Embrace Me (6 page)

We're a rather low-key group off-season.

“Where'd Augustine go?” I tuck a napkin into Lella's collar.

“He seems like such a lovely person.” Lella. “Thank you, Valentine.”

Rick reaches for the egg salad. “One of his people came by. Trouble down the street. Maybe an OD. The guy couldn't say.”

Lella gasps. “Oh, dear!”

Bindy grabs the bread plate. “Another junkie off the street would do us all good.”

“Yepper.” Mindy. “That bread looks stale.”

Blaze sits down. “That's enough, you two. Now let's thank the Lord for the food. Thank You, Lord. Amen.”

Blaze doesn't waste time with peripherals.

I make up a sandwich for Lella: egg salad, a crisp leaf of iceberg lettuce on lightly toasted white bread. She bites down after I lift it to her mouth, chews, then says, “Thank you, Valentine.”

Bindy bites down on her own sandwich, then shoves the food into the side of her mouth. “Good grief. Do we have to hear your sorry thank-yous after every bite, Lell?”

Lella tosses her ponytail. “Indeed you do. Every single bite.”

“You really don't have to, Lell.”

“Why not? I'm grateful for each one.”

“This is going to be a long winter.” Mindy.

Blaze screws off the top of the mustard. “For once I agree with the woman.”

Again I hold the sandwich up to Lella's lips, and again she bites and thanks me after she swallows.

I mash my eggs with a fork, break the bread into tiny bits, and mix it all together with a spoonful of mayo.

“I'm sorry,” Lella whispers so nobody will hear. “I'm sorry you can't eat sandwiches, Valentine.”

I rub a circle between her shoulder blades and place a potato chip on her tongue.

I call my dad.

He picks up right away and I ease myself down into the quilt on the single bed in my room. “Hey Daddy.” I try to speak extra clearly. My pronunciation isn't what it used to be.

“Honey pie! How are you this week? Settled in yet?”

“I haven't unpacked my suitcase, but I'm ready to get back into my winter routine.”

“You'll need me to send you supplies.”

“Twice as much as last year. I'm going to be a production machine this winter.”

“You got it.”

My father, a wholesaler of beads and jewelry-making supplies, sells the majority of his wares over the Internet. I not only make jewelry to sell on the road, but on his Web site and on a few other sites that specialize in the artsy/crafty.

“The usual assortment?”

I ask him to load me up a little heavier on the freshwater pearls. “All types. You wouldn't believe how the wire bracelets went. Had a lot of e-mails from brides-to-be requesting if I could do it with pearls and amethysts, garnets and stuff.”

“Nice.”

“Even made some bridal veil headpieces.”

“You don't say? That's great, honey.”

“How's Jody?” My dad's new wife. She's exactly his age, same birthday, same year. That's where any similarity ends. He's a foot-and-a-half taller than she is, he's white and she's Vietnamese, he's Pentecostal in a quiet way and she's Episcopalian and proud of it. My dad is a bead-seller who's never made a piece of jewelry in his life, and Jody makes homemade greeting cards. She sends me one every week. Messages including:

You are loved.

Somebody thinks you're special.

It's not the same without you.

Even though I've never been to their home.

“Jody's good. Still praying for that River Jordon healing experience for you. Can't seem to talk sense into her, but Jody's got the best of intentions. She's got her cards into that new-age store sqecial in Lexington. And down at Third Street Coffee. She's been cutting and pasting like a nut.”

“How are you feeling?”

“Tired. I got the flu a couple of days ago.”

“Well, I may just look like you feel.”

“Honey . . .”

“Sorry, Dad.”

So we chat about his job, about the crew here at the house, and when will I visit, which, basically, Dad, will be the fabled Twelfth of Never.

Imagine me stopping for gas along the way without Rick to do the pumping.

THREE

DREW: 2002

I
f there's a smaller room than mine here at the hotel, the occupant must sleep standing up. I'm guessing mine served as a storage closet at one time. To the left of my bed the wooden floor forms a narrow aisle between my single bed and a grid of rough shelving that checkers the wall. Linen storage in the old days, maybe? Cleaning supplies as well? I could use some cleaning supplies. Today I'll find some, and I will scrub this place from floor to ceiling. Maid service is extra.

After that, I'll head out to take care of business: Pay for my night in this room, buy cigarettes, some cheap gin, and a box of cereal. I prefer Count Chocula, but Life will do if it must.

A guy named Hermy rents a room down the hall. Hermy hangs out at the library all the time, forsaking the computer terminals to wander the stacks in search of interesting statistics. He reminds me of a stand-up comic: short, disheveled, with spiky dark hair and brown eyes with bright flecks of gold near the pupil. Painter's pants, long-sleeved T-shirts, and a bomber jacket hide his fair skin along with black Reeboks and a red bandana tied tightly around his neck. He's always licking his lips.

Usually people with nervous ticks drive me nuts.

This morning he catches me in the hallway on my way to the shower, which for the sake of all humanity I will not describe. “Hey, did you know that 33,183,000 beef cows had calves in 1988?”

I lay my towel on my shoulder. “No kidding.”

“I absolutely kid you not! Milk cows? 10,311,000. That's a lot of calves.”

“You said it.”

“Gotta get to the stacks. You writing today?”

“Yeah.” I told him yesterday I was a writer. High respect, low expectation. Good reason for reclusivity. He asked what I was writing and I said a memoir. That took care of that.

“You guys have the life. Want me to look up writers?” He scratches his nose.

“No thanks. I like to keep the mystery alive.”

He shakes his head. “Why?”

“Tell you what. I need to know a little something about the best treatment for cigarette burns.”

Some of them are looking punky.

“You know it. Gotta have that telling detail.”

“Whoa, Hermy. Nice.”

He hefts his rucksack over his shoulder and makes for the stair-well. When he opens the door, the smell of urine seeps into the hallway. I literally hold my breath and run for it when I leave this place, which I do every morning at ten for my daily needs. I could stock up, but if I do that, I'll die here.

And I'd much rather die someplace else. I mean, who wouldn't?

Although death by Count Chocula, gin, cigarettes, and disillusionment doesn't sound half bad.

An hour later, supplies bought, including a folding chair, I sit on the boardwalk just down from Ripley's Believe It or Not! Museum. It's mild for December, a salty humidity in the cool breeze, and the beach lies in such desertion it's hard to imagine that in seven months you'll hardly be able to find a spot to set down your towel.

When Thanksgiving came the year Daisy showed up, I did what I always did: told my father I had plans with church people, told the church people I planned to celebrate with my family. Holidays were useless in trying to further the church. It was more effective to leave everybody alone with their families to feel good about the true meaning of life without me getting in the way.

I went camping on the Appalachian Trail. Packed my tent, a single person job, a sleeping bag, some canned beans, dry cereal, water, booze, and cigarettes. I didn't drink much back then, only on camping trips and only by myself. And I only smoked in my apartment, to which I never invited anybody. Except Daisy, later. The testimony to uphold never left my shoulders. I had to keep up appearances, and I didn't mind doing so. All part of it.

You all don't major on the minors like we do, and I like that, Father. Of course we don't have to cross ourselves with holy water and the like, and we're not worried about purgatory. That must be a little like having a rain cloud over your head twenty-four hours a day. On second thought, maybe you do know about heavy expectations.

On my way out of Mount Oak I stopped downstairs in Java Jane's. It wasn't quite what it eventually became, a posh yet whimsical place that catered to moms, students, and artsy types. Back then it looked more like the old general store it used to be. The golden wood emitted a sort of glowing comfort, and I could imagine myself as just a regular guy, sidling up to the counter to get my mail.

“Hey, Al. How's it going today?” I'd ask.

“Not bad, Drew. Not bad at all.”

“Give my best to Dorothy.”

“Will do.”

And nobody would judge me on my diction or my tie. And more importantly, I wouldn't judge anybody else on their diction or their tie.

You priests have it right with your black shirts and collars. Just takes all that personal preening right out of the equation from the start. Then again, it must get a little boring at times, and there's no hiding, is there? No hanging out incognito in a smelly old hotel for you.

I think there's a portion inside all of us that wants a simple, straightforward life where people aren't commodities and we can just be free to love them without putting them into some hierarchy based on their clothing, their speech, their table manners.

Sitting at the table in the bow window, Harlan and Charmaine Hopewell, the celebs of Mount Oak, sipped hot drinks and shared a slice of apple cake. With Harlan's TV ministry thriving on cable systems all across the country and Charmaine singing like an angel at his side, you'd think they could each have had a piece of their own cake.

Have you heard of her? When Charmaine sings, something starts to glow all around her and inside of you. My father couldn't stand watching her, but the power she could wield if she wanted to—with her Dove awards and sold-out concerts—he sure appreciated that!

I did too.

We'd met a few times before. Nothing more than hellos and how's-it-going-over-there–at-your-church type stuff, not real conversation. Very friendly. Very cordial. Very in the club. I suspected there was no other way with this pair, highly refreshing at the time, but then, they could afford to be that open and kind. They'd paid their dues years before.

I walked toward their table.

“Drew!” Charmaine called and then turned to Harlan. “Oh, Harlan, it's Drew Parrish, from down at Elysian Heights Church. Remember?”

Harlan wiped his mouth, stood to his feet, and stuck out his hand. “Of course I remember. Well, hey, Drew.”