was where Ryan felt most at home, alive, necessary. He inhaled deeply, noting honeysuckle, dust, and onion soup mix. Then he started walking the last few yards to Jane’s house.
Without thinking, he touched the hood of her car; it was cold. He stared at the vehicle, then stepped through the small front gate, and the Chihuahua barked louder. Ryan smiled. Even if the yips were muffled by honeysuckle and pomegranates, Jane had to know someone was approaching.
Her front door was closed, so he rapped on the screen door. Tapping his foot, he wondered if he would upset his mom by not having dinner at home. Salty onion soup wafted through the bottom of the doorframe, or maybe he had carried it within the holes in his jacket. Jane would give him hell about those, as she did every single…
The door opened, and the blast of MSG struck Ryan with force. Then he cleared his throat, gazing at the frayed screen, but not right into Jane’s eyes. “Hey, long time no…”
She didn’t answer him, or throw open the screen door. Her arms were crossed over her chest, her long hair cut short, barely brushing the tops of her shoulders. A scoop-neck top exposed her collarbones, and Ryan stared at how sunken those bones l
ooked; was that because of how she guarded her upper torso, hands curled into the crooks of her elbows. He swallowed hard, for she remained silent, but the dog yapped, and the honeysuckle fought with onion soup mix for supremacy. Ryan coughed, wondering if he had interrupted something. But it was October, she knew he was coming…
“Hey, uh, if this’s a bad time…” He could barely get the words from his throat, dry and scratchy. He wanted a beer, or some juice. Even a glass of tap water would do.
She sighed, then closed her eyes, then opened them again. He watched as a light went out, then flickered back to strength as those wide brown eyes stared at him, then past him. Her hair was the same shade, but it seemed rough, or just so abrupt, and her words were like her hair, as she cleared her throat. “What do you want?”
Her husky tone was the same, but she didn’t say his name. The dog kept yapping, the scents of flora and hearth turning into a misty toxin, coating the insides of Ryan’s lungs. And her hair, so abbreviated, yet still curly, just at the ends, but it wasn’t pretty on her, as if she’d had her wavy tresses butchered. How many times had he run his fingers through those soft, seductive curls, setting kisses along her sleek neck, down to those collarbones…
“Oh well, I uh…” He shook his head. Jane didn’t have a twin sister, but that seemed the only rational excuse, or maybe she had fallen victim to a head injury, losing her memory. But Hannah would have written him an email, someone would have mentioned something about the fact that thirty-one-year-old Jane Crowlie had suddenly turned into a short-haired, mean-spirited version of her usually loving self.
“Look Ryan, I’m busy right now. Unless it’s really important…”
She trailed off, or had he stopped listening? She was busy; maybe she was trying to figure out how to return her hair to normal, or how to quiet a barking dog. Or how to… Get rid of a long-time boyfriend who was maybe no more than some guy who showed up annually to get laid for thirty days straight. Ryan shivered, then gazed behind him. The pomegranate tree looked the same, the honeysuckle and roses, fallen leaves and weeds between slats, and her car; everything was exactly as he had left it, eleven months before. Everything except the angry short-haired woman glaring at him through an aged screen door.
“What the hell?” he said without thinking. “Shit, I just got into town Jane. Can’t I even come by and see how you’re doing without getting my fucking head chewed off?”
A slow, knowing grin spread over her face, warming her cheeks, lighting lively sparkles in her eyes, which no longer seemed cold. Warm chocolate pools made him hungry, also frightened, as she didn’t unfurl her arms, that screen door staying firmly closed.
Then she chuckled, a deep, haunting sound like Halloween was that very day. Ryan blinked, but nothing changed, not the yapping Chihuahua, or the now overpowering aroma of dying honeysuckle, nor Jane’s obvious mirth. But it wasn’t a joy she wished to share with him. “Ryan, it’s over.” She slowly uncrossed her arms, jamming fists into her sides. “Go back to your parents’, ’cause you aren’t sleeping here tonight.”
Her tone was like nails being pummeled into a casket. He stared at her, unable to look anywhere else. If he gazed long enough, maybe she would stop this shit and…
Then her armor broke, as her tears welled, then spilled, down her face. But her voice was still stoic. “I mean it. I should’ve sent you an email. I don’t wanna see you again, I can’t, I, I…”
He stumbled backwards from the force of her honesty and the crashing waves gathering at her jaw, then rolling down her neck. Then he looked away, not wishing to see those tears fill the crevices of her collarbones. Ryan nodded, uncertain how else to respond. He almost tumbled down the porch steps, then affected an awkward gait as he exited the yard. But the yapping didn’t stop, and the scent of honeysuckle clung to him, as Jane’s tortured voice rumbled through his head.
Several hours and many beers later, Ryan weaved on a bar stool at Posney’s. Nobody he had talked to, when he was capable of rational conversation, knew why Jane was so pissed, or why she had cut her hair, just a few weeks back, Mickey Shulman said. Mickey sat on Ryan’s right side, and for the last half hour he had kept Ryan from falling to the floor. Ryan stared at Mickey, his hair in a buzz cut, his blue eyes sharp. Mickey had dated Ryan’s sister Shannon in high school, and while Mickey and Shannon hadn’t lasted much past senior year, Mickey had remained Ryan’s friend, for what were high school romances but a way to learn the basics about women. That was how Ryan and Jane had started and…
“She’s totally fucked,” Ryan muttered slowly, gazing at the empty beer mug in front of him. “Fucked up her hair, fucked up everything, the goddamned…”
Mickey sighed, moving Ryan’s glass toward the bartender. Ryan waited for Mickey to ask for another, but Mickey didn’t. The bartender, Jake Hillerman, took the glass, and walked away.
Ryan stared at Mickey, then shook his head. “Nah, you’re right. I’m shitfaced enough already. Should be going home soon, try and get some…”
“We’ll be leaving in another minute or three,” Mickey said.
Ryan patted his jacket pockets; no keys. Then he grinned at Mickey. “How the hell am I getting home?”
“I’m driving. Last thing you need is to kill somebody.”
Mickey’s tone was affable, but the words struck Ryan. Not that the last thing he needed was a DUI, but to harm someone else. There had been enough hurt spread that day, and Ryan nodded. “Shit man, no kidding. No shit Mickey.” Ryan laughed, making his head ache. He hadn’t gotten this wasted in a long time.
But he was still cognizant enough to realize it, which meant he wasn’t nearly drunk enough to fall asleep in the room his parents kept just for him. Well, Shannon’s kids slept there, when she visited, so did his sister Kelly’s kids. But they never came in October, busy with school. And that because in October, Uncle Ryan came to see Grandma and Grandpa and Jane. But Jane had never been Aunt Jane, just Jane, the love of Ryan’s entire adult life, the woman who meant as much as breathing. “That stupid mother…”
“Shut up Ryan.” Mickey stood, then gazed around the room. Then he grasped Ryan’s shoulders. “Time to get you home before you really say something dumb.” Mickey motioned to the bartender. “Jake, here’s his keys. Don’t give ’em to him until late tomorrow afternoon at the earliest or whatever happens’ll be on your head.”
Mickey tossed car keys to Jake, who caught them in mid-air. Ryan thought the jangle sounded like a warden locking a convict in a cell, although Ryan had never gone to jail. He laughed, feeling incarcerated, and all because of that dumb…
Her laugh smashed into his skull, shattering bone into tiny slivers, all of which pierced his brain. Very slowly he turned to face the door, and there she stood, that short hair bobbing along her shoulders, but her collarbones were covered by a blouse, or maybe it was a sweater. Ryan didn’t know the man who stood beside her, couldn’t tell if Mickey knew the guy. But Jane knew him pretty damn well, grasping his arm, smiling like he was the sun. Ryan felt sick, but didn’t vomit. He inhaled, then tried to step her way. Mickey held him back, also keeping Ryan on his feet. “Let’s go Puckett.” Mickey spoke softly. “My car’s out back.”
“I ain’t leaving through the goddamn back door.”
“Ryan…”
Ryan nodded, staring right at Jane. He couldn’t tell if she was looking at him, but there was no way in hell that he would slink out of there like a child. “Mickey, you can drive me home, but we’re leaving through the front door.”
“Well, shit. All right.” Mickey released Ryan’s arm, then stood aside. “Lead the way asshole.”
Ryan smiled. He was being a prick, but if she was going to… He took wobbly steps, then found his bearings. As they reached where she stood, talking to someone else Ryan remembered from high school, Jane’s voice grew louder. Ryan paused, not three feet away from her, as time felt to have stopped. Just like last autumn when they went out, she was wearing jeans and her best brown boots, l
eather boots. She liked leather, boots for her, the jacket for him. This guy wore a denim vest, seemed older than Mickey even, maybe pushing forty. He didn’t look at Ryan, but Jane finally did; she wore a lot of makeup, not just her usual black mascara. Ryan wanted to say that between her overdone face and that asinine haircut, she seemed about the same age as her… Was he a boyfriend, a date, or just some SOB she pulled off the street? Ryan smiled, winked at her, then nearly patted her butt. But Mickey jerked him away, making time restart, and they were out of the bar before Ryan could say anything at all.
The scents of cigarette smoke, over-brewed coffee, and greasy hash browns woke Ryan, who stirred with a tremendous headache and a woozy stomach. The daily hot breakfast was Fred and Hannah’s routine, especially at this time of year, and Ryan clenched his eyes shut, wondering if they ate something different in spring and summer. Probably not, he thought, needing to pee, and maybe to puke. He hadn’t thrown up at home in… A very long time, he smiled weakly. The last time he threw up in this town, in October, he’d been sleeping at Jane’s house.
He grimaced, then stood slowly, taking note that he was still dressed in yesterday’s clothes. He shuffled to the bathroom, peed for a long time, then stared at himself in the mirror over the sink. His brown hair was long, well, it was usually to his shoulders, but the front was shaggy too. Sometimes when he came home Jane trimmed it. Maybe Ryan would ask Mickey which barber he used, not that Ryan wanted to look like a marine, but he looked like shit now, his gray eyes rimmed in red, his cheeks sunken and pasty. He smiled, but it made his face hurt. He wanted another beer.
Then he laughed, which also pained him. The last thing he needed was a drink, but he wouldn’t be able to choke down breakfast, maybe just some heavily sugared over-brewed coffee, with milk, if his mother had any milk. There was creamer; usually it was a few days old, but Hannah and Fred used it anyway. “Good morning,” Ryan mumbled, heading straight into the kitchen.
“Well hell, look what the cat dragged in.” Fred stubbed out his cigarette, but didn’t meet Ryan’s stare. “Your car over at Posney’s?”
Ryan sat on his dad’s left, as Hannah brought him coffee. “Yeah, Mickey drove me home.”
“Well thank God for that. The last thing you need’s a DUI.”
“No shit,” Ryan muttered, adding three heaping spoonfuls of sugar to the mug. “Mom, you got any milk?”
“No, but there’s creamer right in front of you.”
Ryan had seen it, also the date, which had expired days ago. He smiled at his mom, who seemed to have put on another ten, maybe twenty pounds. Hannah wasn’t a tall woman, and the extra weight made her look downright fat. Or maybe it was her hair, freshly cut and permed, those gray tight curls clinging to her scalp for dear life. “You get new glasses Mom?” he asked, not reaching for the creamer.
She smiled. “I did. Mary Ellen says they make me look younger.”
Fred shook his head and Ryan stifled a chuckle. Mary Ellen Shulman wasn’t just Mickey’s mother, but Hannah’s childhood best friend, and the biggest gossip in town. She was a good liar too, or else Hannah preferred the false compliment. Maybe it was better for Mary Ellen to mention the new glasses, and not Hannah’s weight gain.
Ryan sipped the coffee, which wasn’t as strong as the aroma suggested. The sugar helped it go down; usually he drank coffee with some sweetener, but rarely was the coffee this hardcore. Normally Ryan enjoyed lattes or cappuccinos, even when on the road. The band he worked for liked those upscale touches, and they made a point of stopping at places where more than regular and decaf were served.
But every October the band took a break, sending their road crew back to wherever they called home. For many, home was the road; it was for Ryan, except that home was also this town, still this house, but no longer Jane. That name burned a hole in Ryan’s stomach, or maybe it was his mother’s coffee. She bought the cheapest house brand, just like she bought crap creamer, then kept using it even if it had expired. That Hannah and Fred hadn’t succumbed to food poisoning was one of the world’s seven wonders.
“So you seen Jane yet?” Hannah asked, keeping her back to Ryan.
“Uh, yeah, saw her last night.” And yesterday afternoon, Ryan thought, but you probably know all about that because Mary Ellen lives on Jane’s street.
“She sure looks different with her hair short,” Hannah said. Then she faced her son. Her pronounced jowls were the most striking difference, closely followed by her small slouch. Hannah had always prided herself on a fairly youthful face and good posture. But now his mother looked seventy years old, she looked…
“You okay Mom?” Ryan wondered if he had taken more than just Jane for granted. His parents weren’t that aged; Fred was sixty-one, Hannah sixty in May. Ryan glanced at his dad; Fred’s thinning grey hair was still at the same place, half-way back along his scalp. Glasses dipped down his nose, plain brown frames as always. But Ryan’s mother appeared unwell, still in her robe and slippers, while Fred wore a blue faded work shirt, jeans, and shoes. Ryan blinked, wondering if all the women in town had decided to screw with him.
“I’m fine honey. You sure you don’t want some hash browns?”
“I’m sure, but thanks.” Ryan sipped more coffee, trying to clear his head. He stared at his father again, but Fred didn’t meet his eyes. Then Ryan drummed his fingers on the table. Was something wrong with Hannah? Ryan assumed that if his mom was sick, somebody would have told him, one of his sisters at least.
Slowly he stood, stepping Hannah’s way. She was a good foot shorter than him, his sisters all inheriting their mother’s slight stature, although none were this pudgy. But Hannah wasn’t just plump; she now carried a good number of excess pounds. Ryan fought the urge to hug her; they weren’t a demonstrative bunch, well, he was very expressive with Jane, or he had been. Ryan sighed, so wishing to stroke his mother’s face, feel some human contact. The only contact had been when Mickey pulled him back last night at the bar, then helped him into the car, then walked him to the back door. Ryan had managed after that, his parents having left that entrance unlocked. Otherwise nobody had physically touched him since he came home.
“Ryan, what?” Hannah stared at him, an odd look upon her face.
He ached, wasn’t sure if it was from the hangover, Jane’s dismissal, or that something was indeed wrong with his mom. “Nothing, I just… Yeah go ahead, dish me up some spuds.”
Hannah’s smile was that of relief. “You want toast too?”
“Sure. Toast too.”
“All right, but sit down, I don’t like people hovering over me.” Hannah stepped to the toaster as Ryan took his seat. He watched all her actions, as Fred announced that he was going to check The Weather Channel, which actually meant that he was heading upstairs for a prolonged session in the bathroom. Ryan wondered how much of his life had been lived in code, and what did Hannah’s altered appearance truly mean?
By Saturday afternoon, Ryan still wasn’t sure about his mom’s health; she took several pills throughout the day, kept in a daily pill container in the kitchen. He had inspected the container’s contents, six pills per day of various shapes and sizes, but he was at a loss to their importance. His dad took a baby aspirin each morning, a blood thinner, Ryan knew. But last year Hannah hadn’t been on all these medications, and he desperately wanted to ask, but felt it would be an intrusion. He didn’t call Kelly, Shannon, or even their oldest sister Tess, not wishing to worry them, plus he didn’t want to note that again he was home, in October, not that it seemed to matter to the person he most wished to speak with. Not that Jane would know what in the hell was wrong with Ryan’s mother, but at least she would actively give a shit.
Or maybe not; perhaps Jane had written off all the Pucketts. But Ryan didn’t think that was possible, unless she had lost all her memories, or some other stupid-assed reason that he considered late at night, when sleep was hard to find. No, she wasn’t an alien, and no, she didn’t have a twin sister. She was the only Jane Crowli
e in town, in the county, in the whole goddamned state probably. Well, the only Jane Marguerite Crowlie, Ryan assumed. And she was the only woman he loved, even if the way he demonstrated that affection was pretty pathetic. That was the only idea he had concerning her change of heart, or at least of attitude. There was no way she had stopped loving him, Ryan decided. He certainly hadn’t stopped loving her.
And no longer was he pissed at her. Once his hangover faded, and he’d had a few days of decent sleep, he accepted that their arrangement of the last several years probably needed some fine-tuning. For him to show up in October, expecting to sleep with her all month, was somewhat… He smiled, getting in his car, having spent most of the day at Mickey’s garage. Mickey had needed help with his computer, and when not hauling amps and musical instruments into and out of vans, Ryan was pretty handy with software and laptops. He’d always had a knack for technical things, but had been too lazy to stay in school. It was much easier to hang out with a band, becoming a roadie, than go to class. Jane hadn’t seemed to care, not in the early days, and by the time she might have raised an objection, they were too dependent upon the other for her to raise a huge stink. That was when she gave him the jacket, like an engagement ring, although he was the one who should have given her a symbol. But Jane was already a bank teller by then, she had the ambition, and the steadiness. Neither had spoken about what they wanted from a relationship, words hadn’t seemed necessary. He didn’t care if she slept around while he was gone, and she had never bitched about his personal life on the road. Not that he screwed around a lot, occasionally sure, and always using rubbers. He was shiftless, but not stupid.
He also used condoms in October, and Jane was on the pill. Or she had been, last year. He sat in his car, in front of his parents’ house, wondering what he was going to do for the next several hours. Mickey had said that he and his girlfriend Amber would be at Posney’s that night, but not until nine, maybe ten o’clock. Amber was Ryan and Jane’s age, a couple of years younger than Mickey, but now those few years meant little; they were all in their thirties, had made their choices, and while people changed jobs, big alterations were far and few between, other than getting married. Not that Mickey and Amber were looking to get hitched; they’d been dating for a year or so, Mickey had said, while Ryan cleared computer viruses that had hampered Mickey’s system. Amber had left town several years ago, marrying some asshole two counties over. Her divorce had gone through, and she’d moved back home, was staying with her mother, who didn’t live far from Jane, or from Mickey’s mom. Mickey lived on the other side of town, in a house he’d bought during the recession. Mickey owned his home, ran a successful business. He wasn’t married, but he wasn’t divorced either, and after Ryan eliminated the last computer virus, Mickey was looking at a proper spreadsheet of the last few months’ revenue. He’d given Ryan a hundred dollars in cash as a thank-you, and jokingly said that if Ryan ever wanted to quit the music business, Mickey had an opening for someone to maintain his computer and do his books. His accountant wasn’t more than one of his mother’s friends, and she hadn’t been working more than part-time since August, recovering from gall bladder surgery. Ryan had smiled, quickly putting the money into his otherwise empty wallet. That cash would pay for a few drinks later at Posney’s, and maybe a haircut too. Mickey and his crew had teased Ryan that while he might fit the roadie profile, they all thought he looked like shit.
He had left the garage to their laughter, feeling a part of something similar to how he felt with the rest of the roadies. Their hair was definitely longer, and in addition to drinking, many of them smoked weed or imbibed in other drugs. Here the main habit was booze, some pot, but not many narcotics. This was a simpler life, the vices enjoyed less toxic, shared at Posney’s because most people didn’t like to drink alone. And that in a small town, it was hard to hide one’s issues. A few of Mickey’s crew had asked Ryan about Jane, a subject impossible to ignore. He’d smiled, shrugged, then stared at the computer screen. It was much easier cleaning up Mickey’s system than trying to figure out a woman.
But now it was four in the afternoon, and Fred and Hannah were running errands, having left Ryan a note. Beef stew again bubbled in the crock pot, but they hadn’t asked him to stay for dinner. He didn’t need an invitation, at least not at home. Eating with his folks was one possibility, but Ryan had other questions. He’d given Jane three days to get off her cloud, but she hadn’t stopped by the house, hadn’t tried to call him. They had each other’s cell numbers and email addresses, but those forms of communication had never been required. Ryan rapped the top of the gear shift. Then he started his car, pulling away from his parents’ house. He headed toward Jane’s, and this time, he wouldn’t leave until she let him inside.
Her car was parked in front of the brown picket fence, and the hood was warm. Ryan had noticed his father’s car across the road, right behind Mary Ellen Shulman’s, but Ryan didn’t expect Fred to stay long. He would leave Hannah there, picking her up later if Mary Ellen didn’t feel like running Hannah home. Dropping off Hannah had given Fred something to do, and he would be back home shortly, wondering for half a second if Ryan was coming for dinner. Then Fred would turn on the TV, forgetting all about his son and wife. Fred wouldn’t think about Ryan for the rest of the day. He’d only start to consider Hannah when his stomach rumbled, the scent of onion soup mix impossible to ignore.
Ryan had parked behind Jane’s car, but now he stood halfway between the picket fence and her house. The Chihuahua wasn’t outside; maybe it was napping on its owner’s sofa. The sky was gray, no hint of wind, but the air was nippy, and Ryan pulled his jacket closed, then smiled. Maybe Jane had traded with someone on Wednesday; she never used to work on Saturdays. Then he shivered. Maybe she had spent Friday night with that guy, who nobody seemed to know. Maybe she’d just gotten home, maybe… Ryan cleared his throat, then slowly approached her front porch. He walked silently up the steps, not wishing to alert her. Before, he would have gone right inside. This time, he knocked on the screen door, then stood back, staring at his shoes.
He waited several seconds, absently tapping his left foot. Just as he turned to leave, the door creaked open. He whipped around, seeing her behind the screen. “Hey,” he said softly. “Is this a bad time?”
She inhaled, then exhaled with force. “I told you it was…”
“Can’t we just talk? I just wanna talk to you.”
His heart pounded, she had just come home from work, her attire that of a bank teller. She had slipped off her shoes; he knew that in how he looked down, only a little, trying to meet her gaze, which was being kept from his view, but not with complete success. Every few seconds she glanced up, then looked from left to right, like she was searching for any excuse to make him leave. But truthfully, some sort of explanation was owed; he wouldn’t come out and say that, not unless she got bitchy. Maybe they were over, but the least she could have done was warned him ahead of time.
“Listen, if you wanna end it, fine, I, uh, understand.” He did get it, especially after spending most of the day at Mickey’s. For the last several years Ryan had used this woman, and this town, as way stations. He wouldn’t deny it, but then, she had always let him come back. Jane had been the one to make him feel this was still home, or maybe it was the honeysuckle and pomegranates and even that yappy dog. Ryan took a deep breath, the scent of fading honeysuckle fortifying him. “But at least gimme a chance to…” He sighed. Did he deserve to speak his piece? Maybe Jane should slam the door in his face and…
But instead she opened it wide, nearly hitting him with the ragged edge of the fraying screen. “All right,” she said. “But not long, not that there’s much left to say.”
Ryan nodded, hastily stepping through the doorway.
Like the exterior, the interior of Jane’s home hadn’t changed. The coffee table was still covered with stacks of unread magazines. Folded laundry rested on the far end of the sofa, her old TV dark and dusty. No new prints hung on the
walls, nothing to suggest that she had altered a single thing. But her eyes were cloudy, her movements sluggish. Usually when Ryan walked through that door, she was smiling, then all over him. Then they rushed into her bedroom, made love, then curled against each other, telling small and large tales. This time, she kept her distance, working hard to not fall into tears.
Ryan was relieved for that; she still loved him, he was sure. But a wall had been erected, and he was completely uncertain how to dismantle it. “So, how’ve you been?” he started.
She shook her head. “Look, no bullshit. You wanna talk, then do it. I don’t have time for this anymore.”
Her voice was brittle, also sad. He nodded, then sighed. “I still love you. Does that count in any of this?”
She smirked. “You still love me. Lucky me, huh?”
He wanted to sigh again, but that would sound pathetic, which he did not wish to convey. “Jane, look, you’re right. Things need to change, but you never said jack shit to me and…”
“Ryan, it’s over.” She glanced at the floor, then met his gaze. “I don’t wanna be Miss October anymore. It’s old, this, I mean, us.” She laughed. “Us, what in the hell was that all those years? A month every single year, thirty lousy days. But you know what? I’m thirty-one years old now, and you are too. We’re not kids anymore. I want a life Ryan, I want someone who’s here all the time. I want…”
She began to cry, then caught herself. Taking a deep breath, she cracked her knuckles, then exhaled slowly. “I wanna be able to depend on someone for more than just one month out of the year. By December, it’s cold, you know? January and February are cold too. It doesn’t get warm until April and by then…”
And by then there are still five months left to wait, he thought, what he felt every spring, wondering how he was going to last until he could come back here and hold this woman, make her laugh, then make her squeal. Sometimes he made her scream, but now he was making her cry. Jane was weeping softly, but Ryan didn’t miss her tears.
He started to step toward her, but she shook her head. “No, I can’t do this anymore.” She stared at him. “Yes, I do love you, shit, I’m gonna love you for a long goddamned time, but eventually it was gonna end. Something like this couldn’t keep going, you know? Of course you know,” she mumbled. “You know just as well as I do that this was never gonna be more than something to do, for a time. But time’s a long wait when it’s cold outside Ryan, and I don’t wanna be cold all winter again.”
“Oh Jane, shit. Listen, I’ll come home, whatever you want baby. I love you, don’t say this…”
As he spoke, she stiffened, both her body and her resolve. His words were like bad song lyrics. Would he actually quit the crew, come back here, and work some stupid-assed job just to…
“Oh Christ Ryan, shut up.” She had a weary chuckle. “This’s why I didn’t wanna talk to you. You were just gonna say something asinine.” She shook her head, then motioned toward the door. “It’s really over. I can’t, I mean, I won’t do this anymore.”
Ryan didn’t look at where she pointed; he couldn’t fathom actually leaving this house under those pretenses. “Are you sleeping with that guy?”
“What?”
He wanted her to say yes; if she was sleeping with someone at this time of year, maybe that would be enough to cut the cord, or hack it in a few places so the bleeding would begin. Ryan felt it would take an extraordinary event to even start the process, the beginning of his life without Jane Crowlie. “Just tell me the truth. Are you fucking him?”
Not Are you in love with him or Are you making love with him: Ryan needed it to be devoid of emotion, enough of a betrayal that it would ease him out of this house, down the front steps, along the path, and through the brown picket fence gate. No yappy dog to escort him to his car, he needed silence so her words could reverberate in his brain. Just tell me yes, he begged inwardly, otherwise you’ll never get rid of me.
“No, I’m not fucking him!” Fury dripped from her voice. “Would that make this easier if I was?”
The chill in his spine started from her tone, then spread all through him as she continued speaking. They had never talked to each other in this manner, not even during high school. But maybe they hadn’t grown much since those days. Maybe they were still seventeen years old, and one month of a relationship per year had added up to a whole lot of nothing.
Ryan didn’t speak, mostly because he had no idea of what to say. And he didn’t move, for if he did, that was ending it. He gazed at her slender arms, soft hands, lovely breasts, then to her teary, angry face, which translated as much confusion as he felt. But the bitterness in her voice; she had never sounded so disappointed in him, so hurt. That cut into him most of all.
No longer was it enough that he came back every autumn; she didn’t want to be Miss October. He had never called her that, had someone inferred it, forcing her to reevaluate her life, their life together? But there wasn’t a their life together, just thirty days annually to sleep in her bed, catching up with all that had occurred since their last outing. Outing burned in Ryan’s gut. The truth was that for the last decade this had been no more than a tryst, and that sure, in their twenties, who cared about living together full-time? But now she wore a crown that ripped into her skull, a jagged sash noting a dubious honor that was breaking her heart. She was his Miss October, but the cost was too heavy to bear.
He wanted to stroke her arm, wipe her damp cheeks, touch her hair. Was it actually that short, had that been a part of the process? “Why’d you cut your hair off?”
“What?”
If he touched her, even grasped her hand, what might happen? He ached for the spark of whatever had kept them together all these years. Stepping her way, he reached for her, but she moved back, then jammed both hands into the shallow pockets of her slacks.
Jane didn’t speak. She kept shaking her head, those abbreviated tresses waving like red flags, making Ryan’s heart pound. “Just tell me why,” he muttered.
“Leave, please?” she croaked. “Please, just go.”
He took a deep breath, his eyes darting all over the room, trying to tattoo the walls and furniture onto his brain. This was his home, not his parents’ house, not this town or this state or anywhere else on the goddamn planet. This living room, which led to her bedroom, the kitchen a few steps away, or her bathroom with the leaky shower and rattling toilet. He had tried to fix both of them, but usually he started too late in the month, then it was time to leave, and he drove away knowing he hadn’t finished those tasks. But he always came back, and next year, next year…
“Ryan, just go, now. If you really love me, then leave, please?”
But that made no sense, except it was the truth. Every fiber within her was falling apart, he’d never seen her so lost, but then he hadn’t been here when her parents died five years ago, or when her only sister was killed seven years ago, or when… He was only here for October. But she didn’t want to be Miss October anymore.
He nodded, then exhaled, but wasn’t sure if he had been breathing all that time while gazing at walls, thinking about her problematic bathroom, or that for the important moments of her life, he had been absent. Then Ryan turned around, seeing the open front door, and the closed screen door. To leave this house, he would have to physically push that screen door open. But how would it close behind him? With a slam, or would he hold it gently until the latch was secured.
As he walked toward the exit, Jane’s breathing was patchy, her sobs ringing in his head. He remained stoic, but wasn’t sure how his feet moved. He pushed open the screen door, then stared at his car, then at her car. Then he glanced at Mary Ellen Shulman’s house across the street. Then he blinked.
An ambulance was pulling up in front of the Shulman’s, sirens blaring, lights blazing. Those alarms forced Ryan down the steps, along the path, through the gate, to the edge of the pavement. Then he heard Mary Ellen’s hysteric screams, his mother’s name among them. Hannah Puckett was the purpo
se for that ambulance.
Ryan stood frozen as the van parked, as people rushed out, as Mickey’s mother continued her litany. Spotting a cat, licking itself in the center of the road, Ryan wondered if it belonged to Mary Ellen; did Ryan’s mother pet that feline when she visited? His mother was in Mary Ellen’s house, being tended for an ailment serious enough to warrant the authorities. Ryan nearly reeled, then raced across the street, tearing into the Shulman’s front yard. He almost ran into a paramedic, who was leading a team, surrounding a gurney. “Is she okay?” Ryan barked. “Is she all right?”
No one answered him, or not in language Ryan could comprehend. Mary Ellen Shulman waved her arms, still crying to the heavens, as EMTs hoisted their patient into the ambulance. Finally Ryan grabbed one of the medics. “She’s my mother, what the hell happened?”
“She’s had a heart attack.”
“Is she gonna make it?” Ryan yelled.
The paramedic didn’t answer, but got into the back of the van. As Mary Ellen kept wailing, the ambulance sped off, lights and sirens in full throttle. Ryan watched it go, then saw Jane standing in the street, next to that cat, which now stared at him. Jane’s feet were bare, except for socks. And he still didn’t know why she had cut her hair. “That was Mom,” he called. “She’s had a heart attack.”
Jane ran to where Ryan stood in the Shulman’s yard, beside a still weeping Mary Ellen. “Go, I’ll meet you at the ER.” Jane caressed Ryan’s face. “Just drive safely, okay?”
He nodded, then thought about his father. He looked at Mary Ellen. “Did you call my dad?”
“What?” she cried. “Did I do what?”
Jane brought the trembling woman into her arms. “I’ll call him Ryan. You just go. Now.”
Her palm rested against his face, providing warmth and purpose. Slowly he nodded. Ryan removed her hand, squeezing it gently. Then he did exactly as Jane told him.
A few times previously Ryan had thought that minutes were hours, hours were days, and so on. Usually it was after a gig had started, and there was nothing for him and the other roadies to do but drink beer or get a little high while the band played. For over a decade Ryan had been hanging out with The Stone Rollers, a Kentucky-based group that had gotten lucky, cutting a hit single, then getting signed to a big label. All of that had occurred just as the music business was unraveling, Napster and other websites allowing listeners to download tunes for free. But The Stone Rollers had jumped on the indie bandwagon, employing MySpace so their fans could get as close to the band as possible. Ryan had been a part of that, looking after not only amps and guitars, but the internet side of things. It had been something to do on long drives across the country, when he ached for Jane. But instead of writing her emails, he fooled around with code, making the band’s website, writing their blog. The Stone Rollers still made a record every year, what they did in October, while their crew wandered back to where loved ones waited. Then everyone reunited, hitting the road. Ryan even spent Christmas in motels, usually in Louisville, where the band was from. Often Christmas Day was the slowest time of the year, but sitting in the ER, wondering if his mother was going to live, had turned into the perfect example of moments not budging an inch.
All those other events couldn’t touch how Ryan felt now, staring at the clock over the sliding partition where patients spoke to the nurse on duty. The second hand ticked at the same place over and over, making Ryan’s head ache. The last time he’d looked it was five thirty, and he glanced again, five thirty-one, but what about all he’d considered in the interim; The Stone Rollers, named in honor of The Rolling Stones, had started out playing covers, but quickly discarded that genre once they had secured a hit single. Keeping their name hadn’t endeared them to record executives, but now most of those guys in suits had been excised for the direct contact with fans, who didn’t care what the band called themselves. Fans cared about the music, and while Ryan couldn’t hum his way out of a paper bag, he hauled and set up equipment, and kept their web profile finely tuned. Then he glanced at the clock; five thirty-two. What the fuck time is it actually, he wanted to scream.
He stood, then paced the tiny lobby. His dad had arrived a few minutes after Ryan had, then Fred was ushered into the back, where Hannah was being… Well, she must still be alive, Ryan assumed, because no one had told him otherwise. No one had told him a goddamned thing, other than Jane, that she would call his father, which she must have done. But before that she had told Ryan to go. And he had, but her order only got him as far as Mary Ellen’s. Then Jane had directed him here. And he had done that too, and he gazed at the clock, still it was five thirty-two. That just couldn’t be possible; how in the hell was it still the same goddamned time?
Octobers never went by so slowly; they raced past, and suddenly he was packing, to meet with the band and the rest just outside of Louisville, from where they departed every November. Every November first, Ryan Puckett was waiting for his fiscal year to begin, missing Jane with a pounding ache that subsided only as miles slid under his feet, state to state, gig to gig, blog post to blog post. He wrote the entries under the guise of Keith Millar, lead singer and guitarist, and no one outside the band was the wiser. Ryan had started that soon after creating the website, having unsuccessfully nagged Keith to take a couple of minutes to scrawl a few lines. Keith was a good singer and musician, but had no aptitude for exposition, and within a month, Ryan was impressing the band with his literary wit. Keith was especially grateful, and it had provided Ryan with added job security. Anyone could load equipment, but as long as The Stone Rollers were actively touring, Ryan had someplace to be.
How different was it now, in the ER, with no clue to Hannah’s condition, or to what Jane had done, both in making him leave her house, then to come here. For the first time in his life, Ryan wasn’t sure what tomorrow would bring. He liked the routine of life on the road, that while he never slept in the same places, the motels were basically identical. Diners served variations of the expected breakfasts, sometimes the coffee was crap, but that was only if they couldn’t find a restaurant with an espresso machine. Keith had hooked everyone on lattes and mochas, but they avoided Starbucks when possible, depending on Ryan to use his web magic to hunt down finer establishments. Sometimes it wasn’t possible, when out in the middle of nowhere. Then they took what they could get, and were happy for it, making the next place seem even better. Ryan stared at peeling paint and scuffed linoleum; sometimes the joints they ate at didn’t look any better than this aged emergency room lobby.
But the time on the road didn’t drag this slowly, not until summer. Touring in summer was a bitch, because it was hot and people were growing tired. September shows were usually the loosest, tempers flaring, bodies in need of rest. Jane was always on Ryan’s mind in September, just a few more days until he could head home, but now what was home? At that excruciatingly endless moment, Ryan’s home was this dingy part of the local hospital, where no one looked familiar. It was young moms with whiny kids, or those older than his folks, hoping to be called next so they didn’t have to listen to crying children anymore.
Ryan found his seat, but didn’t sit down, what was the point? If his mother didn’t make it, well, people died all the time. It would be his father to suffer, for who would over-brew the coffee, deep-fry the hash browns, and fill the crock pot? Ryan hadn’t called his sisters yet; Kelly was seven months’ pregnant, Shannon was already up to her eyeballs as her mother-in-law had breast cancer, and Tess was… Tess was an alcoholic who would use this to excuse one more binge. Ryan didn’t flinch with any of those scenarios. No use upsetting his sisters until it was absolutely necessary.
And besides, what did he know, other than time was lost in this space, like this ER was the Bermuda Triangle. And even when he left here, whether Hannah was alive or not, the rest of his life was a void, because Jane had told him to go. Closing his eyes, he could still feel her warm palm against his cheek, the first time she had touched him since last Halloween. He blinked
away tears, but they weren’t shed for his mother. Jane had relented, but only due to crisis. He inhaled, then exhaled, glancing at the clock. It was now five thirty-three.
At five thirty-eight, Ryan approached the duty nurse. “Excuse me,” he began. Then somebody tapped his shoulder. He turned around, Jane Crowlie right behind him.
Her face was puffy and red. For a second he wondered if this was the remnant of earlier that afternoon, or was it fresh sorrow. Then someone cleared their throat.
He looked back at the nurse. “Oh yeah, my mom, Hannah Puckett, is she okay?”
Jane gripped his right hand, which made Ryan shiver. “She’s still being treated.” The nurse’s voice was flat. “Someone will be out soon.”
“Uh, okay, thanks.” What was soon, Ryan thought. Then he closed his eyes, as Jane squeezed his hand. He faced her, opening his eyes, finding hers were still cloudy. “I guess you know as much as I do.”
She nodded, then led him toward open seats near the double doors. “I was wondering what was going on and…”
He sat, and she followed. “Thanks for calling Dad. He was allowed back there, but just him.”
“Have you told your sisters yet?” Jane said softly, still clasping Ryan’s hand.
“Nothing to tell them, I mean…” He shrugged. “I don’t wanna worry them until I know something concrete.”
“Well, that’s probably smart.” She sighed. “I would’ve been here sooner, but Mary Ellen was a wreck. I called Mickey and waited for him and Amber to come over. They send their love.”
Ryan nodded. “Thanks. I was supposed to meet them at Posney’s later, guess I don’t need to call him about that now.”
“Guess not.”
Her tone was still gentle, and nothing like how she had sounded less than two hours ago. Ryan peeked at the time, five forty. It had taken two minutes for him to approach the nurse, then Jane to arrive, then grip his hand, make perfunctory small talk, then sit in these seats. He wanted to smile, wondering how time managed to stop and start as it pleased. Then he gazed at Jane. Tears were pooling in her eyes. This time, he brushed them away without thinking.
She nodded, then released his hand, but only long enough to retrieve a tissue from her purse, which was on the vacant seat beside her. She wiped her face, blew her nose, then shoved the Kleenex into her bag. “Sorry,” she said, retaking his hand.
“Don’t be sorry, I mean…” He gripped her fingers, the only lifeline he possessed, maybe as important to him as whatever the doctors were doing to keep his mother alive. “I wonder what’s happening back there.”
Jane shrugged, then released his hand, running hers through her hair. Her curls tried to resettle, but instead they fuzzed out around her jaw. Why had she hacked off her lovely tresses, why was she sitting there next to him now, obligation, curiosity? He nearly asked, then stood, hearing his father’s cough reverberate through the open partition.
Ryan met his dad as Fred stepped through the doorway connecting the waiting area with the actual emergency room. “How is she?” Ryan asked, Jane on his heels.
Fred had been crying, and Ryan had never seen his father so broken. “Well, she’s alive. Not sure if she’ll be with us tomorrow though.” Fred’s voice was stoic, but an underlying fear hedged his words. “They said they’d call if she takes a turn for the worse. If she makes it, they’re gonna wanna do surgery, a bypass or something like that. But they told me to go home. They’re moving her to intensive care, I told them you were out here, that you’d wanna see her, but they said to give them a few hours. I don’t know Ryan, I just don’t know.”
Then Fred stared at Jane. Ryan saw his father’s shock, not that Ryan had said squat to his folks about that issue, and Fred didn’t ask any questions now. But Fred smiled, then sighed. “I guess we gotta call the girls tonight, don’t know what in the hell I’m gonna tell ’em, but…”
“I’ll take care of that Dad, don’t worry.”
Father and son stared at each other. “Yeah, that’d be good. Thanks.”
“Listen, why doesn’t Ryan drive you home? I’ll follow in my car, then Ryan and I can come back and get your car.” Jane said that to Fred, but she squeezed Ryan’s hand as she spoke.
“Yeah, that’s a good idea. Dad, you okay with that?”
“What, uh, sure.” Fred nodded at Jane. “Thanks honey. I don’t know how the hell I got here without getting into an accident.”
“You do what you gotta do.” Jane’s voice was warm, then she smiled. She gave Ryan’s hand another ferocious grip, then let him go. Then she led both men from the lobby into the small parking lot, where Ryan helped his dad into the front passenger seat of Ryan’s car. Right before opening the driver’s door, Ryan nodded at Jane. Again she smiled, then both got into their vehicles. Ryan and Fred left first, Jane right behind them.
The next two hours flew past, causing Ryan to wonder if the rest of his life would be lived in this stop-start manner. Sitting across from Jane at his parents’ kitchen table was a part of it, for this never happened. Jane had probably been inside the Puckett residence less than half a dozen times since Ryan had been… He wanted to smile, for what was the appropriate term, or terms, for what they had shared. They had dated as high school seniors, but had slept with each other before graduation. Then for the next few years, as she went to college and he screwed around, they weren’t quite living together, but it was more than dating. It wasn’t akin to the last ten years, for he had still lived at home, and she had too, in the same house where she dwelled now. Only now it was her house, where she had been raised, maybe where she would die. Ryan didn’t expect Jane Crowlie to ever leave this town, but then, just four hours ago, he’d had no idea she would be eating the beef stew Hannah had started first thing that morning.
Ryan hadn’t expected to be eating here either; his plan, when Hannah was chopping onions and garlic, had been to give Mickey a hand with his computer, then bum around town until it was time to drive to Posney’s. He might still do that, for one beer, after his dad had called it a night. After speaking to his sisters, Ryan could do with a cold one, but just one, because if he had more, then of course the hospital would call, informing them that Hannah was on her deathbed, or had already kicked the bucket. He wanted one beer, maybe sitting next to Mickey, perhaps Amber on Ryan’s other side. Then he would drive home, fall into his bed, then…
“You want anything?” Jane asked, standing up from the table.
“Oh, uh, sure. No actually, I’m full. Thanks though.”
“Ryan, you’ve hardly touched your dinner.”
He gazed at the bowl, which was mostly full. “Oh yeah, uh-huh.” He took a bite, but it wasn’t warm, and the onion soup mix didn’t taste good. The whole meal wasn’t appealing, but maybe that was to be expected. His sisters’ reactions had been typical; Kelly cried, but so close to her due date, she wept at the drop of a hat. Shannon was resigned, another storm for her to weather. Tess had briefly acted like the eldest sibling, then she’d fallen apart, asking her son to bring her a beer. Then Ryan had ended the call, using the car left at the hospital as an excuse. He hadn’t wanted to talk to any of his sisters, but Tess had been the hardest, as she usually was. None of them said they could be there, but of course, if Hannah died, they would find ways to attend the funeral. The Pucketts hadn’t been the closest family, and time had eroded those fragile bonds.
Then Ryan and Jane had retrieved Fred’s car, and now they were eating dinner, or she was. Ryan had no appetite; he wanted a beer, then to close this day. It had been good earlier, was ending on a pretty crappy note, even if Jane was speaking to him like nothing was wrong.
She returned to her chair, looked at her glass, but didn’t drink from it. Then she stared at Ryan. “You should eat something. If you don’t want that, I can make you…”
Her hair still bothered him, otherwise he could pretend this was her kitchen, and he’d just arrived, and due to his long drive from wherever he had come from, he wasn’t particularly
chatty, or desperate, or… He sighed, then pushed the bowl to his left. “I’ll be fine. But you don’t have to stick around here. I’ll call you if we hear anything.”
Why was she there, he wondered, now that his sisters had been told and his dad’s car was in the driveway. Why had she cut her beautiful hair; he’d loved how her long, wavy tresses had draped over his chest, or become entwined between his fingers, or… “Thanks,” he said, not wishing to dwell on what no longer was. Her hair was short, they were over. Even if she was sitting a few feet across from him, she had been right. Her days as Miss October were through.
But what if… What if his mother pulled through? Could Ryan just take off at the end of the month, leaving Fred as the sole caretaker of a still frail woman? Even if Hannah didn’t have surgery, their lives were bound to change; no more over-brewed coffee and cheap greasy hash browns. Fred might be pressured to quit smoking, Hannah would be strongly encouraged to take regular exercise, and without any of their daughters to enforce those actions, that left their youngest. Their only son hadn’t been much good at providing monetary support, but it would fall upon Ryan’s shoulders, for what was his life about, trailing behind a band, writing blog posts that Keith Millar was capable of scribbling. And when Ryan wasn’t keeping an eye on his parents, he could work for Mickey. He had offered, just that morning. Ryan could stay here, never again be away from…
But Jane’s hair was short. And even as it grew out, they would recall this time, perhaps forgetting this day, or this part of the day. But they would remember the minutes in her house before the ambulance and her subsequent kindness shown. He would recall her disappointment, not drowned out by that yapping Chihuahua. She would cling to whatever had pushed her over the edge, and eventually they would bicker, then fight, or worse, they would turn into his parents, or his sisters, blind to the bigger picture. Even if Kelly was seven months’ pregnant or Shannon’s mother-in-law was sick or Tess was drunk, shouldn’t one of them, if not all of them, have said they would be there, or try to be there? But none had. Then Ryan sighed. He wasn’t any different from his sisters, making every excuse to flee this town and ignore this woman who he loved, and needed, but had taken for granted. For ten years he had taken her for granted, pretending Octobers would always be enough.
“Why’d you cut your hair?” His voice was soft, in part that his dad was in the other room, although Fred might be sleeping. Sometimes after dinner he nodded off, allegedly watching the news or Wheel of Fortune. But actually, Fred would close his eyes, the weight of the day bearing heavily, even if bedtime was ninety minutes away. Hannah usually stayed up later than Fred, watching sitcoms, then sometimes those stupid crime shows that were all spinoffs of each other. Ryan never watched TV, except for sports, and that was in bars, either at Posney’s with Jane, Mickey, and the rest, or with the crew wherever they happened to be. What kind of life did he have, and why the hell had Jane butchered her goddamned hair?
She sighed, and he wondered if time was slowing down again. He looked at the clock on the microwave, seven fifty-eight. He glanced between the time and Jane’s face, then he stared at his dinner. It didn’t look at all appealing, so he stood, dumping it in the trash. He put his bowl in the sink, on top of Jane’s, then ran water into both bowls. Then he returned to his seat, gazed at the microwave. It was eight on the dot; had it taken two whole minutes to just throw out his dinner?
Maybe it had almost been seven fifty-nine. Maybe it was nearly a minute past eight, but as he glanced again, it was still eight p.m. Time was screwing with him, nothing was certain. Then he looked at the woman who hadn’t answered his question, not minutes ago or earlier that day or… Did he ask about her hair when he got into town, when within just minutes she had made it abundantly clear that she didn’t want to talk to him. Ryan had no idea, but he wanted to know now. “Jane…” Then he paused. It was none of his business. They were over, even if he moved back here to look after his parents. Then he shrugged, shaking his head. That would be his luck; Hannah would pull through, but Ryan and Jane were finished.
“Ryan, I cut it to, to…” She sighed. “To piss you off.”
He stared at her, then smiled. “To piss me off?”
“Yeah. Figured it would make things easier.”
He nodded. It was over between them; for how long had she wanted to end it? “Well…” Then he sighed. “Do you like it?”
She permitted a small smile. “Nope. Can’t wait for it to grow back.”
Now he chuckled. “I guess that’s the way of things.” He wanted to move closer to her, for her tone suggested other notions she would like to revisit. Or was he hearing what he wanted?
“Yeah, sometimes that’s just how it goes.” Jane still smiled, then she leaned back in her chair. “It’s certainly easier to take care of, got all the dry ends off.” She ran her fingers through it. “But my neck gets cold.”
He ached, wishing to caress her neck, wondering why had Hannah fallen ill, why had Jane gotten fed up now, why was any of this happening. His life was always the same, just the places changed. October always arrived, then ended. “You’ve got some scarves, right?” he muttered.
“Yeah, but sometimes I forget, and then…”
And then it gets really cold, but by then I’m gone, and you’re alone and… Ryan sighed. “Well, I think it looks…” He wanted to say pretty, but that wasn’t the truth. She looked older; it wasn’t an attractive style on her.
“It looks like shit,” she smiled. “But live and learn.”
He didn’t nod, but she was right, on both counts. “Listen, thanks for coming over here.” He didn’t want to talk about this anymore, not her hair or what happened next, even if they hadn’t actually spoken about that, but what was left to say? Now he knew about her hair, no big mystery, just a moment of anger, which wouldn’t be lessened by admitting why, or by his mother’s bad heart. He needed to start the process of… He cleared his throat, then heard his father do the same. Ryan gazed toward the kitchen doorway, but Fred made no other sound. Yet he wasn’t asleep, maybe he was just waiting for the morning, when either the hospital would have called with news, or Ryan drove them over there, to see what a new day had brought. Then Ryan glanced at his cell phone, in the middle of the table. The hospital had the home number and Ryan’s number. Fred and Hannah didn’t have cell phones, just their landline.
Then Ryan peeked at the microwave. Eight thirty, what the hell? How long did it take to ask a question, get an answer, which wasn’t much more than live and learn. Half a fucking hour to deduce that? He stood, walking to where the pot of stew rested on the stove. It was more than half full; Hannah had made a shit-load, but Ryan wouldn’t have any more of it, and his dad had barely eaten one bowl. Then Ryan gazed at Jane, who wiped her cheeks. She’d eaten her portion, but she wasn’t part of this family anymore.
Why was she crying? Maybe live and learn was harder to do than to say. Maybe… Ryan stepped her way, then knelt beside her. “Hey, you okay?”
She nodded, then shook her head, then looked at him. “What happens now?”
“Hell if I know.”
“Are you, are you gonna…”
He blinked, wishing she would finish the sentence. Was he going to leave or stay here; which did she want more? Four hours ago she was ready for him to hit the road. But now…
“Whatdya want me to do?” He blurted it, but quietly, not wanting his father to hear him. Fred might think his son was being weak, or maybe Fred might think Ryan was doing the right thing. Maybe love was more important than pride, or maybe Ryan was full of shit. He was hungry, as his stomach growled, making Jane smile.
But she didn’t answer him, although she tenderly stroked his face. Then she stood, using her napkin to blow her nose. She put the lid on the crock pot, then opened the fridge, making room for the pot. Then she closed the refrigerator, went into the living room, saying goodnight to Fred, and that she would see him tomorrow.
Then Jane stepped to where Ryan had sat, in
the chair beside hers. She didn’t sit down, but she knelt next to him. Her eyes were cloudy, but she didn’t speak, maybe she couldn’t, he thought, without breaking down. Again she caressed his face, then she stood, ruffling his long hair. She called out another goodnight to Fred, then Jane Crowlie slipped from the Puckett kitchen, not answering Ryan on her way out.
A few minutes after Jane left, Ryan stepped into the living room, finding his father watching television. Ryan told his dad he was going to have one beer at Posney’s, and that he’d have his cell phone handy. Fred nodded to those details, then said that he would be ready in the morning, which didn’t mean coffee and hash browns, or not in their kitchen. Ryan nodded to that, then sat on the sofa beside his dad. Neither man spoke until Fred turned off the TV, thanking Ryan for being there. Fred went up the stairs, hollering goodnight when he reached the landing.
Once Fred was snoring, Ryan got in his car, starting the engine. The stereo clock read eight fifty-eight, but Ryan didn’t think that was possible, for it seemed like he had sat on the couch with his dad for hours, then an even longer wait for his father to fall asleep. Then Ryan shook his head; nothing could be discounted anymore. Well, he wouldn’t include Jane in that, for even if she’d tousled his hair and stroked his face, she had left without a word to him. Ryan couldn’t do anything about Jane’s silence, but before he headed to Posney’s, he needed to make a stop. He glanced at the time, nine p.m. Then he smiled, driving away from his parents’ house.
An hour later, Ryan was seated between Mickey and Amber, but not right at the bar. They had a table for three, in the back corner. None of them spoke much, although Mickey was glad Ryan was sticking around. Occasionally he mentioned something to that effect, as if testing Ryan. Ryan continued to pass with flying colors, assuring Mickey that he’d never have another computer problem again.
It was a few minutes past ten when Ryan took the last sip from his mug. He gripped his phone, checking the time, chuckling to himself. This evening at Posney’s had felt as long as waiting in the ER; would life in his hometown become a test of how time related to pleasure? If so, Ryan was expecting his life to be a long one, regardless of how many years he lived. Unless, of course, he accidentally ran into Jane, when time took on a life of its own. He smiled, then stood. “All right, I’m heading out. I’ll see you guys in…”
In another few days, or tomorrow, or whenever, for now his life would be a litany of whenever. Whenever Hannah got better, which wasn’t a given, whenever Mickey needed Ryan’s expertise, whenever they met here, at the main bar in town, for a few cold ones. Whenever was now Ryan’s mantra, but it was easier than trying to pin down anything with certainty.
“Drive safe, and hey, call us, you know, whenever.”
Mickey’s tone was earnest, and Ryan smiled. “Sure. I’ll call you.” Then he picked up his cell phone, leaning down to kiss Amber. Her cheeks were damp, and he wiped away her tears. “It’s gonna be okay,” he said softly, unsure if that was true.
She nodded, then squeezed his hand that held only keys. “Call us,” she warbled, but she couldn’t say any more.
Ryan walked to the door, then looked around the room. Jake was behind the bar, serving guys that Ryan knew either from high school or just as acquaintances. Soon they would all be fast friends, in how they mingled here, their lives left outside the doors, or what didn’t need to be aired aloud. He nodded to those who caught his gaze; everyone knew his mom had suffered a heart attack that afternoon, at Mickey Shulman’s mother’s house. And many knew that Ryan was staying here, believe it or not, but that Jane Crowlie wasn’t the reason. Those that weren’t aware of that detail would know within a few days, but Ryan didn’t care. It was a small town, and in another month, he’d know all their shit too.
He opened the door and stepped outside. The night was cool, and he wished he could zip up his jacket. Then he smiled; he would retire this leather coat, it had done its duty. Winters here could get chilly; he’d need something more substantial. As he reached his car, he thought about what sort of jacket could replace this one; he would choose something different, not wishing to emulate the love that Jane had given to him in this at one time expensive leather jacket. At one time, she had loved him unreservedly.
And he had loved her that way too, but it had gotten lost in a young man’s need to escape from a place where everyone knew everything. But now he was an adult, and he had made a promise, even if his mother had been unconscious. Ryan had only stayed at the hospital long enough to assure her that he would take care of his dad, and her, no matter what happened. A gal he’d known from grade school had been in Hannah’s cubical, acting like a witness, but Ryan had made his decision. He hadn’t noticed if his mother’s vital signs registered with his pledge, but Nurse Jackie Robbins had nodded at him, like this was the first step in Hannah’s recovery. Ryan had smiled at Jackie, wondering if Robbins was still her last name, probably not he assumed. Within another day or two, he’d know for sure; Ryan would be spending a lot of time in that ward of the hospital, unless his mother didn’t make it.
He was about to open his car door, when someone cleared their throat. Turning around, he nearly gasped, then swallowed hard. “Hey, what’re you doing here?”
Jane stood two feet away, wearing an old coat, her leather boots, jeans, and a scarf wound tightly around her neck. “Just wondering if you’d made it over here. Looks like you did.”
He nodded. “Mickey and Amber are still in there. I just needed a beer and…” He sighed. “I told Dad I wouldn’t be out late.” Ryan smiled, like he was a kid, reporting his comings and goings. But he would keep himself on a short leash until Hannah was out of the woods, or dead.
It could go either way, Jackie had said to him, as they left Hannah’s cubicle. But Jackie’s voice had been optimistic, and he had gravitated to that, then to her, as if their shared childhoods permitted such an embrace. As he’d pulled away, she had wiped his face, but he hadn’t realized he’d wept. Then she had patted his cheek, walking to the next patient, allowing Ryan the privacy to leave unnoticed. But if nothing else, Jackie had seen him there, at his mother’s bedside, that first night of the start of Ryan Puckett’s adult life.
“You hear anything, I mean…” Jane sighed, then she adjusted her scarf.
He smiled. “No, well, I went over there, before I came here. She looked…” He took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. She hadn’t looked like his mother, but Hannah wasn’t going to stay the same. He’d ignored all the medical paraphernalia that had surrounded her; she would live or die, but that was all any of them were facing.
“You went over there?” Jane sounded shocked. “Tonight?”
He nodded. “I hadn’t seen her since…” Since the ambulance had taken her from Jane’s street, into what was this new reality. It was different in just about every way, except for his leather jacket and Jane’s leather boots. But tomorrow, once he’d had breakfast, either at the house or in the hospital cafeteria, Ryan was going shopping. He still had a hundred bucks in his wallet, as Mickey hadn’t let Ryan pay for that one beer. A hundred dollars would buy a decent coat, or at least one that would see him through the rest of autumn.
What would Ryan do with his leather jacket? Bury it maybe, or hang it in the hall closet, way in the back, that was as good as a funeral. But this was the last night he would wear it, for the goddamned zipper was broken, it was torn up, and had lived a good life. Better to bury it than Hannah, and Ryan grimaced. Jane was quietly crying, shaking her head, gripping her sides.
“Hey, look, it’s okay, she’s gonna be…” One way or the other, he thought, stepping toward his… She had been his Miss October for a decade, a long time to wear such a crown. “Jane, it’s okay honey, it’s gonna be…”
She stumbled into his arms, and Ryan nearly doubled over. Then he clutched her, as she wept harder. A few abbreviated curls came loose from her scarf, falling against his face. He wasn’t sure if he could support them for much longer, for being that clo
se to her was like having his own coronary. He took a couple of steps backwards, bumping into the side of his car. Then he gripped her with force, never wanting to let her go.
They stood as one for an indeterminate length of time; Ryan imagined it could have been five minutes or three hours, although no one bothered them, but then that was how life went in a small town. Nobody would have interrupted them as Ryan smelled familiar conditioner in Jane’s short hair, the scent of her perfume embedded in her scarf, even the onion soup mix lingering in her blouse, under her coat. And if he inhaled deeply enough, he noted her leather boots. As soon as he recognized that, he flinched. Was it her boots, or his coat, which just moments or maybe hours ago he had been ready to scrap?
“Are you staying here?” she mumbled into his ear. “Are you…”
“Yeah honey. Nowhere else for me to go.”
“Oh God, oh my God…” She took a deep breath, then pulled away far enough to stare into his eyes. “Oh shit Ryan, are you serious?”
He nodded, wondering if she was happy or pissed. “I told Mom I was staying, not that she heard me. She’s hooked up to so many goddamned machines and…” But Jackie had heard him, and Ryan hadn’t offered that declaration in jest. Not that he’d said it as a wager; it was simply the truth. And sometimes the truth was no more than accepting limitations, or finally the end of running away. “Whatever happens, Dad’s gonna need somebody. He can’t do this alone.”
Was Ryan’s return due to his ill mother an insult? Jane didn’t seem offended, as she stroked his face. “He is gonna need someone. Are you sure about this?”
Ryan sighed. “It’s time.” Who would have guessed this was the reason he would quit the crew. Then he smiled. “I’ll call Keith in the morning, but yeah, I’m staying here.”
She sniffled, then cracked a small grin. “What will they do without you?”
He chuckled, in part from her teasing tone, and that her palm remained on his face. “Struggle mightily, I’m sure.” Then he set his hand over hers. “But they’ll figure it out.” I did, he wanted to say, albeit under duress. But sometimes it took a slap up the head, although Jane was still caressing his cheek.
She took a few deep breaths, then she nodded. “So what happens now?”
He opened his eyes wide. “Well, uh…” Then he closed them. “I dunno.”
He didn’t want to see her face, or rather her chocolate eyes, because he had no frigging clue. But he knew what he wanted to occur; he wanted to remove her crown and the sash, but not bestow another title, just retire that ancient honor that he never should have awarded to her in the first place. He wanted to go back a decade, to when she gave him the jacket; he wouldn’t have left her afterwards, he would have buckled down in school and earned a degree that wouldn’t have been the end of his world. He was good with computers, but he’d squandered that ability, as well as the most important treasure in his life. And for what? To come back here ten years later with nothing more than a beat-up coat and a crappy car and his parents falling apart. Well, his mother’s health was poor. Despite the cigarettes, Fred seemed impervious, maybe from all that over-brewed coffee.
“Ryan, I, I…” Jane paused, then traced around his eyes, which were still shut. Then in the longest moment he had ever lived, she inhaled, as if words were to follow. What would she say, that it was still over, wishing him good luck, that all of this was what happened to asshole boyfriends who couldn’t pull their heads out. He waited for whatever she felt necessary to tell him, he waited and waited and…
The kiss was soft, reaching his mouth like healing rain. Then it went deeper, like a monsoon pounding on cracked, aching land. But while he was drowning, he wasn’t dying. Every depleted, dried-out crevice soaked up her bounty, like his body was a sponge in need of endless refilling. Ryan didn’t open his eyes, in part that when kissing her, he never paid attention to anything but her. And that maybe this was just another trick of time, but time concerned moments passing. It had nothing to do with a heart being restored.
When she pulled away, he looked out, finding a smile on her teary face. He brushed away those streaks, her skin so soft, her eyes shining. All the words hovered in her chocolate eyes, sentiments he wanted to tell her, but that she already understood. She nodded, affirming that fact, and he did too, acknowledging the miracle of that moment, which went beyond leather jackets and heart attacks, although they had played their parts, along with that yappy Chihuahua and Jane’s pomegranate tree and his yearly absences that had fashioned her title. But now that dubious honor lay at their feet, scattered amid the gravel. Ryan stroked her face, then kissed her again, gently but with purpose. “Are you sure?” he said.
“Yeah,” she nodded. “I mean, if you’re gonna be here…”
He chuckled. “I’m gonna be here.”
“You’ll need a new jacket.” She poked at the rips in his left sleeve. “It doesn’t even zip closed anymore.”
“Hasn’t for a while now.”
“But you didn’t replace it.”
“Nope, I never did.”
She nodded, then nestled into his chest. “Are you sure, I mean…”
Ryan smiled. For some crazy reason she had stuck around; maybe she wasn’t Miss October, but the perennial runner-up, hoping to God that the real Miss October wouldn’t be able to fulfill her duties. “Baby, I love you. I’m never going away again.”
“Oh Jesus Ryan, oh my God…” Her sentence was interrupted by a sob, then several of them tumbled from her. Then she was weeping louder than Mary Ellen Shulman, crying like she had outlasted all the previous Miss Octobers. Ryan kissed her forehead, running his fingers through those brief curls, letting her expend that grief. Who knew, maybe in a day or three, he might have his own to shed.
But it wouldn’t be about this woman, which soothed him. And, as she began to calm, he grew more at ease. By the time she stopped crying, he felt time had also worked itself out. He reached into his back pocket, looking at his phone. It was ten thirty, which seemed appropriate. Or at least it didn’t seem wrong.
They stood by his car as she blew her nose several times. Then a few people stepped out of the bar, but Ryan couldn’t tell who they were. Jane didn’t speak to them, but she gripped Ryan, as if noting all was well. He grasped her, conveying the same. Then she cleared her throat. “What time is it?”
“About ten thirty.”
She nodded, then pulled away, gazing at him. “You wanna come over, I mean, I know you need to go home tonight, but…”
Again he closed his eyes, nodding his head. “Yeah, I’d like that.” He opened his eyes, then chuckled. “Need to make a stop first.” He didn’t keep condoms in his car, and had no idea if she had any at her house.
“You don’t need to stop anywhere.”
“Yeah?”
“Not unless you think you might be…” Then she giggled. “I’m still on the pill.”
Now he smiled. “Jane, I haven’t…” Then Ryan paused. I haven’t had sex without rubbers since you gave me this coat, he thought, ten goddamned years ago. “Since you, you know…”
She grinned. “I know. Me neither.”
Now he laughed, which might have seemed odd, what with his mother very sick, and his father quite lost. But for the first time in his whole life, Ryan knew exactly where he was. “Well, then I guess we’re probably okay.”
“Probably,” she smiled.
He grasped her hands, which weren’t cold to the touch. “I’m sorry, for being away for so long and for…”
She didn’t let him finish, her kiss interrupting. Ryan ran his hand through her hair, which now seemed as alluring as her lengthy curls. As they parted, he smiled. “I think I like your hair like this. I think I like…”
“I think I know what you like.” Her tone was mischievous. “Let’s go. You still gotta get some sleep tonight.”
He nodded, although he wouldn’t fall asleep in her bed. Tomorrow night maybe, or later that week, as soon as… Jane nuzzled his brow, then she h
eaded to her car, leaving Ryan with a smile. He wasn’t stopping for condoms on their way to her house, but in a matter of days, it would be their house, yappy neighborhood Chihuahua be damned. Ryan got into his car, the time on the stereo reading ten forty. He chuckled, then started the engine, following her out of the parking lot.
Liner Notes
These stories, poems, and novelettes are the direct result of one woman’s gentle twist of my arm. In early 2012, Suzy Stewart Dubot invited me to join a writer’s cooperative, Top Writers Block, with the initial goal of creating a tale fashioned by several independent authors, each tackling one chapter at a time. That first collaborative effort became The Trouble With Thorndyke, and it led to a short story anthology, the theme chosen by our intrepid leader Suzy. I’m a novelist at heart, but Suzy can be convincing, and I agreed to contribute something to the second anthology, titled Why Me?
“50 Years Waiting” was the result, followed by “Pork Fried Rice and Recessed Lights”, written in November, with a nod to NaNoWriNo. I skipped the next anthology, then wrote a piece for the next seven collections. Stitches was my thematic choice, based upon my love for embroidery and crocheting, a poem as the result. The final two themes, Meringue and Pumpkins brought me back to longer tales; “The Todd Lambert Special” written for Meringue paid homage to my Alvin’s Farm series. I decided to release all of these pieces in one anthology, neatly tying a bow around my publishing career, as I am now an officially retired indie author. All of these chips off The Block hold special places in my heart, and I am grateful to Suzy for her encouragement, and to all the Top Writers Block authors who have entertained me, and challenged me to be a better writer.
Finally, I thank my husband for supporting my endeavors, and Julie K. Rose and Gary Weston for offering their editorial assistance. Again, my hat is off to Suzy Stewart Dubot, who not only organizes the Top Writers Block collections, but graciously publishes them. Ta cheers thanks love.
About the Author
Anna Scott Graham was born in 1966 in Northern California. A mother to several, she lives in the San Francisco Bay Area with her husband and numerous hummingbirds.
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