[stylist] Flirting with Monday chapter 18

[Shelley J. Alongi]

Finally, the mountains.

Flirting with Monday

Chapter 18

 

On a quiet, gloomy Saturday morning, a month after Judy and I went down the coast on our little getaway, Jeff Jackson, a former train engineer who left the work for another niche in the travel industry, called to ask if I would come up and paint a cabin he was restoring in a week or two. Sure, I would and I would bring Judy with me if he didn't mind.

 

"Mind?" Jeff chuckled on the phone. "Glen has a girl! Well, I don't mind. Carol will be happy to

hear you're not such a recluse these days. A girl!"

 

Sitting at my dining table looking through the newspaper headlines, I took a sip of my strong, black coffee before answering Jeff's humorous harangue.

 

"A very nice woman, Jeff and I'm not a recluse." I had to laugh at him. "You know that! I'm just never here."

 

"I know," my friend said. "You're watching trains or off in the mountains. I need you to be in the mountains if I can pull you away from the trains long

enough."

Vincent scrambled across the wooden floor, a stream of sunlight danced on the windowsill above the kitchen sink. I put my cup down, its satisfying thump

against the table complimenting my cheerful mood. It was a Saturday. I didn't have to be anywhere today. Later on I would take the dogs out for a walk

around the block, see if I could find Matthew Martinez and his group of young, spirited friends. We might wander down to the railroad tracks in search of trains

to photograph, or if I couldn't find them, I'd come back and see if Judy wanted to go to lunch. But now, I turned my attention to the conversation at hand.

"We'll go up there, you bet, Jeff. Tell Carol not to worry about me. I'm holding my own. Vincent, Magnet and Angel make sure of that."

 

Jeff's timing could not have been more perfect. Painting the cabin would help me sort out my own head and just relax after the last few months. I needed

the quiet, this place away from everyday existence in a little town whose pace was slower than the life I lived, I needed it for strength. I needed it

to develop something with Judy that went past the crisis points that seemed to unite us.

 

Later on that day, I called Judy who was more than willing to meet me for lunch at a local diner. Today was the day a caregiver came in to care for her

mother and she could slip away for a few hours.

 

"Do you want to go watch trains?" I asked her. "We could just go to the railroad café."

 

"No," she said, "No, let's go get something different. I know a little Italian place we haven't tried yet. I have to be back by 4:00 to relieve the caregiver.

I don't want to watch trains today I just want to see you."

 

I hadn't found mat and the other kids and Judy was fine with me taking them to the tracks instead of being with her, so it was a surprise to both of

us when I called. When we hung up and I put the dogs into their enclosure and prepared to meet her I realized how much I would enjoy seeing her again without

the rush of a commuter train schedule to come between our deepening friendship.

 

Our meeting was warm, her hug becoming more comfortable than comforting, a natural progression as I tried to be less wary of the relationship I knew was

turning into more than simple friendship. We entered the noisy, live place, people gathered in groups, small groups around a big screen TV, or in a little

alcove waiting to be seated. We asked for a seat in a quieter part of the restaurant, and soon we sat outside on a back patio with a gurgling fountain,

two or three couples scattered around the area watching traffic and talking quietly. The occasional wave of sound swelled as the group inside the diner

reacted to some play on the big screen TV.

 

"My mother is getting worse," Judy told me. "We've got her on twenty-four hour care now and my brother is flying in from Montana and my sister is coming

in from Atlanta. We're just waiting." Judy took my hands. "We're going to lose her, Glen. I've got to get ready for that. It's one reason I was so glad

when you called me today. I need the break."

 

I sat silently, there was nothing to say. I had been through this very thing.

 

"All those times," she said, "over the last year when I've seen you on the train or sat with you at the café or gone to dinner or just been with you by

the tracks or on the coast it has been nice. I love the silences. Whatever mood you're in it's fine with me. I'm surrounded at home by chaos. I crave the

quiet. I've relied on your friendship. I need it. I want it."

 

I rubbed her hands, sitting back and relaxing, suddenly easier than I had been since before leaving Astoria. Why was I afraid this woman would leave me

when it was so obvious she craved my company? I hadn't known about that aspect of her life. I didn't quite know how to respond.

 

I was spared a response when the waiter came to take our orders. When the uniformed, starched man with his pad of paper went away, I leaned forward and

looked into her face. She looked back.

 

"I have a plan," I said. "Something I hope you'll like." She was attentive. "My friend Jeff Jackson restores vacation cabins and rents them out to people

for summer and winter. He called me today to ask if I'd go up and paint one of the cabins. I told him I would and that I wanted to take you with me. Come

with me, Judy, we'll get you to the mountains. You can help me paint or just go commune with nature or something."

 

Judy's face lighted up and at the same time she hesitated.

 

"I want to go. But things are a bit uncertain now. Can I just keep you posted?"

 

"Of course," I said. "This doesn't have to be done for a month and he's not paying me so it's not like we're on a big deadline. I do it more to just get

away and do something different."

 

"And build things," she said. "Work with your hands. It's like therapy."

 

"Glen," she said as the plates of spaghetti arrived and the waiter departed discretely. "I want you to come to the funeral, that is if you can. That is

if you're comfortable after losing your father. It would mean a lot to me if you could make it."

 

"I don't think I can get a day off for a while after going to Astoria," I said, winding some strands of pasta around a fork. I put the food to my mouth

and chewed thoughtfully. "But if it's on a split shift I can do it. Just let me know."

 

We didn't have to wait long. God was good, fate was kind and Judy's mother left this world on a cool Monday morning in June. I slipped discretely into the

back of the crowded Catholic church, women arrived in long, black dresses, or shorter knee-length dresses, men in suits or slacks, filing in quietly as

comforting strains of organ music softly floated to our ears from the loft. I looked down at my hands lying across my knees, my gold watch sparkling against

my long-sleeved black shirt and slacks. A woman wearing a sweet perfume slid into the pew beside me, a man followed her, they both buried their heads in

the program. The service went on and then I quietly slipped out of my seat to see her. She spotted me in the long line of mourners and quietly excused

herself. She slipped back to me and took my hand.

 

"Glen!" she whispered and led me outside. "I know you have to go. I didn't want you to wait so long. They'll be here most of them are retired and have more

time on their hands."

 

Together we walked out into the quiet parking lot, the warm June day pleasant, the stifling smell of flowers and perfume giving way to the warm breezes

and the gentle wafting of a jasmine plant that bloomed near my parking spot. We stood together by my gold Toyoda, my arms gentle around her, my eyes looking

into her's.

 

"Glen, you're so sweet," she said, breaking the quiet, "thank you for coming. I know you never met her but it means a lot. It really does." She sighed and

looked up at me.

 

"I need a break from these guys they're about to stifle me. Thanks for the flowers, honey."

 

I had forty-five minutes to get back to work. I held her gently.

 

"You need this trip to the mountains," I told her. "Can I take you up there this weekend?"

 

"Glen," she said kindly, "Please do! I'm playing taxi to the airport tomorrow and I have an appointment with the tax accountant the next day. By the time

this weekend comes I'm going to want to get away from here."

 

She leaned her head on my chest, standing still for a few minutes.

 

"Hang on, Judy Flower," I tried to encourage her. "Just breathe."

 

"I know," she said. "I won't see you for a few days. I'm going to miss you."

 

"Saturday morning, early," I said. "We'll go."

 

"Come over at 8:00. I'll make breakfast then we'll go up there."

 

"I can take you to breakfast," I suggested. "Give you a break."

 

"I know," she said, squeezing my hands. "I love you. I'd be happier cooking for you it would give me more of a break. I could use the quiet and the cooking.

Please let me do this for you."

 

I stepped back from her a little, kissed her quietly.

 

"Okay," was all I said.

 

"I better get back," she said, her eyes glistening with tears and sparkling a little with anticipation. "They'll send the posse after me." Judy let me pull

her toward me and kiss her gently. She didn't pull away so quickly. "Watch some trains for me," she smiled into my eyes. "Don't be late, train engineer!"

 

I laughed at her endearment, it had stuck since that first meeting in the railroad café before the train hit the pedestrian. It had become a nickname, a

term of endearment and it always made me smile. She took my hand, holding it, looking at it as if memorizing its lines and scars. I patted her shoulder,

she rubbed my back.

 

"Saturday," she said gently. "I can't wait."

 

We spent the drive to the mountains in silence. There wasn't much traffic. There wasn't much to say. I looked over to see Judy leaned against the window

asleep as we headed up the winding road to the cabin. I concentrated on the road, the hairpin turns coming up fast. I wondered if Judy was okay I hadn't

asked her about motion sickness. But she turned and smiled at me and I knew she was fine. She went back to sleep and awoke as the car stopped on the gravel

driveway outside my friend's cabin. I sat there for a moment, content, not in a hurry. I reached over and touched Judy's wrist, her hand slack in sleep.

I rolled down my window, a quiet breeze caressed my cheek. I sat and looked out of the window at the exterior of the cabin, its peeling paint crying out

for help. IN the back of the car we had put some white paint, scrapers, brushes, and drop cloths. A ladder sat in the back of the car and we just sat there

waiting. Judy turned and opened her eyes, I could feel her movement, my head was involved in the project at hand. I turned and looked at her, she rubbed

her eyes.

 

"We're here," I said quietly. "You slept all the way up the mountain."

 

"It's your driving," she said, smiling, "it calms me."

 

"Hmmm."

 

She reached over and took my hand off the steering wheel, holding it.

 

"What are you building in your head?" she wanted to know. "Are you painting that cabin?"

 

I nodded.

 

"Do you want to get started?"

 

"Not right now," I said. I returned my gaze to the cabin, Judy looked at me, recognizing my focused concentration. She sat up and got out of the car, opening

the door and stepping out into the cool afternoon. Her feet crunched on snow that hadn't melted yet. Quiet surrounded us. Judy walked up to the entrance

of the little house, and was gone for a long time. When she came back I was standing out by the car unloading the supplies.

 

She came scampering back, her face lighted up like a child's at Christmas. I stopped my work and looked at her.

 

"It's just so quiet. I can see for miles! It's beautiful."

 

She walked around the car and helped me take out some paint buckets. Our feet crunched in the snow, filling the silence with our footsteps.

 

 "No wonder you come here a lot," she said, interrupting my thoughts. "The trees look like glass back there. It's just gorgeous."

 

"Haven't been up here in a while," I said, concentrating on the task at hand. "Probably not for six months."

 

Judy came up to me and flung her arms around me. I thought she might want to do a dance in the snow but she only looked up at me.

 

"Thank you for bringing me here," she said. "Thank you."

 

Judy was always happy about most things. She could get so excited about things it made me happy. So many times she had lifted my spirits just by laughing

at something, she made me love her just by her happiness. She bent to help me with one of the paint buckets.

 

"did you figure out where you're going to start?"

 

"yeah."

 

"Are you okay Glen?"

 

"I'm fine, Judy."

 

I turned to gather her in my arms. She saw my face and smiled.

 

"Is that how you look when you operate the train in the morning?"

 

I laughed.

 

"Probably."

 

"Okay," she said. "Let's get started with the painting. Then we'll get done and I can cook dinner."

 

I looked up in surprise.

 

"More cooking?"

 

"I brought spaghetti and Italian sausage," she said. "I thought this might be a nice place to have it."

 

It did sound like a good idea. I smiled.

 

"I told you once it was my favorite meal," she said. "The day we went to dinner after your train hit the pedestrian."

 

"I remember."

 

"Well," she said, seeing my concentration. "I checked everything out in the cabin and it's all ready to go. Let's get to work. I can't wait to see how nice this place will look after we paint it."

 

Suddenly I walked over to Judy and hugged her. She held to me tightly. Even painting would somehow strengthen our relationship. We turned to the task at hand and got to work.

 

Shelley J. Alongi 
Home Office: (714)869-3207
**
NFBWD "Slate and Style" editor 
http://www.nfb-writers-division.org

**
"What sparked your interest in trains?"
"The face of an engineer who knew he was going to get killed by a freight train."
---SJA for anyone who wants to know
To read essays on my journey through the Chatsworth train accident, Metrolink 111 or other interests click on http://www.storymania.com/cgibin/sm2/smshowauthorbox.cgi?page=&author=AlongiSJ&alpha=A

updated September 24, 2009