“What’s not?” I said. Then I breathed out deeply. “My mother died last week.”
Her face fell. “I’m sorry.” After a moment she reached across the table and laid her hand on mine. “Tell me about her.”
“She was my best friend. No matter how bad things were, she was always there for me.” I choked up again. “I didn’t even go to her funeral. No one knew how to reach me, so I didn’t find out about it until two days after she was buried.”
“I’m so sorry,” she said. After a minute she asked, “Is your family down South?”
I nodded. “Yeah.”
“So you’re going through all this alone.”
“Yeah.” I took another sip of chocolate.
“Nothing heals the soul like chocolate,” she said. “I just love chocolate. It’s God’s apology for broccoli.”
I smiled in spite of myself.
“There’s your smile,” she said softly. She sat back in her chair, watching me closely. “So you have no family here. What about friends?”
“I don’t know many people in Salt Lake. I had my roommates, but when I left school…” I looked at her. “I had a girlfriend…”
“Had?”
“We were together for four years. Three days ago she wrote to tell me she’s engaged.”
Macy shook her head. “You weren’t kidding. When it rains, it pours.”
“Buckets,” I said. I drank more of the hot chocolate, then turned back to her, raking my hair back with my hand. “I can’t believe I’m telling you all this.”
“We always tell our deepest secrets to strangers.”
“Why do you think that is?”
“Maybe it’s because they can’t use them against us.”
That made sense to me. “I feel like everything in my life has changed, like I was playing a game and someone switched boards in the middle of it. I feel like an orphan…”
Something about my statement seemed to affect her. “I know how that feels,” she said softly.
We were quiet again and I finished my chocolate. I held up my cup: “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Do you want more?”
“No. I’m fine.” I glanced down at my watch. It was now almost one. “I should let you go.”
She looked at me sympathetically. “I’m still worried about you.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“Will you let me drive you home?”
I smiled at her. “If you insist.”
“I do.” She stood. “I just need to clean up after us.” She took my cup and went back to the counter. While I sat there, she asked, “Do you want a scone? We have cranberry or cinnamon.”
“No, thank you.”
“How about one of our death-by-chocolate brownies? We’re famous for them.”
“I’m okay.”
“Your loss.” She came out wiping her hands on a dish towel. “I’m ready. My car’s out back.”
I followed her to the back door. I stepped outside while she switched off the lights, then set the alarm and shut the door. It was still snowing, but not as hard as before.
“Do you own this place?” I asked.
“No. I wish. The place is a gold mine.” She locked the door and put the key in her pocket. “I’m the assistant night manager.” She pointed to a car that looked more like an igloo than a vehicle. “That’s me over there. That big mound of snow,” she said dolefully. “I don’t have a scraper.”
I looked around and found a cardboard box sticking out of the dumpster. “There’s something.” I tore a flap off the box, then used it to scrape the snow from the car’s windows. She waited until I finished, then she unlocked the doors and we both climbed in. The car was a Ford Pinto with brown vinyl upholstery and plastic prayer beads hanging from the rearview mirror. The plastic dashboard was cracked in places and bandaged with assorted decals, mostly from radio stations. It took several turns of the key before the engine turned over. The windshield was fogged, and Macy revved the engine a couple times then turned on the defroster. The air gradually turned warm. My hands were wet and red from scraping snow, and she reached over and lightly rubbed them.
“Your hands are freezing. Thanks for cleaning the snow off.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Don’t mind my car. It’s held together with prayer and duct tape.”
“At least it runs.”
“That’s right, be grateful it runs.” She shoved a cassette into her stereo and soft music began playing. “Where do you live?”
“I’m over on Third South. Just over the viaduct.”
“I thought you said it was close.”
“I didn’t want to trouble you.”
While we waited for the windshield to clear, she reached into the back seat and brought up an open box of ginger snaps. “Want a snap?”
“Sure.” I reached in the box and took one. She took one as well.
“I love these things,” she said.
When the windshield was defrosted enough to see through, she put the car in gear and we slowly pulled out from the parking lot onto the road, fishtailing a little.
“This is scary,” she said. “I can’t believe we got this much snow.” She reached down and turned up the heater. After fifteen minutes of precarious driving I pointed to the large rundown house where I lived.
“It’s right there. That house up ahead.”
Macy sided the car up to the curb under a streetlamp. She left the engine running but pulled the parking brake. “You sure you’re okay?”
“I’ll be fine. Thank you. For everything.”
“It’s nothing.” She suddenly smiled. “I have something for you.” She reached across me to the glove box, brought out a card and handed it to me. “That’s for a free pastry and coffee at the café. You have to try one of our famous brownies sometime.”
I slid the card into my shirt pocket. “Thanks.” I looked at her. “Why are you being so good to me?”
She smiled and I saw something both beautiful and sad in her eyes. “You seem like a really nice guy who just had a lot of bad things happen to him all at once.”
I looked down for a moment and slowly exhaled. Then I looked back into her eyes. “You might have saved my life tonight.”
“I know.” She reached over and again touched my hand. “All bad things pass with time. You can trust me on that.”
I cupped her hand with mine. “Thank you.”
“My pleasure. Take care of yourself,” she said.
“You too. Good night.” I stepped out of her car onto the curb and shut the door behind me. She pulled into the road, made a U-turn and waved once more before she drove off, disappearing behind a curtain of snow. My mother was right. Angels do walk the earth.
I went back looking for Macy.
Apparently she doesn’t exist.
MARK SMART’S DIARY
I couldn’t get Macy out of my mind. I even dreamed about her. I felt as if I’d been sleepwalking through the past few days, and part of me wondered if I had really seen her or if she’d been the light at the end of a nightmare. Either way I knew I had to see her again.
I borrowed my landlord’s phone and got through to the mechanic on my first call. He agreed to meet me at my car around noon, a little more than an hour from then. I quickly showered and dressed, then ran to catch the bus.
The blizzard had passed, leaving the valley still and buried in snow. The sun was out but apparently just for show, as the air bit fiercely, turning my cheeks and ears red as I waited at the bus stop. The bus dropped me off just a few blocks east of the coffee shop, and I walked past it toward my car. The city snowplows had been by in the night and snow had been pushed clear up to my car’s windows. I now realized that I had stopped in a no-parking zone, but I couldn’t tell if I had a parking ticket. At least it hadn’t been towed. In truth, my thoughts were less on my car than they were on Macy. I checked my watch. I still had ten m
inutes to noon. The mechanic hadn’t arrived, so I walked into the café.
The place was crowded, and as I looked around I suddenly felt a little anxious. What would I say to her? What if she didn’t want to see me again? I mean, you might give a panhandler a dollar, but you don’t necessarily want to bring him home for dinner.
I went to the back of the line at the cash register. When I reached the front, a young woman with eyes rimmed with dark mascara and wearing a Bruce Springsteen T-shirt looked up and smiled at me. “What can I get for you, honey?”
“I’m looking for Macy.”
She looked at me blankly. “Macy?”
“Yes.”
“Am I supposed to know who that is?”
“She works here.”
Her brow creased. “I don’t know any Macy. Do you mean Mary?”
“No, Macy. She works the night shift.”
The woman shook her head. “Mary works the night shift.” She turned to a coworker who was pounding coffee grounds from a grate. “You know of any Macy who works here?”
“Macy?”
“Yeah.”
“You mean Mary?”
She turned to me. “You sure you don’t mean Mary?”
“No, it’s Macy. Like the department store.”
“What does she look like?”
“She’s small. Has short auburn hair. Big eyes. Really pretty.”
“That’s Mary.”
“What’s her last name?” I asked.
“Hummel.”
“No, her last name is Wood.”
“There’s no one named Wood here.”
I didn’t know what to say. The woman looked at me with pity, and I guessed she was thinking I had asked for the name of one of her coworkers and had been given a fake one. Or maybe I just thought that.
“Sorry I can’t help you. Do you want anything else?”
I felt stupid. “I guess I’ll have a hot chocolate,” I said.
“That I can help you with. With whipped cream or without?”
“With.”
“What size?”
“Small.”
I paid for the chocolate and picked it up a minute later. I sat down near the front window where I could watch for the mechanic. About the time I finished my drink, a beat-up Chevy truck pulled up in front of my car. As I walked out, a man hopped from the cab. He wore work boots, mustard-colored overalls, no coat but a knit cap and a white turtleneck.
I walked out to greet him. “Hi. I’m Mark.” My breath froze in front of me.
“Carl,” he said.
“Thanks for coming.”
“Yeah.” He looked at my snow-piled car. “I’ve got a couple brooms in back.” He took two push brooms from his truck bed, handed me one, and we brushed the snow from my windows, door and hood. Then he knelt down and hooked a nylon tow rope to the front of my bumper and the tow ball of his pickup. With some difficulty, I pulled open the driver’s side door.
“You been pulled before?” he asked.
“Yes.” Actually, on more occasions than I could account for. Stu was always helping folks who couldn’t afford tow trucks. I have to give him credit for that; even though we didn’t have much money, he was always helping people out. He once refused payment from a single mother who lived down the road from us, telling her that the problem with her car was nothing but a dirty spark plug. He had actually spent the better part of the morning rebuilding her carburetor. Being only ten, I was about to say something, but a stern glance from him shut me up.
“Just keep the rope tight,” Carl shouted from the cab’s open window. “Don’t forget to put your car in neutral. And release the parking brake if you got it on.”
“Got it,” I said, climbing inside. My car was as cold as a meat locker. I found that the battery had died and I had no wipers or heater. When the road was clear, he stuck his arm out to signal, then his truck lurched forward, yanking my car from the bank sideways out into the street. Twenty minutes later we arrived at his home. He pulled me into his driveway. I set the brake and climbed out.
I gave him my keys, then used his phone to call Victor, a guy who cleaned the school with me. Victor had offered to pick me up if I ever needed a ride. It was an offer that up until now I had declined for two reasons: First, I had my own car and didn’t need a ride. Second, all conversations with Victor inevitably devolved into discussions about UFOs and conspiracy theories. You could be talking about the weather, and he’d bring it around to a diatribe on the government’s cover-up of a flying saucer found in Los Alamos, New Mexico. I rarely agreed (actually never) with his beliefs, and I suspect he believed I was either a dupe or willfully collaborating with some secret government agency that monitors the actions of extraterrestrials here on earth.
Victor arrived about forty-five minutes later and, spurred on by a captive audience, was in good form on our drive into work, covering all the basics of UFO lore, from alien abductions and crop circles to unexplained cow mutilations in southern Utah. He had added something to his repertoire: spontaneous human combustion—informing me that at least twenty-six people spontaneously burst into flames each year and he had taken to carrying a fire extinguisher in the back of his car. He gave me permission to use it on him should he suddenly burst into flames. I suggested we have a practice run, but he found no humor in this.
Victor didn’t stop talking even after we arrived at the school. Still, the time passed quickly, with my mind pleasantly engaged somewhere else. I suppose the heart, like nature, abhors a vacuum, and I had found something, or someone, to put into it. Based on my curious noontime experience at the café, I knew it was possible that I might not ever see Macy again, but still it was pleasant thinking about her.
It was nearly 11 P.M. when Victor dropped me back off at the mechanic’s house. My car was parked out front, which I decided was a good sign. The home was dark except for the glow from the front room television. I knocked on the door. A minute later Carl opened, his hair matted and his eyes glazed from too much TV.
“Sorry it’s so late,” I said. “I just got off work.”
He rubbed his neck. “It’s okay. I got her running.”
“Great.” I waved to Victor and he drove off. “So what was wrong?”
“Timing belt busted. And your battery was dead.”
I remembered enough from the auto shop to know this was expensive news. “How much do I owe you?”
“You got lucky; I found a belt at the junkyard. Fifty bucks for parts and seventy for my time. I didn’t charge you for charging your battery.”
“Thanks,” I said, reaching for my wallet. “I’ve got cash.” I paid him six twenties. It should have been double that. Still it was almost all I had. I’d be eating peanut butter sandwiches and breakfast cereal for the next week.
“Your keys are under the seat. Door’s not locked.”
“Thanks. Have a good night.”
“Yeah.” He shut the door.
I started my car and drove home.
Jam yesterday and Jam tomorrow.
What can I do to hide my sorrow?
Wonderland is gone,
somehow Alice went wrong…
SONG LYRICS FROM MARK SMART’S DIARY
The place I lived was an old two-story Tudor that had been converted into rental units. I lived in the smallest apartment: a studio with a shower-bath with a plastic curtain (illustrated with toaster-sized cartoon goldfish) and a kitchen with a tile sink and counter and a small hot plate. There was no oven, but I didn’t care since I wasn’t really keen on cooking anyway. Rent was only $175 a month, which was good since I didn’t earn much. Even though it was almost midnight, I sat down with my guitar, running my fingers up the smooth back of its varnished neck. I gently strummed it, tuned the third string, then began playing a song I had started writing right after learning my mother had died. I softly sang,
Alice never went back through the looking glass,
And Wonderland never was the same.
I think
back on memories of my childhood years,
But I never can go back again.
If I could take all the hopes of childhood,
The wishes and dreams I once knew,
I’d gather them all if I had the chance,
And trade them back for you.
And Wonderland is gone,
Somehow Alice went wrong,
I think I could find her if I really tried,
But maybe I just don’t belong…
I finished strumming mid-chord, letting the guitar’s echo die in the room. I don’t know why I was torturing myself. Thinking about my mother was hard enough, let alone singing about her. Therapy, I told myself.
Just then there was a knock on my door. I grimaced. Landlord, I thought. My landlord was a peculiar duck. He was in his late seventies, and he lived alone in the apartment directly above me. When I was still deciding on the apartment, he had generously offered me the use of his telephone, an offer he conveniently forgot the first time I asked to use it.
Also, he went to bed early, usually around eight, and was a light sleeper. He hated that I worked late; claiming I always woke him, no matter how quiet I tried to be. If he heard anything from me past ten o’clock, he was down, red-faced and ranting. I laid my guitar next to the couch, then unlocked the dead bolt, bracing for his tirade. I pulled open the door. Macy stood in the dark hallway. For a moment we just stared at each other.
“Did I wake you?” she asked.
“No, I just got home. Come in.”
“Thanks.” She stepped inside, casually surveying the room. Her gaze stopped on my guitar. “Was that you singing?”
“It’s just a song I’ve been working on.”
“You wrote that?” she asked, sounding impressed.
“Yes.”
“You’re very good.”
Her praise pleased me. I walked over to my couch and moved my guitar case. “Have a seat.”
She came over and sat back into my couch. “Nice place. Cozy.” She reached over and touched my guitar. “Do you teach guitar?”
“I used to, back in Alabama. I’ve thought of getting started here, but my life has been so disjointed lately… it’s hard to find students.”