15 Tales of Love (14 page)

“I’ve had a bad week.”

“It must have been to leave you like this.” Lila’s fingers moved along the back of Iris’s neck, pressed into the base of her skull, pushed against her shoulder blades. The pain was exquisite.

Iris expelled a long shuddering breath. “You do know where to find the sore places.”

“That’s easy with all these knots in your tendons. What you need to do is slow down and enjoy the day. It’s lovely weather, and it won’t last.”

Iris didn’t comment. She knew Lila was right, but didn’t see any way to do it.

Lila kneaded her upper back for a moment, probing all of Iris’s tensions, then said companionably, “I took your advice and hired that nice lookin’ Troy Davis to clean up my yard for fall, trim up my bushes and plant some new tulips. All that stuff I don’t have time for.”

“He’ll do a good job for you.”

Lila found another of Iris’s painful spots and worked her fingers into it.

Iris gasped. “Whew. That hurts!”

“Sometimes it has to. I got to get those kinks out, take care of what’s hurtin’ you.”

Iris couldn’t answer. It was too close to the solution she didn’t want to face. No one should be hurt.
Least of all my mother.

But Troy’s comment was still there: you’re the one being hurt.

Lila worked in silence for a moment, more gently, rubbing without the deep probing. “So what’s wrong?” she asked. “What’s makin’ you all knotted up? It can’t be that nice Troy.”

“Partly,” Iris said.

Lila found another of the tight places and pushed at it, making Iris wince. “Your momma.” There was certainty in Lila’s voice. “She don’t like you havin’ a serious boyfriend. Even a nice one like Troy.”

Iris wished for a moment she hadn’t confided in her therapist quite so much, but there was no one else she trusted, and she had to talk to someone.

Lila worked a few moments more without comment. Then she said quietly, “She don’t want to see things your way ‘cause she likes things like they are. She’s like that mule in the old joke.”

“What’s that?”

“Somebody asked the old guy why he always hit the mule on the head with a two-by-four whenever he wanted work done. He said first he had to get the mule’s attention.”

Iris said, “Oh.” She did need to get her mother’s attention, to make her realize that Iris had another interest.

“Nobody wants to change a good thing, and your momma has a good thing goin’, but you got to get rid of these knots of yours. You’re killin’ yourself by inches.”

Iris didn’t answer. She couldn’t.

“Somebody should maybe tell your momma what’s she’s doin’ to you.”

“She wouldn’t believe it.” Iris knew that was true. Her mother didn’t want to see what was happening to Iris. She realized suddenly that her mother had always been self-centered, even when Iris was young, always expecting others to do things for her. Was that what her father had meant, to continue the support her mother had always expected?

Lila’s now gentler fingers worked into Iris’s neck muscles, soothing away the rigidness and easing her closer to the edge of sleep, bringing the needed relaxation, coaxing away the tension, clearing her mind a little.

Lila said thoughtfully, “Maybe you should tell your momma that if you marry Troy she’ll have a permanent yard man and he won’t cost her nothin’.”

Iris almost laughed. Somebody, she knew, both surely and sadly, had to explain things to her mother, and she didn’t want Troy to be the one to tell her. It wasn’t his place to face her mother’s wrath. It was hers alone, if she wanted a life with Troy
. If he stands beside me, supporting me, offering his strength, I think I can do it.

“But she would still have to deal with all the other stuff in her life, paying the bills, getting her groceries.”

“So? All the rest of us have to. That’s life.” The therapist’s fingers moved slowly down Iris’s back toward her waist, soothingly massaging the tight muscles.

Iris closed her eyes. She let herself relax and think about those hurts that actually felt good. She recalled other pain-going back to the gym after months of inactivity, and before that the weeks of physical therapy after the badly broken ankle that had kept her on crutches for over two months. The agony of sore muscles had, of course, gone away after a few weeks of regular use and regained their former firmness.

All of that, the broken bones, the slow healing, the needed therapy, the gradual return of her muscles to usefulness, had been painful, sometimes excruciatingly so, but Iris had endured it in order to grow stronger again, to be what she had been before the skiing accident. Couldn’t her mother do the same? Didn’t she have to? All she had to do was see the need and do it, as Iris had.

Of course she’ll resent it, being forced to do what she doesn’t want to do. I would, too, but don’t I have a right to live my life as I want to? If Mom would just face the fact that she has to move on, that she has to get stronger to care for herself. Have I actually done too much for her for too long? And watching Mom go through that will hurt me, too. She’ll be angry. Can I stand against that, even with Troy’s help? Won’t I just give in as I always do when she starts crying? Troy says he isn’t asking me to choose, but I have to. And Troy is what I want.

Lila’s fingers again found the stiffness in Iris’s neck and gently manipulated the knotted cords. She asked, “So when are you an’ Troy getting hitched?”

Iris finally knew what she would do, what she wanted to do. She knew that somehow, with Troy’s help, she would find the will to do it, to stand by their decision
. I have to, and it is our decision!
She said, as if the plan had been made some time ago and not just now, “In the spring. That will give me time enough to plan a wedding. I always thought I’d like June roses.”

And
to arrange where we will live, to get Mom used to the idea, to convince Ben and Robyn they have to take a little more responsibility.

Lila said, “And maybe time enough for your momma to get used to the idea she’s goin’ to have that nice son-in-law.”

Iris sighed. “Yes. And for me, too.”

Lila said seriously, “It will be hard on you, you know. You and your momma, letting it all go, makin’ all those changes.”

“It will, and it will hurt me, too.” She shrugged her still tense shoulders. “But with Troy to help . . .”

Lila closed her hands around Iris’s arms. “Go find him and have lunch with him, tell him that you decided you’re gonna do this.”

Iris wondered how Lila had known, had it been that obvious she was still torn, still debating? She said, “I’ll do that.”

“I would, before you change your mind, and before you see your momma. You’re going to need his help beside you.”

She knew where Troy was working today. She’d stop by the deli and pick up his favorite ham and Swiss sandwich. She did need some help and support, and she knew where it was–in Troy’s very capable arms.

And it is my life. Mom’s had hers. Now it’s my turn.

MIRAGE OF THE MIND

Callie Barton envisioned herself at the upcoming Spring Arts Gala wearing a new powder blue strapless cocktail dress with a sparkling, fitted bodice and a filmy skirt billowing out around her knees. She would wear high-heeled silver sandals, a glittering blue necklace, rhinestone earrings, and several bracelets. She imagined sipping champagne from a delicate glass, surrounded by a group of admiring young men. Music wafted by from the unseen orchestra and a handsome stranger offered his hand and asked if she’d like to dance. She accepted graciously, smiling at him.

The phone beside her jangled, jarring her back to her drab reality. It took a few seconds to orient herself, pick up the handset, and say pleasantly if automatically, “Good afternoon, Brant Organic Foods, how may I help you?”

The caller was a regular customer. Callie exchanged pleasantries with the woman, wrote out the order, and put the phone down. She was again fully aware of the pile of papers on her desk that she had to deal with, and the depressing office around her: the beige walls in need of some fresh paint, a few uninspiring pictures, her scarred desk, and the row of faded olive green filing cabinets behind her. The only bright spot in the room was a big-leaf orange begonia on the window sill that she had brought in to try to create some cheer.

Looking despondently at the pile of still-to-be-filed invoices, she recalled the lovely dress she had seen last weekend in the mall boutique.
I have no new dress and I won’t have one since I can’t afford it, and there is no way I would ever wear a strapless dress anyway. And why think about going to the Gala at all? Who is there to go with? There is nobody who will ask me.

She sighed audibly, picked up the phone again, punched in the number of the salesman in whose territory the order was wanted. When a deep voice answered, she asked, “Jack, are you anywhere near Collinsburg? I got a call from the Peters . . .”

She knew there was no reason to torture herself with thoughts of a festive affair she would not attend. She shouldn’t spend so much time daydreaming but sometimes it was all she had, and such dreams had seen her through other dark periods in her life, providing a glimmer of hope that things might improve.

But now it was back to work for another day with no hope of anything better.

But on another overcast morning, Callie again pictured herself at the Gala. This time, her long blond hair was swept up into a fantasy of ringlets cascading over one shoulder, held in place by a glittering amethyst hair clasp. Her shimmering black dress fit smoothly over her hips, hugging her thighs before flaring out into a frothy flutter of ruffles along one side. Yesterday, she had looked longingly at the dress in the window of an expensive boutique in the mall. She pictured it with the dreamy pair of black three-inch heels she had seen in the window of the Danskin Store. They would go so well with the dress. She again imagined the circle of admiring young men . . .

I don’t know many men, admiring or otherwise.
I can’t afford the dress and I have no place to wear the shoes. Or the dress, either.

She sighed and turned back to the pile of invoices on her desk that she had entered into her computer and now had to file. Her salary, while adequate, did not extend to high-priced clothes she had no use for, but she thought about the upcoming Gala anyway. It was preferable to the boring job of filing, especially in damp gloomy weather when she couldn’t even go outside.

The Spring Arts Gala was the introduction to the local tourist season, sponsored by several artists’ associations to promote their summer fairs and exhibits and to showcase new work done during the winter. The event was held at the country club and featured a good dance band, lots of gourmet food, and a chance to meet everybody of any importance.

Callie had never attended. She had never been invited, but an invitation wasn’t necessary. Anyone could go–the purpose of the event was to raise money–but tickets were expensive. She wasn’t an artist, although she enjoyed looking at exhibits. She personally knew only a couple of the artists and she did not know them well. Attending was something she dreamed about every spring, going and wearing one of the fabulous dresses she saw in the mall.

But I won’t go alone! That isn’t the point.

A corner of her mind told her that it might be a good neutral place to meet someone, but she ignored it.
Most people go as couples. What chance would there be for me?

She heard the outer door open and turned to see who was coming in, but it was only Mitch Grover, the stock room and shipping manager, with the armful of the day’s mail. She sighed. “Hi, Mitch.”

He smiled at her, his usual shy but engaging grin. “Don’t sound so glad to see me.”

“I’m always glad to see you. You bring me more work to do.” She glanced up at him, noted as always that he had nice golden brown eyes and a pleasant and lightly freckled round face. “At least the mail might have something interesting in it.”

“Doubt it,” he said, dumping the pile on her desk. “And it’s going to rain.”

“Better rain than snow.”

He laughed softly. “I think we’re all through with snow for this year–it is April.”

She looked up from the pile of mail and saw that he hadn’t moved away from her desk. She realized that he wanted to talk.
But what do I say to him? All he knows, ever talks about, is this job. “
How’s everything out back?”

He shrugged. “As usual. At least we’ll be getting in fresh local stuff pretty soon. That’s always better.”

“’Tis,” she said.

Callie knew that Mitch did his job very well, had been doing it for several years, and that he actually enjoyed the challenges of shipping organic produce and keeping it fresh. She had been working here for six months and she had no idea how he accomplished what he did.

She said, “Time marches on. As always.”

“Yes.” He paused. “Spring is coming.”

We go through this almost every morning. Can’t we talk about something besides work and weather? Doesn’t he have any interests outside of that warehouse? What about art or music, or even movies? And why does he want to talk to me anyway?

She said,
“Thank goodness,” without looking at him.

Mitch turned away, “Have a good one.”

She sensed he was disappointed, wondered why, and shrugged it off. “You, too.”

She was momentarily resentful, and suppressed that, too. Mitch was one of the few unmarried men in the company, the only one she actually worked with. He was pleasant enough and not bad looking, but such a dull bore, never talking about anything but his work.

I need to get out of here, go where there are exciting people, people who do things, go places, talk about books and plays. Mitch doesn’t even talk about television shows. Or the Red Sox, as if I cared about them, either. Maybe I should go to the Gala, even if no one asks me.

But she wouldn’t; it wasn’t what she wanted. She wanted a date, a man who was interested in her.
I need a different job.

Callie knew finding another position right now would be next to impossible. Nobody was hiring. Many places were downsizing and some going out of business. She began opening the mail, putting checks in one pile, orders in another, setting aside a couple of letters for her boss, Arthur Brant, and throwing the junk in the wastebasket.

Nothing new, just the same old orders and payments.

There shouldn’t be anything else, and dealing with them was what she was paid to do.
I had best get on with doing it. And stop dreaming about the impossible.

She sighed, set the new orders aside, and began adding up the stack of checks. Mr. Brant would want a preliminary total as soon as he came in.

The dress was lavender chiffon with a gathered sweetheart neckline. It featured double spaghetti straps, a wide, deep purple velvet band at the dropped waist, and a gently flowing skirt with a satin lining.
My amethyst hair clip would look so nice with that,
she thought as she gazed through the boutique’s show window.
And I could borrow Angie’s amethyst necklace.
She knew her sister would lend it for a proper occasion
. And the Gala is a very proper occasion.
Callie envisioned the dress with sparkling silver sandals, and herself twirling on the dance floor in the arms of an expert dancer. She loved to dance and hadn’t been to an affair since college two years ago.

She turned away from the window, wondering why she always stopped to look and torture herself with longing, but she knew the answer to that. She had spent her high school and community college days with barely enough money to survive, never dressed in the latest fashion, never part of the social scene. She had not attracted any of the real hunks, just an occasional wolf who soon lost interest when no casual sex was offered. She had no time for extra-curricular activities because she always held a part-time job. Her widowed mother had nothing extra for four children, as hard as she worked to support them all. As the oldest, Callie had done her part to help the others as well as providing for her own education. There had never been enough money.

And all for what? To have a not-very-much-above-minimum wage job, and a not very inspiring one at that?

Callie went into the hardware store for the screwdriver she needed to tighten the shelf in her bathroom. A modest apartment had its share of minor repairs, but they were repairs she had learned to cope with years ago, and she rarely had to call the apartment house manager. She could usually do the work quicker herself, and the way she wanted it done. The manager had agreed that she did a good job and was grateful when she did it, and even provided her with an occasional potted plant as a thank you.

Too bad he’s happily married!

When Mitch Grover dropped the armful of mail on her desk, several pieces slid off onto the floor. “Oops,” he said, bending to pick them up, “I’m clumsy today.” He didn’t look at her.

Callie thought that sounded odd. Mitch was never clumsy. He was one of the most efficiently organized people she knew. “Is something wrong?”

“I’m not sure.” He straightened and put the letters on the pile. “Has Mr. Brant said anything to you?”

“About what? He doesn’t really talk to me, you know, other than about work.”

Mitch chewed at his lower lip, still regarding the pile of mail. “I heard him talking to one of the drivers, something about one of the big farms we deal with closing. I asked him about it and he said it was a rumor and not to worry about it.”

Surprised that he would tell her such things, Callie said, “Oh.” Then asked, “How much difference would that make?”

“It could make a lot.”

She heard his concern, some doubt about the future maybe. Knowing very little about the suppliers, she again said, “Oh.”

Mitch was still standing beside her desk but not looking at her. “And then there’s the problem with the loading dock.”

“What problem?”

“Well . . .” he hesitated a moment as if wondering if he should talk about it. “There’re some repairs that need doing and Mr. Brant keeps putting it off. That’s not like him. He’s usually on top of everything.”

“Major repairs? Like it’s dangerous out there?”

“Oh, no, just a railing that is starting to loosen up, some skids and things that should be moved. Stuff that could be fixed quickly if they’d just do it now. It’s not like him to let it go.”

She considered that. “Is the company in trouble?” She didn’t think so. Orders were generally being paid on time, the number hadn’t decreased, and they got a new customer now and again.

“I couldn’t say. Really. I don’t think so.” He straightened and turned away. “I guess we shouldn’t worry about it, Callie. I’ve got work to do.”

She watched him go with an uneasiness growing in her stomach. Mitch rarely called her by name. She returned to her own work, but continued to think about it.
Did he want to have a real conversation for a change, maybe talk about something important? Is there a problem with the company I should know about? What was he trying to tell me?
She didn’t like that idea at all. Dreary as the job might be, it was a job she knew.
And the people here aren’t all that bad, either.

During her coffee break she walked out through the warehouse to the loading dock, a place she had been only a few times since she had little reason to go there. As Mitch had said, there was a stack of broken skids at one side, all of which could be easily repaired. She put her hand on the railing and found that it wobbled. Tightening it would be fairly simple, probably just a matter of a brace and a couple of screws.
I could do that myself.

“I don’t see you out here very often,” Mitch said from behind her. “Something wrong?”

She turned around to look at him. He was carrying a stained and chipped Patriots coffee mug. She knew he had a coffee maker in his office, but didn’t he ever wash his cup?

“I was just curious about what you said.” She looked at the broken pallets. “It is a bit unsightly.”

“To say the least. I wonder if I should go ahead and fix things.” Mitch sipped at his coffee, regarding the pile. “But it’s Kevin’s job. I’ve mentioned it to him, but he said he hadn’t been told to do it.” He looked out over the dock into the parking area. “He doesn’t do anything unless it’s spelled out.”

Callie laughed shortly. “In words of one syllable.”

“Right. He doesn’t like to work and mending the pallets would be work.”

Kevin Brant was what some people kindly referred to as “a bit slow.” Callie didn’t like him. He was a little scary, and he made her uncomfortable. He rarely smiled, and complained about whatever work he was given, but he usually did a good enough job once it was explained to him. He was her boss’s cousin and Callie knew the position was a kind of charity.