Last Known Address

CHAPTER FIVE Purdy

Purdy smiled, but only after seeing that C.C. was laughing, that she had, in fact, taken Shelly’s comment about the baby-talk as a joke. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, as if his feet knew he should be doing any number of a thousand things right now, but his heart was keeping them firmly rooted to a place near the blonde woman, who seemed to be perpetually smiling. He stood behind his chair, holding the coffee pot at the ready, though he’d just refilled everyone’s cup. Except the thin woman’s; she’d hastily put her hands over the top as he’d leaned in. He’d forgotten; she’d had tea.

He knew he was hovering, but he couldn’t just sit back down. It would look idle. The tall redhead, Shelly, was staring at him. She was a little mouthy, but good-humored, and the other one–what was the thin one’s name? He couldn’t remember, but she seemed nice enough. Quiet and…he wasn’t sure what. Heavy-hearted, somehow. But C.C. He even liked her name. C.C. It made him smile.

He cleared his throat, rubbed his hand over his face. He was as tongue-tied and nervous as a teenager around her. There was something really wrong with him. But this wrong felt so much better than the other wrong. And aside from that mortifying shout and duck for cover he’d done when the mug had fallen, he’d felt…what? Hopeful? Even the bell was starting to bother him less.

Shelly was still staring at him, grinning. Oh, she had his number all right. Feeling the heat in his face, he turned and walked back to the bar.

He’d noticed C.C. right off yesterday, as soon as she had climbed out of the tow truck. Laughing. In spite of their car breaking down, in spite of the gloomy rainy day, in spite of being stranded in Tupper, of all places, she was laughing as Mick and the tow truck driver helped her down from the high seat. She looked nothing like his Keppie, who had been tiny and dark-haired and bony. In fact, C.C. was Keppie’s exact opposite. Was that why he was all hibbity-jibbity? He didn’t think he’d ever felt this kind of attraction before. Not that he had all that much experience. His hibbity-jibbities of his youth came mostly from pictures of girls in magazines, which wasn’t the same. Not like this. When he saw her, right away, bam! Like his body got plugged into some big old generator after the power had been off a long time. A long time. He was not a religious man, much to Keppie’s dismay, but he would almost believe that some divine power might’ve had a hand in making that alternator fail when and where it did.

Or maybe it was Keppie herself. He and Kep had always had that ‘first one up’ rule: first one up in the morning brought the other one a cup of coffee. Maybe the first one up to the Great Beyond brought the other one a new spouse. He would like to think that Keppie would do that for him. And what about the dog! Now that was a coincidence! Here’s a little lost dog that needs to go pretty darn close to where these ladies are going…Well, it made you wonder. It just made you wonder.

Purdy glanced around the restaurant. It was empty, except for the ladies. And Mick, of course. He tried to think of some reason to go back over there. He’d just refilled their coffee cups. Everyone had eaten breakfast. He’d cleared the plates, delivered the tickets. But even if he just went back over and sat down, he couldn’t trust himself not to stare at her like a fool. It was better if he stayed here; he could look at her from behind the bar.

He grabbed the towel that he wore draped over his shoulder and threw it hard onto the bar. He turned, his arms folded, and leaned back against the counter. C.C. wasn’t interested in him! How could she be? She didn’t know him. And he didn’t know her. He had never believed in love at first sight. And he knew this wasn’t love. Or was it? How should he know? Was it lust? Much to his amazement, he had gotten…excited just thinking about her last night. But he hadn’t been thinking about having sex with her. He’d just been thinking about hugging her. Just holding her in his arms. When everything in his life had seemed to become so sharp-edged again after Keppie’s death, was it so wrong to wonder what it must feel like to hold a woman like that, so round and soft and full?

He had wanted to ask her out after they’d finished dinner last night, but he’d been too embarrassed by his outburst. He hadn’t understood at first how that had happened. He’d thought the panic attacks were under control again. It must have been because he was nervous. Besides, he hadn’t been able to answer a simple question: how do you ask out a woman who is stranded at your motel with her two friends for just one night? And out to where? They would have had to drive clear to Bennet to find the nearest movie theater. He’d thought about inviting her to stroll with him, just an old-fashioned date, an evening walk through town. But he’d been struck mute as they’d departed, the three of them together too daunting even to approach.

Silence. His old refuge. He was only able to wave good night to all three. Then, when just the redhead came back and asked what time he opened for breakfast, well, of course then he could talk! After he’d locked up the restaurant, he’d walked by their room four times. Back and forth, back and forth, unable to go up and knock. He didn’t know how long he’d just stood there, staring at the crevice of light between the curtains on their window.

He picked up the towel, turned and looked at her again. If only he didn’t feel like this was somehow meant to be. Or at least a chance in a million. Or was it just his age? He remembered old Cort Smith, who’d tracked down and married a girl from his high school just weeks after his wife had died, when Cort was nearly eighty. ‘When you get to be my age, you dasn’t dillydally,’ Cort had told him. Well, Purdy wasn’t nearly Cort’s age. But was sixty-one old enough to stop the world when C.C. had climbed out of that tow truck?

Before yesterday, he’d thought he’d just spend the rest of his life alone. There were no single ladies in Tupper, except Mrs D’Blatt, and she was ninety-something. He would be like her, he thought. Grow old alone, and die alone, right here in Tupper. And truth be told, he hadn’t thought all that much about it, one way or the other. Until yesterday.

Finally, after the fourth pass by their window last night, he’d gone to bed. He’d hardly slept, feeling all night like he had to do or say something before she left. If only he had more time to court her properly. But what did he know about that? He had never even dated Keppie. Not really. He’d just written letters from Nam, in response to hers. Their letters were how they had gotten acquainted. They barely knew each other before he’d shipped out, just sat next to each other at high-school graduation. Mick Purdy and Katherine Purnell. They hadn’t even spoken before, just sat or stood next to each other throughout the school years, each time they were made to line up in alphabetical order. Never given her a second thought. Till that graduation day and she kept staring at him, sitting there in his uniform. Then, as their ragtag high-school orchestra–sounding worse than usual without the seniors–played the graduation exit march, she’d told him she’d like to write to him after he shipped out. He’d said okay.

Always shy by nature, it had actually been easier for him to write those letters than any conversation with her would have been, or ever was after. And the letters, well, he’d only said the things he’d said to her in those because he thought the chances were better than good that he’d be coming home in a body bag. So he’d opened up in those letters, more than he ever could have or would have in person. But he did survive, somehow. Probably because he wasn’t one of the brave ones.

When he got home, there was Keppie, waiting for him, right there on the airstrip at Quad City, her black-gloved fingers laced through the chain-link fence like it was the only thing holding her up. She was plainly dressed in a gray blouse and darker gray skirt, her hair pulled back, her only makeup a face full of both fear and hope.

Marrying her had seemed the thing to do. But they’d made it work okay, over the years. No great sparks or anything, but when the PTSD had taken hold of him, Keppie had stuck with him, held on, gotten him help. He was infinitely grateful to her, for her. But he’d often doubted that what he felt was love, as he was sure she had from time to time. But his doubt was erased seven months ago. Holding her in his arms, there on the floor behind the bar where she’d collapsed, her hands clutching her shoulder, he’d felt his own heart under attack. All he could think–he knew it was stupid, but still–all he could think was that it should be him; he was the fat one. How could tough, sturdy, bantam-weight Keppie be having a heart attack? But he knew that’s what it was right away, even though there’d never been a single warning sign, other than she’d said she felt a mite under the weather that morning. The flu, she thought. And when she’d dropped to the floor, and he’d gathered her up, her back warm against his knees, her shoulder blades sharp against his arm, he couldn’t imagine her leaving him, couldn’t imagine life without her. That’s when the flashbacks started again. A body in his arms. His wife, so small, nearly the same size as the South Vietnamese woman he’d carried from the burning village. And just as then, he’d felt her leave him the very moment she passed, despite his begging her to hold on.

Keppie never did smile too much. But he would never forget the way she smiled–really smiled–at him before her body let go of this life, and he felt some part of her float upward, and away.

Purdy tapped his arms, the trick he’d learned in therapy to bring him back. He took a deep breath and looked at C.C. again, sitting with her friends and Mick, all of them petting that little dog, and laughing about something else now, and he smiled. He was here. Mick glanced over at him, eyes searching. Purdy knew Mick could not delay putting in that alternator too much longer. And when he did, the women were going to leave, and he’d never see C.C. again, never hear that laugh again, never know if her skin was as soft as it looked. He had to think of something. Cort Smith was right. In youth it was hormones that made a man act; now it was the heart itself having a deeper knowledge of time.

As Mick stood up and excused himself from the table, Purdy pretended to rub the bar down again. As his son walked by him, pulling on his cap, he said out of the corner of his mouth: ‘Now or never, Dad. Now or never.’

Shelly and Meg stood up, and Shelly said, louder than necessary, ‘We’re going to the room to finish packing. C.C., you take the dog for a little walk.’ The two women left the restaurant.

Purdy tried to calm himself. C.C. was slowly scooting herself to the end of the bench seat with one hand, the other carefully protecting the dog in her lap. He grabbed the towel and turned away, leaning against the bar, dabbing at his forehead and upper lip. He could see himself in the mirror, above the reflection of the tops of liquor bottles. A pale, bald, fat guy. He turned back and glanced her way; she was standing now, the little dog in her arms. Lucky dog. He turned back around, dabbed the towel on his upper lip again.

‘Thank you for that great breakfast.’

He spun around. She was slipping her purse strap onto her shoulder, the dog was snug against her bosom, casually held with her other arm, like a girl might carry her books, like she’d carried that little dog that way for years. He noticed the dog wasn’t shaking anymore. He nodded, smiled dumbly. ‘We just left the money on the table. Is that all right?’ He nodded, even more dumbly.

He watched her walk out of the restaurant, with not a word from him. He stepped around the cash register to watch her. He put his hand over his thumping heart, tried to swallow.

Outside, she stopped in the sun, gave the dog a kiss on its head, then set it on the ground, holding the end of the twine leash. She began rummaging in her purse.

Go out there! He paced back behind the bar. His hand suddenly shot to the squat bottle of brandy at the end of the row of bottles. He grabbed a highball glass from the towel-covered shelf. He wouldn’t let himself look at the clock. The neck of the bottle clattered noisily against the glass edge as he poured. He had not had a drink since before Keppie had died. He’d never had a breakfast drink. He was an occasional social drinker, was all. Even after Nam, when lots of guys turned to the bottle, he hadn’t. Keppie had made sure of that. He took a deep breath and threw the swallow of brandy down his throat. The burn felt good, like it would hold him to consciousness. Social. That’s all he needed to be, was social.

He headed out the door, suddenly aware of the bar towel on his shoulder. But the damn bell had rung and she was already looking his way, so it was too late to do anything about it. He stopped in his tracks, a happy realization: instead of scaring him, the bell had made him angry. Fitz would say that was an improvement.

‘Hello,’ he said weakly. She smiled at him, waiting. ‘Um,’ he said, trying to find his bearings with his voice. He pulled the towel off his shoulder, twisted it in his hands.

She looked concerned. ‘Did we leave enough money?’

‘Oh!’ he said, suddenly pained that he’d caused her concern. ‘Plenty! I’m sure. Fine, fine!’ He was nodding like a spring had gone loose in his neck somewhere. He felt ridiculous. But he felt good. He was feeling.

‘Okay. Good.’ She smiled, still waiting.

He threw the towel over his shoulder again and jammed his hands in his pockets, nervously scratching his legs with his pocket-covered fingers, till he realized it might appear as though he was doing something else entirely. He quickly pulled his hands out again, pulling a pocket lining out. He shoved it back down, feeling his face redden.

‘Well, I’m going to take M.J. for a little walk,’ she said finally. He desperately wanted to ask if he could come, but his tongue, vocal cords, lungs–everything–seemed to be locked up. Damn brandy hadn’t helped. She took a step.

‘Wait!’ he said.

She stopped suddenly, turned, again looking concerned.

‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.’ Well, that was a switch. Him startling someone else. ‘Uh, mind if I join you on your walk? I…I usually take a little stroll about now anyway. For exercise.’ He pulled in his big stomach, hoping to look like someone who’d ever taken an early morning walk, just for the exercise. Much less usually.

‘Uh, no. Of course not. You’d be welcome, right, M.J.?’ She glanced at the dog. Then she looked past him, over his shoulder. ‘But who’ll mind the restaurant?’

‘Oh, no one. No one in there anyway. If anyone comes in, they’ll just help themselves to whatever.’

She nodded warily.

‘Mostly regulars around here.’ He forced himself to smile.

He marveled at how, when she smiled, her whole face seemed to sparkle. ‘Well, sure then. Do you know how long it will take your son to put in the new part?’

‘Uh, I’m guessing not more than an hour.’ He glanced at his watch. Nearly 7.30. Mick could have it done in fifteen minutes, since it was basically already in; he knew Mick could stall only a little longer for him. ‘Maybe less.’

She chuckled softly. ‘Well, I don’t think either one of us would last walking for an hour.’ Then she quickly added, ‘The dog or me, I mean.’ She was blushing, and he couldn’t imagine anything nicer.

He smiled at her, and this one came naturally. For the first time since Keppie had died, he didn’t have to think about smiling, it just appeared on his face, like a finger-drawing on a mirror can show up days later, just by breathing on it. ‘Me either. Me either.’ He patted his belly.

They stood there a moment, the little dog looking up at them, one then the other, then she sat, waiting. ‘Which way would you recommend for a little stroll, then?’ C.C. said finally.

‘I’d say left. Definitely left. Right takes you to the train tracks and Mento’s cow barns. The cows smell a bit, and might scare little, uh…’

‘M.J.’ She smiled again.

‘M.J.’ He bent, held his fingers toward the dog. ‘Do you know how to shake, little one?’ Before he’d said ‘little one’ M.J. had lifted her paw. Both Purdy and C.C. exclaimed, and Purdy took M.J.’s tiny paw delicately in his two fingers, lightly moving it up and down. ‘How dee do, ma’am?’ C.C. giggled, and Purdy suddenly felt like spring breezes were chasing round his insides. He held out his hand to her. ‘I’m Purdy. Mick Purdy, Senior, but everyone just calls me Purdy.’

She took his hand shyly. ‘Well, in that case I’m Caroline Camilla Tucker Prentiss Byrd, but everyone calls me C.C. Pleased to meet you, Purdy.’

Her hand. It was as soft as kid leather. He pointed to the left. ‘Shall we, then?’

‘Okay, let’s go, M.J.!’ She said it with such energy that the little dog seemed to startle slightly. Then she took off at a brisk trot. ‘Whoa! Keep to a pace we can keep up with, girl!’

They walked in silence for a minute, M.J. weaving back and forth in front of them. Their footsteps made little sound on the dirt road, still just moist enough from yesterday’s rains to muffle the sounds, but thankfully not muddy. He put his hands back in his pockets again, hastily stuffing one pocket back in, realizing it had probably come out with the other and just been hanging out this whole time. Like a panting tongue. Embarrassment shot up his back again, prickling his neck and scalp. He was careful not to move his hands in his pockets this time.

‘Have you always lived here?’ she asked.

Bless her for starting a conversation! ‘No, grew up over in Platteville. Lived here nearly forty years now, though.’

‘My! That’s a long time.’

She’d sounded particularly southern just then. He liked it. ‘Yes.’

They walked on, till M.J. stopped determinedly, backtracked a few steps, pulling hard on the twine. She sniffed at a tuft of grass as if she’d picked up the trail of her long-lost kin. Purdy faced C.C. Ask her a question about her. He couldn’t think.

He pulled his hands out of his pockets and the linings came out again. This time he immediately pushed them back in. But it flustered him. ‘And have you lived long?’ He closed his eyes. Stupid! Stupid! ‘I mean, have you lived where you live, wherever that is, for a long time?’ Let’s see. He could try to act like an idiot. But he doubted it would be any better than he was already doing. ‘Easy,’ Dr Fitzmarin would say, ‘don’t beat yourself up.’

She smiled, turned and looked at M.J. ‘Well, we’re all three, me, Shelly and Meg, from Wisataukee, Iowa.’ She looked up at him again, her eyes soft under her long lashes. ‘I’ve been there about twenty-five years,’ she added. She gave just the slightest sigh, then pulled gently on the dog’s leash, encouraging her to move on. M.J. took the lead again, C.C. followed. Purdy fell in step with her as she continued talking. ‘This trip we’re on, we’re going down south to fix up a house I own there. To sell. It’s too big to live in. Just me. Though I used to dream about one day maybe finding a small place in Fleurville–that’s the name of the town. I grew up there.’

She paused. He waited. They walked. Finally she said, very softly, ‘My husband died a year and a half ago, so…’

Purdy closed his eyes briefly, giving thanks not for another man’s death, merely for his absence. He looked at her. ‘My wife died last September.’

‘Just last September? I’m so sorry. Was it sudden?’

‘Yeah. Very. Standing there behind the bar cutting lemons, then the next thing I know, she’s on the floor in my arms, grabbing at her shoulder. Then, gone.’ He looked at the ground, that black feeling every time he said it, grabbing on to him.

C.C. stopped walking again and turned toward him, placing her fingers on his arm again, like she had yesterday. And just like then, her touch sent a current of warmth through him, gentle and comforting, chasing the black. He stared at her fingers, lovely, pale, plump, her small, carefully filed nails, short but clean, with some kind of very pale pink polish on them. Pretty.

‘Heart attack?’ she asked. He broke his gaze from her hand to her eyes and nodded, the ache and the warmth in him together now. There was complete recognition and empathy in her eyes. He couldn’t tell if he was looking at her eyes, into her eyes, or behind her eyes, or she his. ‘That’s how my Lenny died,’ she said. ‘No warning at all.’

‘None,’ he said.

‘Lenny was out jogging,’ she told him. ‘It was his first day of trying to get into shape. He had some crazy notion of running in a race to celebrate his sixtieth birthday.’ She looked at Purdy. ‘He was over ten years older than me. Anyway, he was thin as a rail, but he was trying to get in shape and…’

Neither of them spoke. M.J. had stopped and was circling around a spot. Finally she lowered herself.

‘Oh dear. I don’t have a bag,’ said C.C. quietly.

‘Oh. Well. Uh.’ He tried not to look at the dog, but wasn’t sure what to do. He looked down the road. ‘That’s okay. I’ll come back here later on and…take care of it.’

‘That’s nice of you. Thank you.’

Great. So far they’d talked about death and dog poop. He knew he should offer his condolences on the loss of her husband, but the dog doing its thing there had derailed the conversation.

‘Good girl, M.J.! Here’s a little cookie!’ C.C. bent and fed the dog what looked to be a little piece of waffle that she’d pulled from her pocket. ‘Well, now that she’s done her deed, I guess we should turn around,’ she said. ‘I’ve got a little packing to do myself before we go.’ He nodded. They turned around, C.C. tugging gently on the twine to persuade M.J. to head back.

They walked, and still he couldn’t think what to say. All he could think was how remarkable it was that their spouses had both died of heart attacks. And they’d pretty much said all there was to say about that. But he knew his mother would roll over in her grave if he let the moment go without commenting on her loss.

‘Ma’am? C.C.?’ She looked at him. ‘I’m terribly sorry about your loss.’ He suddenly felt his eyes welling up with tears. Of all the dadblummed things! He turned away, breathed the emotion out.

When he looked back, she was still looking at him. ‘Me too,’ she said simply, not explaining whether it was for her loss or his or both. She didn’t have to.

After a few seconds of more silent walking, he asked, ‘So are your girlfriends married?’ He almost smacked himself in the forehead. ‘Not that I’m interested,’ he blurted out. He stopped walking, winced, hoped she didn’t notice. What a bumbling fool he was! You never get a second chance to make a first impression, his dad used to say. ‘I mean…’

She smiled. ‘Meg’s married, but her husband just recently, uh…left. Walked out on her. After thirty years of marriage. Just–poof! No goodbye. Just left her a note on the kitchen table.’ She shook her head, heaved a sigh, looked at him soberly. ‘I’ve never been all that fond of him. And Shelly? Well, she’s terminally single. She was married. Twice. And divorced twice. She’s been single for about fifteen years now, though. She likes it that way.’ C.C. smiled, but looked tired.

‘And you? You doing okay?’ he asked. ‘Single, I mean? I, myself, find it kinda like living in an empty can. Kinda echoy, you know?’

She nodded thoughtfully. ‘That’s a good way of putting it. I’m okay–now–but, yes, it’s kind of echoy. Exactly.’ She exhaled. ‘It gets better, though, with time. A little better.’

Time. Just what he didn’t have. They were in front of the restaurant now. Already. They both stopped. He looked at C.C. She was leaning down to pick up the dog.

What did he know about this woman, other than her husband had died? Nothing. So why did he have the feeling, now more than ever, that they were supposed to be together? But he knew if he said that, it’d be too soon, too sudden. She’d head for the horizon. Well, she was heading for the horizon within the hour anyway. Still, this wasn’t the time. He looked toward Mick’s shop. He was probably playing solitaire on his computer, the car long since finished.