Falling for June: A Novel Page 9

  “Help, comrade!” Sebastian cried. “Help me!”

  David looked around at the other students, but he knew it was him Sebastian was calling. Oh, what the hell, he thought; it can’t be worse than being dragged by a horse through manure. But in that he was wrong.

  Just as David stepped up to lend a hand, Sebastian unknowingly spun a half turn and brought the ostrich around to face him. Sadly, it was a very frightened bird, and David was met with two kicking claws that shredded his pants and opened a nasty gash in his thigh. Fortunately for all involved, the door to the house opened and June came rushing out.

  She bent briefly over David to check his wound—he was now sitting on the gravel drive, bleeding—then she stripped off his shoe and peeled his sock from his foot. He was wearing knee-high cotton tube socks and he thought at first that she was going to use it as a tourniquet for his leg, but she left him sitting there and turned instead toward Sebastian and the still-thrashing ostrich. She threaded the sock quickly over her hand. Then she reached and nabbed the ostrich’s writhing neck and pulled its head down to her level, snatched its beak, and slipped the sock over its head. Almost instantly the hooded ostrich went still. And just in time too, because at that very moment Sebastian succumbed to exhaustion and sat down with the giant bird trembling in his lap. The pair of them made such a peculiar sight that David couldn’t help but forget about his injury long enough to laugh.

  “What’s going on here?” June asked, turning toward the bus and addressing the faces peering out. “Where did you get this bird and why are you molesting it?”

  “We were only trying to help,” a quiet voice replied from the shadows of the bus interior. “Tell her, Clarence.”

  Then the man with the dreads and the tie-dyed robe stepped, or more likely was pushed, out into the light.

  “Yeah, man,” he said. “We didn’t know. We just found it lying on the side of the road. We thought it was dead, you know, but I guess it was just knocked out or something. It woke up and went bat-shit on us, man. Right while we were rolling down Springer Finch Road. Beatrice there was driving and she knew about your place. Her mom lives in Arlington and she said you saved a baby fox or something once.” Then he turned to look back into the bus. “Was it a fox, did you say?”

  “No,” the voice from inside the bus replied. “It was a pig. From Teddy’s farm.”

  “Well, I was close anyway,” he said. Then he turned back to June. “So, can you help it? I think maybe it fell out of a truck or something.”

  “Isn’t he a lucky bird to have had you come along to save the day,” June said.

  David did not entirely understand her sarcasm, but he would later when he learned why they had picked up the ostrich to begin with. But as it turned out, the ostrich had done more damage than it had received, and by the time Sebastian and David got back from the urgent-care clinic—David sporting six fresh stitches, Sebastian just a bandaged needle prick and an earful about the dangers of tetanus—June had the big bird penned and peacefully eating sunflower seeds from the palm of her hand.

  “I thought for sure you’d have gone home,” she said when David joined her at the fence to watch. “Maybe given up on the idea of stunt camp altogether.”

  “And let my comrade Sebastian down?” he replied. “No way. And besides, I thought you said there was nothing to be afraid of.”

  She laughed. “I said there was nothing to be afraid of with horses. I never told you to try to ride an ostrich.” Then she reached into her other pocket and handed him back his sock. It was bloodstained and torn. “Sorry,” she said.

  “They come in packs of six,” he said, shrugging. “But it reminds me,” he added a moment later, “I’ve got a pair of yours at my apartment in the city.”

  “Is that right?” she asked. “You kept my socks.”

  He didn’t tell her he’d been sleeping with them for months.

  “And a pair of your boots too,” he answered. “At least I think they’re yours. They were a men’s size nine . . .”

  She nodded but didn’t say anything.

  The ostrich was pecking at her empty palm now, and she scooped another handful of seeds from her pocket.

  “You want to feed him?” she asked, offering the seeds to David. “Kiss and make up maybe.”

  David held up his hands and shook his head. “No way. I’ve had enough wildlife encounters for a few days.”

  She laughed and tossed the seeds into the pen. Then she turned around and leaned against the fence.

  “I know you’re not a newspaperman,” she said, looking at David. “And I’m assuming you don’t have any real aspirations to be a Hollywood stuntman either, even though Sebastian tells me you’re getting quite skilled at high jumps.”

  “No,” he said. “I’m just an accountant.”

  After several quiet seconds had passed, she said, “Well, I think it’s a pretty safe bet you didn’t end up here because you wanted to return my boots . . .”

  He sighed, looking at the ground. “I know I haven’t . . . well, I just didn’t . . . I mean, okay . . . you want to know the truth, then?”

  “Is there ever anything else worth knowing?” she asked.

  “The truth is I’ve been trying to find you since that day on the roof. I even hired a sketch artist. Here. Look.” He pulled the sketch from his pocket and unfolded it. The paper had been worn as soft as thin cotton and the ink was already fading. “I know it’s just a pair of eyes mostly, but doesn’t it look like you? I mean, kind of, right?”

  She took the sketch and looked it over. But whether she saw the resemblance or not, she didn’t say. David thought she looked slightly fearful as she handed it back.

  “And you went to all this trouble why?”

  Keeping her socks and hiring a sketch artist had not seemed at all excessive or strange to David in his solitude, but now that he had said it out loud and been asked by the object of his obsession why, he felt somewhat creepy.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, tucking the sketch away in his pocket. “I guess after you jumped from the roof that day I just had to know who you were.”

  “You don’t plan to tell them, do you?”

  “You mean tell the papers? The police? Of course not. No way! You think that’s why I looked you up? Is that what you’re worried about? Oh Lord, no. I’ve been searching for you because I wanted to thank you. You saved my life.”

  She was wearing rubber boots and she looked down and kicked some of the dried mud off against the fence. Then she hooked the heel of her boot on the rail and looked up at David again.

  “No, you saved your own life,” she finally said. “You’re the only one with that power.”

  “Maybe. But until our talk I really did want to die.”

  “Oh, darling,” she said, gently shaking her head. “Is that what you think your problem was? You think you wanted to die? That wasn’t it at all.”

  “It wasn’t?” he asked.

  He had, after all, been standing on a roof ready to jump when they had met, hadn’t he?

  “No, dear, it isn’t. If you truly wanted to die, the solution would be easy. There are a thousand ways one can die before breakfast. Your problem is that you want to live, David Hadley. You want to live but you just don’t know how.”

  He looked at her quizzically, wondering how she knew so much about him. Then, as if reading his mind again, she answered his unspoken question.

  “I once stood on a roof, just like you. I know what it’s like not wanting to go on. Alone in the world, looking for relief.”

  “Is that why you jump with a parachute? BASE jump, or whatever they call it? Do you have some kind of death wish?”

  “No. I told you already, I jump because it makes me feel alive.”

  “It does? But how? I mean, what’s it feel like?”

  “Jumping? It’s like life boiled
down into seconds. It’s freedom. It’s dying unless you choose to live. And when you do choose life, you value it. I think we all value the things we choose more than the things we take for granted, don’t you? And unfortunately some people take life for granted. I was one of them.”

  The way her eyes lit up as she talked about jumping made David not only want to jump himself, it made him want to kiss her. But he didn’t, of course. Instead, he asked, “Is that what you meant when you said I had to let go of life to truly live?”

  “Did I say that?” She asked it as if she were hearing it for the first time. Then she did something so simple and so intimate it made David’s heart skip a happy beat. She reached up and gently touched his cheek. “Whatever I said, I’m glad. Because you lived and you’re here. And that’s what matters.”

  The sun was low and orange, about to drop behind the hills to the west, and for one glorious moment David stood in its glow with a warm breeze against his neck and June’s hand on his cheek. Then, as she pulled her hand away, he saw a glint of gold on her finger and noticed for the first time that she wore a wedding ring. He had never allowed himself to consciously imagine a romance between himself and June, except for maybe a moment ago when he had daydreamed about kissing her, but that did not stop his heart from sinking behind the hills with the sun.

  “Why don’t you go get changed into some pants that aren’t bloody and I’ll go check on the ice cream and see if Sebastian’s got the bonfire started.”

  “Ice cream? Bonfire?”

  He was still thinking about the ring on her finger.

  “Of course,” she said. “It’s Sunday. We always have lemon ice cream and a bonfire on Sundays.”

  He knew he shouldn’t ask it, that it would make him sound needy, but without thinking it through he did.

  “Will your husband be joining us?”

  She looked down at the ring on her finger for a lingering moment before bringing her other hand over to cover it. When she looked back up at him, her eyes were moist.

  “No,” she said. “He won’t be joining us. Although I’d like it very much if he could.” Then she reached into her pocket and tossed the last of her seeds in to the ostrich. “I’ll see you at the bonfire,” she said as she walked away toward the house.

  David leaned against the fence to watch her go. And even though there were fresh seeds on the ground to be eaten, the ostrich stood eye level with David just on the other side of the fence, watching her too.

  11

  SO, SHE WAS married?”

  I couldn’t help but interrupt him to ask.

  “Yes and no,” he said. “Your generation really has no patience for stories, do they? It must be all those damn video games.”

  “I don’t even play video games,” I said. Which was true if you didn’t count computer solitaire on slow days at the office.

  We were sitting on the hay, and the sun had disappeared from the skylight and a soft rain was pattering on the roof. The horse looked to be asleep. I took my cell phone out of my pocket and checked the time—half past two already.

  “Cell phones are the same thing as video games, if you ask me,” he said. “Little devices for your pocket that suck your brain out through your eyes.”

  “Give me a break,” I said. “I’m checking the time. Besides, I might want to see if I have a message or two. It happens to be my birthday.”

  “Your birthday! Well, I don’t know whether to be flattered that you’re still here or sad that you have nothing better to do than sit around all day listening to a nostalgic old man. Do you have family to get back to, Elliot?”

  “No,” I said, tucking my phone away. “It’s just me. And I’m not very fond of birthdays anyway. So, please go on with your story. You said something about following June off a cliff but you quit before you got there.”

  “You mean I was interrupted before getting there,” he corrected me, grinning. “But the story will have to wait. Give me a hand here, will you, young man?”

  He gripped his cane and struggled to get up. I stood and helped him. He dusted off his corduroys and looked around behind him in the hay, as if to make sure he hadn’t dropped anything. Then he led me from the stall.

  It was raining harder now and we stood in the barn doorway, looking out at the house a hundred yards away.

  “I could run up to the house and get us an umbrella if you have one,” I suggested.

  The old man was standing just inside the door, gazing idly out at the sky. “It really is nice, isn’t it?” he asked, ignoring my suggestion to get an umbrella. Then he took up his cane, as if he no longer needed it, and walked out into the rain.

  I stood there watching him go. He walked through the downpour as though he was enjoying it. When he was halfway to the house, I stripped off my coat and ran to catch up with him, holding it over his head. The only result of my belated gallantry, however, was to have us both soaked by the time we gained the porch. And as soon as we did, of course, the rain ceased and the sun came out from behind the clouds. I shook my coat out and put it back on.

  “How old are you today, Elliot?”

  “I’m thirty-three, sir. But I’d really rather not celebrate, if it’s—”

  “Nonsense, young man,” he said, opening the door.

  He kicked off his Clarks just inside the door. I don’t know why older people love those moccasins, but they do. Maybe because they don’t have laces, I thought, as I bent to untie my own shoes. He led me back into the kitchen and made me sit at the table.

  “Birthdays are a big deal,” he said, opening a cupboard. “And every one you’re alive to celebrate is a gift.”

  I feared he might be planning to make a cake—after his lunch performance I could only imagine the mess—but he didn’t. Instead, he took down a box of MoonPies. Then he rifled around in a drawer until he came up with a package of cake candles.

  “I don’t think thirty-three’ll fit,” he said. “We’ll just do three of them.”

  He took down two plates and put a MoonPie on each, inserting three candles into one of them. Then he went on a quest for a lighter that had him searching nearly every kitchen drawer until he gave up and went into the living room and came back with a long-handled fire starter. When the MoonPie was finally in front of me with the candles lit, he stood back and smiled. I was very embarrassed for some reason.

  “Wait,” he said. “Not yet. I need to get a picture.”

  I began to protest but he turned too quickly and disappeared from the kitchen again. I heard a door open somewhere and what sounded like boxes being rifled through. I sat and watched the candles, trying to remember that birthday so long ago now, the one where my mother left and never came home. But I couldn’t.

  By the time he returned with an old Polaroid camera, the candles had nearly burned to their bases and the MoonPie was coated in dripping wax. As he fiddled with the camera, I said, “I didn’t even know they still made Polaroid film.”

  “They don’t,” he replied. “But I have a stash for important occasions.”

  “You could probably make a fortune selling it on eBay.”

  “Selling it where?” he asked.

  I was about to explain eBay to him, but then I remembered his take on video games and cell phones and I began to doubt that he even had a computer. That, and the candles were really getting low now. My MoonPie was covered more in wax than it was in chocolate.

  “Okay,” he finally said. “All set here. Now, you wait until I’m done singing and then I’ll take the shot just before you blow them out.”

  He lifted the camera to his eye and began to sing. And as I was sitting there in that kitchen in front of that MoonPie and its three disappearing candles, with Mr. Hadley singing “Happy Birthday” to me from behind an ancient Polaroid camera, my throat got suddenly sore and my eyes welled up. It was so out of character for me that when he f
inished singing, I forgot to blow out the candles right away, and instead I just kind of smiled at him as he took the picture. The mechanical click and the whine of the photo sliding out the bottom was a sad but somehow happy sound. Nostalgic, maybe. I don’t know. But I’ll tell you straight up, I still have that photo and I look happier in it than any other, even though my eyes are wet.

  By the time he sat down across from me, the candles had burned themselves out on their own and my MoonPie was now completely covered in blue wax. He set the photo on the table to develop, took away my plate, and brought me a new one. Then he sat down across from me.

  “Shoot,” he said again, reaching for his cane. But this time it wasn’t garnish he’d forgotten; it was RC Cola. He went to the refrigerator and brought us each back a can.

  “This was my father’s favorite treat,” he said, cracking the top on his can and taking a sip. “He grew up in the Blue Ridge Mountains of Tennessee. We drove there together once, to settle his father’s estate, and we ate MoonPies and drank RC Colas the entire way. We were both sick for days.”

  He bit into his MoonPie and crumbs fell all over his sweater. He fished a larger crumb from his bulging pocket and ate it. Then he closed his eyes, as if remembering. I tried mine. It tasted like a s’more to me, but the flavor brought no fond memories.

  “You said it was just you,” he said, in between bites. “Does that mean your folks have passed on?”

  “Yes. Well, I’m not sure about my mother. She left when I was three. On my birthday, actually. Thirty years ago to the day. My dad died when I was nineteen.”

  “And you’ve never been married?” he asked.

  My mouth was full of MoonPie, having just taken a bite, so I shook my head fiercely until I could speak. “No, sir. No way. And I don’t ever intend to be either.”

  “Why not?” he asked.