***
Minutes dissolved into the unrelenting cold as both men acceded to their surging emotions. Mercifully, the breeze had died down and the snow continued falling amidst the utter stillness.
Walt slowly stood up and turned about, satisfied for the moment that he’d exhausted some of his pent up grief. Not far away stood his best friend and the minister. Then out of nowhere—a thought, a memory that had eluded him for far too many years. He stepped forward with a new sense of urgency, long strides eating up the distance. Once within proximity to the pair, he stood patiently and waited for them to finish.
Father Whitten shook Buck’s hand one last time and Walt began walking slowly toward him. “Father, I can’t thank you enough for being here for Buck.”
“Well, I was here for Buck and Linny. You’ll let me know if there’s anything else I can do, won’t you?”
Walt shook his hand firmly, “Absolutely, Father. Thank you again.” The preacher smiled warmly and then went to stand next to Molly and wait for Buck to ride back to the house. Walt continued walking a few more feet until he stood right next to Buck.
“I remember, not long after the two of you met, you told me she’d found you when you weren’t looking.” Buck looked up at him questioningly. “What do you mean?”
“Linny. You told me you weren’t looking when she found you. Remember that?”
Buck nodded, slowly at first, then more rapidly as the memory returned. “Yeah, okay, I remember that now. But I don’t see…”
Walt held up his hand. “I remember how much it took you to finally summon the courage to tell her how you really felt. I threatened to steal her from you if you didn’t tell her, remember?”
Buck looked down at his boots and kicked mindlessly at the snow. “I didn’t think you would do it, until you said, ‘Try me.’”
Walt grinned a little. “I know you weren’t real happy about that.”
“No, not at all. But I have to admit, that’s what finally forced me to tell her I knew I loved her.”
Walt shrugged slightly. “And? Wasn’t I right?”
“Yes, that time.” Buck sniffed then produced a sheepish grin.
“And what did she tell you once you finally opened up?”
Buck dropped his head again, then looked up, straight faced. “She said it was scary. She wasn’t at all certain she was worthy of that kind of attention.”
Walt stepped sideways, for no good reason other than to change his view a little. “Obviously you didn’t give up on her.”
“I couldn’t, Walt. I told you that.”
“Several times, I recall.” Walt waited, hoping to see the light go on above Buck’s head.
“My point, Buck, is that I’d bet you have much the same feeling right now—that same sort of scariness that she felt. Sure the situation is different, but the emotion is probably much the same. If there are feelings where she is now, I’d bet the farm that she’s just as scared now to be without you as you are without her.”
Buck stared intently at Walt, then turned and waved to Father Whitten, acknowledging he’d be there soon. Turning back, he extended his hand to Walt, pulling him in to a hug only deep friendship can define.
Walt knew he got the message.
Buck stepped back then and turned to face the pine-branch cross. Walt asked what many others wanted to know.
“Buck, y’know we’ll be around to help as long as you need us; it’s what we do. But what about you…what’re you gonna do now?” He looked around as if the answer would appear shimmering in the pallid air. “Maybe head somewhere warmer, without snow?”
Buck knelt on one knee, gently embedding it in the snow and thoughtfully removed his hat, giving it a last careful brush off. Leaning forward, he hung the hat from the makeshift cross. The ever-present breeze rocked it lightly from side to side.
“I’ve already begun,” he said, still staring at the hat as it fidgeted on the marker.
“I don’t getcha’.”
“I always looked forward to seeing her at the end of the day.” Buck paused and wiped his eyes, wanting to blame the snow for stinging them, but knowing it was blameless. “Remember when we were kids, and we’d jump from the hayloft into those huge bales of cotton below?”
Walt dug his hands deeper into his coat pocket and grinned. “Yeah.”
“Coming home to Linny was a lot like that, Walt. I mean, sure, sometimes you’d be uncertain or intimidated by the drop. But the fall was always exhilirating and the landing always soft…and warm.” Buck rose and stepped back to stand alongside Walt, both men enveloped by winter’s wide expanse and the wind’s bitter caress. For a moment the only sound came from the hat as it rapped against the cross. Buck’s mournful sigh punctuated the moment.
“I’ve already begun missing her, Walt. I miss her voice and her smile. A huge part of me is gone.” He paused to pull his handkerchief from his back pocket and wipe his eyes again. Walt did the only appropriate thing he could do—just listened attentively.
Buck’s tired eyes never lifted from Linny’s grave. “So, what will I do next?” Walt looked up from the grave to his friends face.
Buck exhaled deeply, his breath captured in the ensuing vapor, then looked skyward and squinted, extending his glove-clad hand, palm up. Both men watched silently as snowflakes lit upon the worn hide and melted. “I’m gonna’ start by learning to love the snow.”
Streetlamp
Ethereal wisps of smoke and fine dust helped define the amber rays of dusk that lit the otherwise melancholy sidewalk bar. Like filtered sunlight through aching clouds, each stray beam of light was created by obstacles that blocked its intrusion: a railing, louver blinds, and the limbs of a small tree growing, almost inappropriately, at the curb. Paul’s eyes itched from all the smoke and dry air. He hated the discomfort, but was too unmotivated to move. He’d been comfortable sitting in the same spot most of the day, almost settled in—in a temporary sort of way. He’d read the same newspaper several times over, the business section currently in his lap. Leaning back in his chair, he crossed one ankle over his thigh, creating a figure-four parallel to the floor. His ever-drifting concentration—or lack thereof—made it difficult to rationally process the crests and valleys of thought and emotion rising and falling within.
Paul Modun, he thought, gazing out the window at the late afternoon. He sighed only loud enough to hear it himself. A woman with long black hair and beautiful piercing eyes strolled by. Mournfully he closed his eyes. Paul Moron. Yes. Definitely moron. Much more the part I think. He added this latest self-deprecation to his long list of things to analyze and anguish over later, too maudlin to consider it now. The front door opened with a familiar creak, allowing a quick exchange of fresh air for stale. Soon it too would be used up.
A familiar and expected voice spilled across his once solitary table. “Damn, Paul, been here awhile today?”
“Give it a rest, Bobby,” Paul groaned.
Bobby gave the interior a cursory once-over before assertively seating himself. “You’re right, I should. Let’s just have a nice quiet conversation.”
Paul turned to face Bobby and then rubbed his eyes. “Sure,” he sighed. “Pick a topic.”
Fifteen years Bobby had known Paul, and in all that time he’d always known him to be the level-headed type, seemingly always on an even keel. But his recent heartbreak had reduced even Paul’s otherwise steely resolve. He wanted—no, needed—to get Paul’s mind off the reason he had been sitting in the bar all day. Bobby’s eyes sparked as he asked, “Okay. Looks like you’ve got the newspaper absorbed, so what’s news?”
“Not much. Same stuff, different day.” Awkward silence enveloped them, despite the happy-hour clamor.
The waitress materialized seemingly from nowhere—the second for Paul today. Bobby pointed at one of the six empties on the butcher-block table and nodded. She smiled and glanced at Paul. Bobby nodded again, and she disappeared into the darkening bar.
“So then, let’s
drink!” Bobby said.
“To?” asked Paul, wearily
Bobby looked unflinchingly at his friend. “No women,” he said.
Paul lowered his stare to the paper in his lap.
“C’mon buddy,” pleaded Bobby. “You’re better off without her. Dude, cheer up, would ya’?”
“I’m sure you’re right,” Paul moaned.
“When have I ever not been right?” Bobby grinned while leaning back in his chair for the first time, arms splayed wide in questioning modesty.
“You really don’t want me to answer that, do you?” Paul retorted.
“No. It was a rhetorical question anyways.” Bobby was a one-trick pony but was utterly at ease with it. Romance didn’t suit him; lowbrow living did. He admired, even respected, the comfort of the moment.
Again the leggy waitress appeared. She wore glasses and had a librarian presence about her. Not Bobby’s type, but…
She put two cold bottles on the table with a thunk.
“Would you consider going out with my friend here?” Bobby proffered, without prior discussion, of course.
“Me?” Her voice was softer than Paul had imagined. He’d watched her gentle, efficient manner since she started her shift. Bobby just nodded emphatically and supported his temple against his index finger.
“I don’t know. Does he speak?” she asked.
Paul cut in. “I apologize for my friend here. He lacks many a social grace but he means well.” Bobby just smirked. She tipped her head toward Bobby.
“C’mon, buddy,” Bobby implored. “Look at her. She’s really pretty, seems nice enough, bet she likes to do fun things once in a while. What’s wrong with getting to know her?”
Paul hastily flipped the business section to the floor. “Did it occur to you that maybe she doesn’t like being come onto by derelicts or, in your case, assholes?”
“That’s a little strong, sir,” she said. “You’ve just been so quiet. I wouldn’t know what to say if you did actually ask me. I’ll be back in a bit to see how you’re doing.”
“Please, don’t call me sir. That’s for those deserving of title. Paul is fine.” He managed a forced grin.
“Okay…Paul,” she said. “Anything else you’d like? I noticed you’ve been sitting here awhile, you must be hungry.”
“Ask for her phone number,” Bobby whispered loud enough for half the patrons to hear. Paul shot one palm toward Bobby “Do you mind?” He looked downward again, half embarrassed, half ashamed. He looked up again at the waitress, feeling both sheepish and annoyed by Bobby’s outburst. “No, thank you, I’m fine, really.”
“Okay,” she said, smiling sweetly, and disappeared into a dim mixture of neon and fluorescent light.
“I thought we were drinking to no women?” Paul asked.
“Yeah, that’s good,” agreed Bobby.
“It is.”
The sweat on the bottles reflected the dying sunlight as it struggled to stay alive. Paul sat and watched the streetlamp next to the tree slowly flicker on, unlatching the blinds and swinging the panel open for an unobstructed view of it.
Bobby’s worn fingers clenched his beer bottle and raised it aloft.
“To getting my friend back,” he said.
Paul raised his bottle as well, tapping the neck against the barrel of Bobby’s bottle. He nodded knowingly in response. He liked the clinking sound. It was comfortable. He liked comfortable. He had to be careful not to get too drunk. He was starting to like the alcohol, and it scared him—but not too much.
Bobby stared at the TV that was just above the rows of backlit liquor bottles behind the bar. It hung there as a noisy companion to the brewery-sponsored neon and Day-Glow promotional signs. Bobby found romance in the elegant flight of a well-thrown football. He sipped at his now half-empty bottle.
“Wanna’ shoot some stick?” he asked Paul.
“Pool is a good game. Requires focus. Concentration.” Paul sat motionless.
“It’s actually called billiards, if you wanna’ split hairs,” Bobby corrected.
“Very right you are,” Paul confirmed.
“Any way you look at it, it’s a good game,” Bobby countered.
“Yes. It is.” The tip of his beer bottle seemed to point to the man lighting his female companion’s cigarette a few tables over. The tip of the cigarette glowed like an earthbound star.
“So, do you want to play, or just sit and talk?” Bobby prodded.
“I’m comfortable here. Been here most of the day, you know. I’d really hate to lose my spot,” Paul mused. He was really trying to be careful. He couldn’t get drunk.
“Yeah, okay. Where is that cute waitress?” asked Bobby, looking around the room.
Paul shrugged and slogged down the last of number seven.
“Hey, Bobby?”
“Yeah?” He looked closely at Paul. His eyes were bloodshot. He looked so time worn and weary.
Paul hesitated; leaning in on his forearms, he turned to stare at the growing presence of the streetlamp. He spoke at the window, seeing his own lips move in the glass. “You can’t imagine how it is to love, to wait, and want.”
“If it’s what I’m seeing right now, no thanks. What’s the use? She’ll go off with someone else. You can’t trust ’em, Paul.” Bobby hefted his bottle again, “Here’s to no women!” he said to no one in particular.
Paul hoisted one of his empties. “No women!” he blurted, rather loudly.
“What ya’ gotta do to get a beer in this place?” Bobby grumbled. “I’ll be right back. You want another? C’mon, we’re drinkin’, remember?”
“Yes. We are. And we’re good at it, too. I’ll have another,” declared Paul.
“You got it, buddy.” Bobby shuffled off to a distant corner of the bar.
Paul turned back to the window and cradled his chin against the heels of his palms, elbows planted firmly on the table. A couple walked into the triangle of light underneath the lamp. The man wore a business suit and pushed aside a tree limb as they strode by. The woman had on a very plain but pleasing skirt and white blouse. Her shoulder-length hair bobbed with each step. They held hands as they passed through the lamp’s glow. Darkness had finally claimed the street for now.
“Paul, are you okay?” Her voice was instantly recognizable. The waitress Bobby couldn’t find materialized tableside. He could see her soft reflection in the window. Nightfall had given the glass a mirror-like quality so he didn’t have to move much. His chair was part of him—very comfortable. Good to be comfortable and not drunk, he thought.
“Paul?”
He turned slowly as he spoke. “Yeah,” he looked up at her. “I’m okay.”
She sat down as she spoke. “I saw your friend at the bar talking to Sarah, so I thought I’d come over and see how you were doing…” Something wasn’t right in his eyes; she could see it. They weren’t just blue in color.
With a feather-light touch her fingers rested on his hand. He felt warmth and concern, a total stranger showing compassion. Paul glanced up, eyes moist.
“What do you make of that?” he asked her.
Puzzled, she asked, “What? Make of what?”
“That,” he motioned out the window. “The streetlamp.”
“Umm,” she began, “I guess I see something that helps remove a little bit of darkness so we can see.” She paused for a moment, trying to ponder the question amidst the conversational hum of the bar. “Gives some small measure of security to make us see what we couldn’t before. Tell me what you see.”
Paul stared through the reflecting glass into the light, focusing intently on the lamp.
“I see mechanical moonlight. It’s man made, but romantic. But when the sun comes up, the promise of romance fades, and so the moonlight goes out.”
She looked at it again, and squirmed a little in the chair. “But it’s always there,” she stated softly.
Paul looked at her again. She could see the overhead light reflecting off the gathering moisture i
n his eyes. Smiling as best she could, she stared, unsure of what to say.
“It’s so long. So good. So cruel. Love is good, isn’t it? Don’t you think?” he asked. He was feeling a little warmer now. He’d been so careful not to get drunk.
She looked one last time at the solitary lamp and gently nodded her agreement, “Yes, it is. If nothing else, love is hopeful.”
“I wish you hadn’t said that.”
“I’m sorry, just thinking out loud,” she replied.
“It’s okay.” He managed a weak, numb smile. “Really. Thank you.”
“I’ll, uh, send your friend back over.” She leaned over so he could hear her with clarity. “Let me know if you need anything, okay?” She smiled and gently patted his shoulder as she stood up.
“I will,” he promised.
He gathered the newspaper, now dog-eared and crumpled, and set the empty bottles neatly on top of it. The streetlamp cast a pale hue upon the newsprint. It was a comfortable thing, and he liked being comfortable.
Once again the front door creaked open, as it had many times over the hours he’d quartered himself at the now almost familial table. A middle-aged couple slipped through it, wordlessly, and strode into the pale evening on the other side of the glass. He watched, almost in hushed reverence, as they walked arm in arm past the streetlamp. As they did so, his eyes followed the lamp from its base all the way to the lithe arch which held the lamp aloft. Floating serenely, just above the arch, was a creamy-gray moon and a few companion stars surrounding it, twinkling as if trying to speak to him.
Paul rubbed his eyes one more time—part habit from the smoke irritation and part to clear the mist from them. In the window’s reflection he could see Bobby making his way back to the table, a reminder of the comfortable numbness he’d been nurturing.
A last wistful glance from the lamp then up again at the moon. “Shine on,” he whispered to both, “the sun will rise soon enough.”
The sun would be up soon, he thought.