Finding Noel (14 page)

Macy and I made a real date for tomorrow. The difference in my feelings for the girls I've dated before and Macy is the difference between Labor Day and Christmas.

MARK SMART'S DIARY

I woke the next morning with what felt like an emotional hangover.

Shortly before noon I went out to call Macy.

“I talked to Tim,” she said.

“Who's Tim?”

“He's the private eye I told you about. I saw him last night at work. He did a search for my dad, but he couldn't find him. Tim said it usually means one of two things. Either he's in prison or he's moved out of state. From what Bonnie said, both are pretty likely.”

“So should we go out to the prison?”

“I already called. They won't tell you if someone's there or not. It's against the rules.”

“It seems like the government is conspiring to keep you from your sister.”

“It sure feels like it,” she said. “How are things going for you?”

“My aunt called from Alabama. She was in the car with my mother. I made her tell me the details of the accident.”

“Are you okay?”

“It was hard. But I had to know.”

“I'm sorry,” she said. “What else did she say?”

“She wanted to know when I was coming home. She was pretty upset when I told her that I didn't have any plans to return.”

“I can understand that. You're family.”

“The weird thing is she was genuinely concerned about my father. She thinks I need to go see him. That's about the last thing I want to do.”

Macy thought about this. “It's a little ironic, isn't it? I'm upset that I can't find my father. And you're running from yours.”

“I'm not running,” I said. “I just don't want to see him.”

“Sorry,” she said quietly.

I felt stupid for reacting so defensively. “I guess I'm a little sensitive about the whole father thing.”

“Understandably.”

“Do you want to get together?” I asked.

“Of course. When?”

“When
don't
you work?”

“I can get tomorrow night off.”

“May I take you on a date?”

Her voice lightened. “A real date?”

“If that's okay.”

“Sure. What do you want to do?”

“I have something in mind. I'll pick you up at six.”

“What are we doing?”

“It's a surprise. But dress warm. Really warm.”

“Like a parka and boots?”

“Yeah. Like you're going to the North Pole. And don't eat. Oh, and bring a swimsuit.”

“A swimsuit and boots. This sounds interesting. All right. I'll see you tomorrow.”

“Okay. I'll see you then.”

“Can't wait.”

We went up into the canyons as friends. We came back
down something else. I'm not sure what
,
but definitely something else.

MARK SMART'S DIARY

The next morning I taught my first guitar lesson. My student was a thirteen-year-old boy who wanted to be a heavy-metal guitarist and kept pounding his guitar like a tom-tom. His mother had picked up one of the flyers from the coffee shop. She dropped him off at my apartment with twenty dollars and the guitar he got for his birthday.

After lunch I drove to a nearby supermarket and bought groceries for our date. It took me nearly an hour to prepare the meal, which was probably more time than I had spent in the kitchen in the last three months. I picked Macy up at six. I took her up Big Cottonwood Canyon near the southeast end of the valley. A third of the way up the canyon, I pulled off the road into a campground.

When we had parked, I took from my trunk a shovel I had borrowed from my landlord, pushed the snow from the closest picnic table, and laid a vinyl tarp across the bench. I then retrieved from my car a bundle of firewood, some newspaper, matches, a plastic water jug and a small red Igloo cooler.

Macy came out of the car and watched as I chopped some of the larger pieces of wood into kindling, then built a teepee
and laid the larger wood around it. In less than five minutes we had a roaring fire.

“I'm guessing you were an Eagle Scout,” Macy said.

“I was a Life Scout.”

“What's that?”

“One badge shy of an Eagle Scout.”

“That's why you're so good with fires?”

“That has nothing to do with it. I'm really just a pyromaniac like every other man on the planet.”

“What is it with men and fire?”

“I think it's primordial, cavemen cooking their catch.”

She smiled with understanding. “So, caveman. What's for dinner?”

I took two large foil packets from the cooler. “Patty melts with onions, carrots and potatoes.”

I took the shovel and pushed away some of the coals. I filled two paper cups with water from the jug, then poured in each a packet of hot chocolate mix.

“How are we going to heat the water?” she asked.

“Watch this.” Using a pair of tongs, I carefully set the paper cups in the flames.

She looked at me doubtfully. “
What
are you doing?”

“Just watch.”

The flames ignited the wax rims of the cup, searing them both black, but nothing else burned. After a few minutes the chocolate was boiling in the paper cups. “That is so cool,” Macy said. “How did you know it wouldn't melt the cup?”

“Life Scout,” I said.

The sun set, leaving the campsite illuminated only by the fire and moonlight. I laid out silverware, and then I pulled our dinners from the fire. The foil was black with ashes and the juices sizzled inside. When I peeled back the foil, the food steamed in the cold air. I set one of the meals in front of Macy.

“Be careful, they're hot.”

She poked at her dinner with a fork. “I can see that.”

Macy speared a carrot, blew on it then ate it. She smiled. Then she tried the meat. “That's really good. I've never cooked over a campfire before,” Macy said, “or under it.”

“I used to go camping with my friend and his dad. There's nothing better than food cooked over a campfire.”

“Did your own dad ever take you camping?”

“There are two kinds of families in this world: those who camp and those who don't. We were a
don't.
”

“The Hummels were a
don't
too. Dick—Mr. Hummel—took us once. It was also our last family outing.”

“What happened?”

“Nothing in particular. It's just—some people make life harder than it needs to be. Everything in that home was a drama.” She sighed. “I'm so glad I never have to see them again.”

When we finished eating, I went back to my car and brought back two hangers I had unbent for roasting marshmallows. I reached into the sack and brought out a package of graham crackers, a bag of marshmallows and two Hershey chocolate bars. “S'mores,” I said.

“I love s'mores.”

“Of course you do. They're made with chocolate.”

“You haven't known me for two weeks, and you already know all you need to know to get along with me.”

Macy's marshmallows kept igniting like a torch until I taught her how to carefully rotate them above the coals. After we finished eating, I said, “I have one more surprise.” I went back to my car and retrieved my guitar. She clapped when she saw it.

“I was hoping you'd play for me.”

“I was hoping you'd say that.”

We sat on the picnic bench facing the fire, and I played for nearly an hour. Being with Macy was wonderful. The moon was bright above us, illuminating the campground in a solemn blue hue beneath the trees' skeletal canopy. The snow dampened the sound of my guitar and the notes fell deep and stirring. Macy became very reflective and the flames from the fire danced in her eyes. After seven or eight songs I lay the guitar flat on the picnic table.

“I could listen to you for hours,” Macy said softly.

“I love the guitar. There's no pretense to it. It is what it is.”

“Sounds like you're talking about yourself,” Macy said.