Sunny And Cool

E. Larson Gunness 2 Hope Court Barrington, RI 02806 401-433-2938 [email protected]

Approx. 4,700 words

Sunny and Cool The Flask Review, 3/2007 Issue 4 www.freewebs.com/theflaskreview/issue4.htm

Frank stepped inside the bakery. The clerk behind the counter smiled at him and said, “Happy Saturday.” “Winter’s on its way,” Frank said, and he folded his arms, pretending to shiver. She nodded in agreement and glanced outside. “I’m having breakfast with my daughter, so I thought I’d bring along some sort of snack,” he continued. He stooped in front of the display case and the clerk came to stand opposite him on the other side of the case. She leaned down and pointed out several different pastries: half moons, cup cakes, muffins. As Frank reviewed the pastries, he also noticed that he could see down the front of her blouse; she wore a light blue bra. Embarrassed, he

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jabbed his finger toward a tray of frosted Danishes with raspberry jelly. When she stood and walked to the register, her face was flushed from bending low. She pulled a white bag from a stack on the counter, shook it once, and placed his Danishes inside. Their eyes met as she slid the bag towards him. “Be careful so you don’t upset the jelly,” she said. “Now how’d you get that pretty tan in all this cold weather?” he asked. She rang up his order and then made change. Her eyes did not meet his again. “Have a nice day,” she said. Then she stepped back toward the rear of the shop. Frank returned to his white Cutlass Sierra. The day was cool with high blue skies and wind. A day like this would do a job on any of the trees that still had their leaves. He set the bag onto the seat beside him and started the car. Now which route, he thought, should he take to get to Carrie’s? He knew well where her apartment was; he had passed it before but had never been invited inside. He drove from the parking lot and then along roads that ran through forests of pine. He passed clearings where houses had been built, houses that at one time were remote. Some of the older houses in the area were built almost two centuries ago. There were also the wide lots that had been cleared for development of newer homes: houses built for grandeur, rather than longevity. He didn’t like the newer houses at all.

***

Wide awake at seven, Carrie felt like she needed to be outside. She wrote out a note for Drew and left it taped to the mirror in the bathroom. Then she dressed and left

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the apartment. She struck out at a brisk pace. She felt cold, and worried that she might not have put on enough layers. She walked along Irving, which dead-ended at Markham. On a workday, Markham was usually busy, but now it was quiet and easy to cross. She turned right, towards the river. After three blocks, she was at the entrance to the Mystic River Preserve, a park that spread along a section of the river that had been de-industrialized. There were wooded areas, ball fields, picnic tables, and paths. The fields were empty; there were only a few people out. She walked the paths that made a loop around the edge of the park. She didn’t walk through the woods because they made her feel claustrophobic. But from the far side of the ball fields, she liked to look at the trees. Because the first frost had come so late this year, the trees appeared confused; some held armfuls of gaudy color, others stretched bare fingers towards the sky. Direct light from the rising sun struck the very tallest. Emblazoned, she thought. Soon, the sunlight would move down their trunks until it reached the earth, and the night would be gone and it all would be warmer. It was a scene she had watched so often before, in the woods near where she had grown up.

***

As Frank crossed into Arlington, then Somerville, the neighborhoods became denser. He made a turn down a narrow side street, crowded on each side by two and three-family houses. The street faced him directly into the sunlight. He raised his arm to shield his eyes, but he couldn’t find the place where his hand could produce shade. He

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lowered the visor and craned his neck upwards, but then he couldn’t see enough of what was ahead. He slowed. It was a one-way street, and there was nothing to do but go forward. Horns began honking behind him. A spider rappelled on a bright cobweb down to the dashboard before him. He reached out and swept it away with his fingertips. Filthy car, he thought. Then he heard a bump and a cry and a crunching of metal. Two thoughts struck him: that must be a bike, and that person is not accustomed to screaming. He needed to breathe, to calm himself. But there was a man at his window, rapping on the glass, demanding that he get out. The man was young. He had dark hair that was curly, and he wore a green fleece sweater. “Don’t just sit there! Aren’t you going to get out?” the man said. Yes, of course he was. But couldn’t he be given a moment? He opened the door and the man was still yelling, but no longer at Frank. He was yelling at the traffic behind them. Then the man turned and went to the front of the car. Frank followed. A woman was there on the street, curled into a ball. Her head and shoulders were under Frank’s front bumper. “I’m okay,” she was saying. “I’m okay. Just don’t touch me. No one touch me.” They were young. Grad students, Frank supposed. The young man knelt on the pavement and leaned in toward her. “He’s right here,” Frank heard the man say. Frank bent, hands on knees, toward the woman. She had worked her helmet off, it lay beside her. Her light brown, almost golden hair, spread out behind her just like,

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Frank thought, it had on her pillow earlier this morning. A flap of skin had been raised from one of her knuckles. She was moving her lips, murmuring. Frank said, “How were you ... what were you doing in the middle of the street?” “You slowed and waived us across!” the young man said, jerking around. “I sorry,” Frank said. “I couldn’t see. I’m sorry.” Frank raised himself up to stand. He felt lightheaded; his heartbeat throbbed to his wrists, he knew he’d have to sit down. He had pain that felt like it was drawing his sternum inward. There was now a crowd, and a siren was making its way to them. He sat on the curbstone between parked cars, where there was shade. He felt much cooler and began to shiver. He moved back into the street and leaned against the door of a parked sedan. It wasn’t as cold, but, still, he shivered. An ambulance arrived. Its back doors were opened, its bright yellow equipment spread about on the street. Two EMTs in dark blue ministered to the woman. And a policeman, young and aggressive, stood before Frank and asked for identification. With dumb hands and a pulsing chest, Frank presented his driver’s license. As he went to the glove box of his car to retrieve his registration, he saw that the bag of Danishes he’d bought for Carrie had spilled onto the floor, dirt and lint stuck to their frosting. Then he was standing again, and one of the EMTs was in front of him, examining his eyes, taking his pulse, asking about his medical history. And then it was over. They all would need more of him. But for now, he was free to go. The ambulance closed its doors around the woman. The policeman returned Frank’s license and registration and then drove away, following the ambulance. A municipal worker, who’d arrived late in a dirty orange pickup, swept up the glass from

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Frank’s broken headlight and slid the bike from beneath the car. The bike went into the bed of the pickup. The man backed the truck into a driveway, turned around, and was gone. On the road in front of Frank’s car, was a small puddle of blood. It was bright red with darkening edges. Frank got back into his car. The sun was higher now. It was easier to see the street before him. He felt the onset of extreme fatigue. A car came up behind – someone new to the scene – and honked its horn long and hard. How, Frank wondered, had the backup of cars from earlier been cleared out of this narrow street? Then the person in the car behind held their horn down, punishing Frank for blocking their path. Frank put his car in gear, and was chased down along the street, away from the scene.

***

After her walk, Carrie felt refreshed. She decided to tidy up the apartment before her father arrived. She wasn’t going to go overboard. But she’d at least take out the trash and pick up a bit. It always fell to her to perform chores like this; they were something that Drew seemed not even to notice. “Chores are for whores,” is what he’d said the one time she asked him to help. He said it as if he were delivering a line from a play, not like he was answering her actual question. She pulled a fresh garbage bag from beneath the sink. This was the last bag. The box, now light and empty, came up with the bag and she had some trouble separating the two. Then she began to work on the trashcan in the corner of the kitchenette. It had been

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full for two days now, but they had continued to stack items on and against it. She filled half the bag with what was scattered about the trash can. Then she walked through the other rooms of the apartment. Drew was seated near the window on the couch. He was inspecting a backpack he had recently acquired. This backpack looked to be of a high quality, designed for day hikes or maybe ice climbing. Carrie never knew where he got the things he brought home. He looked up at her as she passed. “Trying to make the place look respectable?” he asked. “Might as well,” she said. She picked up the crushed beer cans and empty bottles of fruit drink and iced tea. There were also pages from a copy of the Herald. She emptied the contents of various ashtrays: she had felt quite the hostess when she first set them out; and now quite the servant as she cleaned them up. Then she went back to the kitchenette. The bag lining the trashcan had slipped down inside, and it was a struggle to get to it. She tied closed the two trash bags and set them beside the back door that led out from the kitchenette. When she was done, she no longer felt refreshed. “Drew, would you mind taking these bags down to the dumpster?” she called. “Sure, I’ll get to it as soon as I’m finished here,” he said. She knew that tone. He was saying the opposite of what he meant. She took a damp dishcloth from the handle of the refrigerator, then wiped down the surface of their coffee table. There. The apartment now looked decent enough. “So what do I say if my dad asks me what the money’s for?” she said.

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“You sure he’ll ask? My parents never ask me anything.” “That’s because you just talk to their lawyer. If you for asked anything from them directly, you’d have some explaining to do.” “That’s true,” he said. “As long as I don’t ask for too much, they pretty much leave me alone,” he continued. “Which is just how I like it.” She knew he didn’t mean that either. “Anyway, if he asks you, what’s the big deal? Just tell him.” Just tell him, she thought. That was a laugh.

***

Frank didn’t see Carrie very often these days. He reached her house, one of the many multi-families that crowd the streets of this section of town, and pulled into an open space in front. The only other times he’d been here, he had driven past unannounced and unnoticed. A father should know where his daughter lives, he had told himself. He shut off the car. The accident was still with him. But he was happy to be here, about to see his child. Yes, he thought, family is what I need. It’s what we all need. It is time to mend relations and come together, time to love one another and to share in each other’s lives. Flushed with the warmth of hope, he climbed the porch. There was an intercom panel with a column of small black buttons, one for each apartment. Next to each button was an occupant nametag. He saw Carrie’s tag, his Carrie, in the midst of this unfamiliar place. Her handwriting was so recognizable, like a flare sent from her down to the street.

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He pushed the button. He heard no sound of the doorbell ringing inside. He waited. He pushed the button again and immediately heard a response from the small speaker: “Hello?” It was a man’s voice. Perhaps he’d pressed the wrong button? “Hello?” the voice said again. “It’s Frank Johnson. Carrie’s father? I was looking for Carrie Johnson?” The buzzing sound rattled the front door and Frank pushed the handle and went in. He climbed the stairway. It was narrow, with white walls made dirty from wear. She was on the third floor. As he attained her landing, he settled on an explanation for the presence of a man in his daughter’s room: it was only a friend, someone who had come to be with her, to help fortify her for this, her first visit from her dad in almost a year. At Carrie’s door, he raised his hand to knock. He felt silly with excitement. Most of the people in his daily life were mere acquaintances: people from work, waitresses, and store clerks he’d come to recognize. At best, they were pleasant but indifferent. But Carrie was different; she was of his own. He knocked. The door opened. And there she was. She smiled, her cheeks going flushed. Her hair was pulled back. She wore a black t-shirt, with a loose, scooped collar, and tan corduroys. He reached out. Then he held her. Her shirt was soft. “Come in,” she said. “I made coffee.” She turned and led him in. He noticed that she’d changed some: her hips were wider. Of course, he had put on weight as well. They stood in the living room and she swept her hand about in a gesture that said “well, here it is.” She suggested he sit down,

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over there, on the couch in front of the window. There was no place on earth he would rather be just now than this apartment, this place where she lived. “Thanks him for coming,” she said. “How do you like your coffee?” “Black, please,” he said. And as she turned to fetch the coffee, her hair swung away from her neck. He saw just above the back of her collar the tip of a tattoo: sharp black points radiating upward as if from a star between her shoulder blades; one point reached almost to the soft hairs at her nape. Frank sat back into his topcoat. Behind him were windows. He surveyed the room. A braided rug on the floor appeared heavy with dust. The walls were mostly bare, save for two posters, one titled “Astrological Chart,” the other was a photograph of a tropical island. Behind a closed door to his right was, he figured, her bedroom. He heard her murmur something in the kitchenette, then the clink of coffee cups. The light was off in there. He took a breath to respond, to ask for clarification on what she’d said. But another voice, the man’s voice, answered first. He was in there with her. Was he giving her instructions? Carrie stepped back into the room with two unmatched mugs, and she handed one to Frank, leaning in close to him. He could smell her, a blend of dense floral sweetness and cigarette smoke. It was the same smell as her mother’s – not the young version of Linda, when they had been dating, but later, after all had gone wrong. Carrie seemed to consider for a moment the space on the couch next to him, then glanced out the window behind. She walked to the only other place in the room to sit: a lone chair, part of a kitchen set. She sat. But that was too far away, so she rose and dragged the chair forward.

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“There,” she said, finally squaring toward him. She hunched forward, elbows on knees, both hands grasping her mug. “I’m glad I made it,” Frank began. “I had an accident on the way over here.” “Was it bad?” she asked. “It’s why I was so late.” “Oh, don’t worry about that,” she said. She peered into her coffee, as if some fleck had fallen in there and she was trying to decide how to remove it. “It was a mess. The police came and an ambulance. I still have to deal with them later.” “Did you get hurt?” “No. But I–” “Well, thanks for coming. I’m glad you’re here.” Frank tasted his coffee. It was bitter and not very hot. But he wanted the caffeine, so he drank more. They both began to talk at once, paused, then did it again. Frank grinned. This was supposed to be one of those moments that released tension, but she winced, as if annoyed. “Dad, I work over at the hospital, and–” “That’s great.” “Well, it’s just the cafeteria.” She stared into her coffee, then at the couch cushion beside him. “Look at it as a place to get your start,” Frank said. The tilt of the couch seat wanted to draw him back, so leaning toward her took effort. “Dad, no, I was only telling you–”

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“Are you happy with it?” “No, I...well, yes, but I was just telling you because, because I have to be there soon. Since you were late, I have only a few minutes before I need to go.” “Oh. Then, do you need a ride over there?” “No.” “I’d be happy to drive you. I got a great parking space, right out front.” “No. Dad. Listen. I need, need to borrow some money.” Her arms were folded now, her feet directly beside each other. She raised her eyes to meet his. “How much?” he asked. “Two. Thousand.” “Two thousand dollars? But, Carrie, what for?” “Dad,” she said, and she let him see into her eyes. “I need two thousand dollars,” she said. “Carrie,” he said, “are you in trouble?” She turned from him, cross. “No, not at all,” she said in the same tone her mother used to use when she was not telling the truth. “Carrie,” he said, leaning toward her. “You can call me if you ever have any problems. You know that, right?” “I did, Dad. Okay? I already did.” He watched her. She cut her eyes down and away, to the braided rug on the floor between them. She held her position and kept her mouth shut, waiting for him to give in. He reached for his wallet, for the blank check he always kept there.

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“Okay,” he said. “I will help you. But, Carrie, things have to change between us.” “I know,” she said. “Listen, I know we’re not all where we wanted to be. But…” She waited for him, for his money. To hell with it, he decided. He wanted to leave, to go somewhere else; somewhere that offered no challenge. “You’ll have to wait until mid-week to cash this,” he said as he began to write out the check. He willed himself through the required information: the numbers, two with three zeroes, then writing out the amount in legible cursive. “I’ll need to raise some cash,” he continued. They stood as he handed her the check. They were face to face. The smile she met him with now was foreign – perilous and unhappy, not at all the smile of his little girl. She folded the check in half and, leaning slightly, slid it into the back pocket of her jeans. “Carrie,” he said. “Can I ask who’s this person here with you?” “Not yet, no. Not yet.” She offered him an embrace, which he accepted, and then he stepped back, turned, and left – the door closed behind him, the stairway was steep before him. He gripped the railing to begin his descent. The railing was loose. One day soon, he knew, it would come apart from the wall. Behind, through the door, there was the sound of a voice – it must have come from Carrie. But he couldn’t tell if it was a sound of relief or one of dismay.

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He reentered the day outside. The sun was still bright, but it was too cold to warm him.

***

Carrie picked up her mug and went to the window. She sat on the arm of the sofa and rested her feet on a cushion. She sipped at her coffee and waited for him to appear on the sidewalk below, the check still in the back pocket of her jeans. His car was parked just in front of her building. He’d been lucky, those spaces weren’t often available. She used to hate his car, because it usually meant he was driving her somewhere she did not want to go. She leaned forward to the windowpane; the air closest to the glass was cooler than the room, the radiator behind the couch offered no heat. He appeared down below as he stepped onto the sidewalk. From this vantage point he seemed older. His hair was thinning and his white scalp was bare and unprotected against the cold, as if the sun served only to expose him. He walked to his driver’s side door. There was a pause and she thought he might glance up. If he did, she figured she’d raise her coffee mug in “cheers.” Drew came into the living room and approached her from behind. “Congratulations,” he said. “Thanks.” He thumped a bottle onto the coffee table and sat near her. Then he pulled at her so she turned toward him. “Careful,” she said, holding her mug out away from their laps.

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“Enough coffee,” he said, and he took the mug and set it beside the bottle. Upside down over the mouth of the bottle was a shot glass. “Now we party,” he said, and, with a flourish, he pulled a joint from behind one of his ears. One time, he’d told her, he had gone to a job interview with a joint hidden behind one ear and a half-smoked cigarette behind the other. He said he wasn’t going to get the job anyway. He lit the joint with a green plastic lighter. His inhale stoked the ember, making it run brightly up one side of the shaft. The smoke was blue when it came from the ember, gray when it billowed from his lungs. Taking the joint from him, she licked her fingertip and dabbed about the edge of the ember so it would burn more evenly. He took the glass off the bottle and poured. While she drew on the joint, he drank. He poured a shot for her. “How much did he give you?” he asked, his face still sour from the shot. “You heard us, didn’t you?” And she drank hers. “I heard you ask for two thousand. That doesn’t mean he gave you all of it.” He took back the shot glass and filled it for her. She put the joint down on the edge of the table. Already she felt the effects. The table, the floor, her hands were moving far away from her. There was a belch in her throat and she knew she might vomit if she didn’t swallow soon; so she forced herself to swallow, then took the shot glass from Drew. On the glass was a print of three wolves, each howling at its own crescent moon. “You wolf,” she said, holding the shot glass before him and tapping at it with her fingernail. Then she drank the shot and he mimicked a soft howl. Both of them laughed.

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“He gave me two grand,” she said. “Nice,” he said, nodding. For a time, they continued to drink. Then Drew put one arm around her, and the other hand onto her knee. He kissed her neck, her face. Then his hand found her breast. He stood up and, taking her wrist, led her to their bedroom. When they were undressed, she complied. She usually complied. If she submitted, it would end faster. He was on her and then he was in her. And she was as dry as her mouth when he finally sighed and fell off beside her. She lay still and waited until she knew he was asleep. Though they were pressed close together, his body didn’t offer much warmth. She arose and covered him with a blanket. She went to the closet and took her bathrobe from its hook. There was a towel on the floor, still damp from his last shower. She used it to dry what had run down her thigh. The jeans she’d been wearing were still on the floor; one leg was turned inside out. The check was still in the back pocket. She left the bedroom and closed the door behind her and went back to her perch near the window. The radiator knocked and she felt some heat rise. Streetlights below thrummed into half brightness. One by one, when they were ready, each flicked into full illumination. She didn’t have any job to go to; that had been a lie.

***

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Frank went to the hospital and presented himself at the main reception desk. He was sent to wait in the cardiology area. He was eventually told to come back on another date. But he didn’t mind. It was nice to sit in the warm quiet hospital. It was nighttime when he drove from the hospital parking garage. He traveled on highway for most of the trip home: Mass Pike to 95 South to Route 20 West. Route 20 would take him within half a mile of his house. It taxed him to travel at night during this time of year. The nighttime was so complete, its darkness so thorough. The friction of his speeding car against the air outside was too loud, like being near the base of a waterfall. Finally, he closed in on his neighborhood. He was able to slow down. He was traveling along what felt like the bottom of a sea. He passed in front of the plaza. It was well lit and he could see that most of the shops were closed, the parking lot was empty. He located the bakery; the lights were on inside, bright examining fluorescents. He turned and parked in the same space he’d used that morning. He shut off his car and stepped out. The night was cold and he could hear wind moving the tree branches in the darkness high above. Surely the clerk from this morning was no longer there, but if there were any pastries left from the morning, he could give himself at least one indulgence before he ended this day. He reached the shop’s door, but it would not open. A sign on the window said the bakery was closed. Inside, a woman wearing a blue apron stood up behind the counters. She was holding a cleaning rag and she wiped away hair from her face with the back of her wrist. When she saw him, she wagged her finger, from side to side, and shook her head. Then she bent back behind the counters, out of view, to continue her cleaning.

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