In today’s micro story Diane Somers feels relief after returning her berserk cat Zero to the animal shelter. Relief…and emptiness.
More short fiction in the Jack and Diane series. Enjoy.
What I’m Writing Today
Today I’m exploring a lonely moment as Diane sits at home after returning her cat to the shelter. This is #4 in the Jack and Diane series of stories. As I have said before, I did not expect to continue the story line, and I have no plan as to where it is going. The characters interest me. I’ll see where it goes as we proceed.
Catch up on previous stories with Jack and Diane on this blog: A Third Date, The Second Date, Death by Millstone.
A New Morning
Bob Gillen
Diane Somers woke at 7:30 without an alarm. She stretched, slid out from under her covers. The east-facing window filled the room with light.
Diane smiled. I slept through the night, she told herself. First time in a month. She stepped into her fuzzy slippers, pulled on a well-worn blue chennile robe, and padded to the kitchen. In under ten minutes she had her French-press coffee in hand. She settled in her chair and gazed out at the trees moving in the brisk Santa Ana winds.
She sighed as she sipped her coffee.
Sleep was good. After a month of near-sleepless nights she had finally surrendered and returned her cat Zero to the rescue shelter. As a retiree, she had the option of afternoon naps. But nothing replaced a good night’s sleep. Zero had been with her for close to two years. In that time the cat had never once purred or meowed. Never snuggled with Diane in her chair or in bed. The cat did nothing but eat, pee and sleep. Hence the cat’s name. Diane gave zero fucks about him.
But Zero had taken to roaming the house every night for the last month. Running from room to room. Hissing. Knocking books off tables. The last straw, two nights ago he swept her favorite mug off the kitchen table and shattered it.
The guy at the shelter had accepted Zero back. “Didn’t work for you, huh?” he asked.
“Not your normal cuddly cat.”
The clerk had nodded. “Thanks for trying. Not always a match.”
“Thanks for understanding,” Diane had called out as she left.
She sipped her coffee. A couple of dry leaves scratched across the concrete patio in the wind. For some weird reason, the moving leaves reminded her of the black and white movie with Peter Lorre, where a severed hand crawled around the house causing mayhem and murder. That’s what Zero had been, a hand detached from anything that would give it life, creeping about in the darkness. Diane shuddered. He’s gone now.
After a second cup of coffee, she continued to stare out the window at the wind-blown trees. All the movement was outside. Inside, only stillness. Diane felt alone, empty. Her mind drifted back over the three years since her second husband had died. She lost him quite suddenly of a massive heart attack. And she had lost her only daughter in a maelstrom of anger and bitterness. Margaret had not spoken to Diane since Mark’s death. Diane had still to reason why, exactly.
Her thoughts were interrupted by sirens from the nearby fire station, as a crew went out on call. Her neighbor’s German shepherd howled. Howled mightily. It always brought a smile to her face. The dog was normally rather stoic, but the sirens gave him voice every time.
The feeling of emptiness fell over her again. She was utterly alone in the house once again. No husband, no connection to her daughter, no cat. Only her.
She returned to the kitchen for more coffee. Zero’s food and water dishes were still on the floor under the counter. She picked them up and tossed them in the trash. That was the last trace of him. Gone.
Diane settled in the chair with a third cup of coffee. She opened her iPad to read emails. On top was the monthly newsletter from one of her favorite mystery authors. As she read the newsletter, she teared up. The author talked about losing her spouse in the previous year. She spoke of herself recovering from a mild bout of Omicron, spoke of the almost two years of pandemic lockdown and restrictions. The author described her current life as a scaled-back life. A scaled-back life, yet nurtured by gratitude and appreciation for what she does have.
A scaled-back life
Diane thought, that’s it exactly. That’s my life. Scaled back. Not the same. Maybe never to be the same again. But clearly scaled back. Full of limitations and restrictions. Filled with absence and emptiness. Tears flowed.
Her phone chirped. She glanced at the screen. Jack. The guy she met on an online dating app for the over-fifty crowd. She let the call go to voicemail. Later, dude. I need some me time right now.
She wiped away her tears, smiled, recalling the day she and Jack had spent in Santa Barbara a few days ago. Appreciation. Gratitude.
Outside a single dry leaf continued to scratch across the patio in the wind. Diane got up, opened the slider, and stepped on the leaf. Crushed it to small pieces. She closed the slider, settled back in her chair.
She reached for the phone. Took a deep breath, hit Jack’s number.
A micro story about a woman facing yet another reminder of her husband’s death.
What I’m Writing This Week
Single Again
Bob Gillen
Marie Reston returned home from her Starbucks run with a slice of lemon loaf and a grande Americano. Early afternoon on an October Sunday. Hours to kill till it was time to make dinner. She flipped on her TV. Two weeks ago she had recorded a movie she had been promising herself she would watch soon. An action thriller set in the Colorado mountains. Not her usual TV fare, but she needed a distraction.
Marie set her snack next to her easy chair, hit Play to begin the movie. She strained to make out the dialogue. Two men in winter gear sat around a fire. Why was character audio so hard to hear on movies? Several words popped up clearly. Frio. Cuidado.
What the hell? She had recorded the Spanish-language version of the film. Shit.
Marie turned off the recording. She scrolled through the current TV fare. Might as well be doom scrolling. Nothing worth watching. She settled on a cooking show for a few minutes. Pasta shells with pancetta and broccoli rabe. Her stomach rumbled. Enough of this.
She turned off the TV, picked up her iPad to find Spotify. The music site suggested an album of piano solos called December, by George Winston. She connected her bluetooth to the soundbar under the TV and hit Play on the album. She finished the lemon loaf, sipped the Americano.
Maria picked up her laptop, opened to her bank website to check her account status. Yesterday she had met with the local branch manager to close out her deceased husband’s accounts and remove his name from her accounts and their joint credit card. Kenny was gone just over a year, a short bout with a deadly disease. Marie had waited this long to adjust the accounts, figuring there would be no further direct deposits or other activity. The bank manager accomplished the adjusting in half an hour. Marie gave no thought to it afterwards.
Now, seeing only her name on the bank accounts, she felt a loneliness creeping over her. On the December album Winston played “Carol of the Bells”. She stared out the patio window at the October skies, the Southern California foliage fringed with a touch of color. The vision grew blurred as tears welled up in her eyes. Kenny’s name was gone from their accounts. After so many years, she was again a single account holder. Maria shuddered. Tears flowed freely.
Diane agrees to a third date with Jack, even after he messed up the second one so miserably. Will this 50+ dating app relationship go anywhere? Read on.
To catch up on the first two stories about Jack and Diane, check out the first, Death by Millstone, and the second, The Second Date. I am writing these stories one at a time, with no idea or plan where it will go. The two characters interest me more than I expected them to. Who knows? We’ll find out together.
And now, enjoy their third date, a day trip to Santa Barbara.
A Third Date
Bob Gillen
Jack Marin backed his white Ford F-150 effortlessly into the parking spot half a block from Stearns Wharf in Santa Barbara.
“We’re here,” he whispered to Diane Somers sleeping in the passenger seat. Diane opened her eyes. She took in Jack’s face, turned to see the beach across from the sidewalk.
“That was fast,” she croaked. “Oh, I was really out, huh?”
“Since we got on the 101.”
“Wow. Hardly sleeping for two nights makes a girl sleepy.”
“Take your time waking up,” Jack said. He pressed the slider to open Diane’s window. The cool ocean breeze drifted in.
“Oh that smells good.”
“Never disappoints.”
Diane straightened up, pulled down the visor mirror. “I need a bit of makeup.”
“If you say so. Looks good from where I sit.”
She freshened her lipstick, ran hands through her hair.
“How’d you score a spot so close to the wharf?”
“I lived in New York City for five years. Finding a parking spot is a learned skill.”
“I didn’t know you lived there.”
“Long time ago, after graduation. Before I came back out to LA.”
Jack closed the window. “Let’s head out on the wharf.”
The two walked along the wharf as cars passed back and forth next to them.
“I have to say, Jack, I really hesitated when you called and asked me to come here.”
“Yeah, I really messed up our last date… I’m a shitty listener.”
Credit: CheshireCat.com
“More than that.”
“Yeah?”
“I was flattered you called. But after our second date didn’t go well, I did not want to be miles from home, depending on you to drive me back if it went south again.”
Jack stopped, stepped aside to the railing. “I know I really messed up both dates, but I wanted to see you again so badly. I thought some ocean air and a good dinner would help.”
Diane smiled. “I missed you too. I am still concerned that this won’t work out, but I’m game to try again.”
The passing cars caused the wooden beams of the wharf to clatter as they drove over them. Jack smiled. “Have I told you I’ve done and said some incredibly stupid things in my lifetime. Almost always around a girl.”
“Why am I not surprised?”
Jack pointed to the passing cars. “All the clattering of the wharf reminds me…when I was in the eighth grade, I had a girlfriend.”
“Wow, this is ancient history.”
“Cute.” Jack smiled. “Her name was Patti. One chilly spring day we rode our bikes to the park at the end of our town. A wooden car bridge crossed a large creek near the park. Patti and I, and another couple we were tight with, we climbed up under the bridge, right under where the cars drove across. We heard all of that clattering of the wooden beams. Anyway, we were kissing. It was a nice moment. Secluded under there. The other couple kept on kissing. I kissed Patti for a bit, then said, “Okay, I’m done. We can go now.”
“You didn’t?”
Jack extended his palms in surrender. “I was an idiot. Alone with my girlfriend. And I cut it short. So stupid!”
“Yeah, Jack. That was stupid.”
Seagulls screeched alongside the wharf. Jack shrugged. “Let’s get some ice cream.”
They walked to the end of the wharf. Jack got a vanilla cone, Diane Rocky Road in a cup.
“My friends tease me. Call me plain vanilla. I love the flavor, and I hate bits of stuff in my ice cream.”
Diane waved her index finger. “I won’t offer you a taste of mine.”
They found an empty bench facing out at the harbor.
“Do you feel rested after sleeping in the car?”
“I do. Thanks. I hope it wasn’t rude of me, but I was so tired.”
“Trouble sleeping?”
“I think aliens have invaded my cat’s brain. He now paces around the house all night.”
“That’s weird.”
“I adopted him two years ago. Hoping for company around the house. They told me his name was Pepper. After a week I started calling him Zero. Still do.”
“Odd name.”
“He sleeps all day. Wakes up to eat and pee. Does not meow or purr. Will not snuggle or let me pet him. So I call him Zero…as in, I give zero fucks about this cat.”
Jack almost dropped his cone. “That’s harsh.”
“After the last two nights, I mean it even more. He’s insane.”
“So, not only is he not good company, he now keeps you awake at night.”
Diane nodded, finished her Rocky Road. She stood to find a trash can. “Let’s walk a bit. I need to stretch my legs.”
They walked back along the wharf to the street, turned towards the harbor where hundreds of boats were docked. Both enjoyed the sea air. Neither felt the need to talk.
When they reached the end of the sidewalk, Diane said, “I’m hungry. Got any ideas for restaurants?”
“As a matter of fact, I do. There’s a great Italian place up State Street. We can walk there, or get the truck and drive up.”
“I don’t mind walking.”
“Okay, let’s go.”
They walked back along the beach, headed up State Street. The street was still closed to auto traffic, since the beginning of the COVID lockdowns. Bicycles whizzed past, tourists and residents wandered the street. Jack moved to hold Diane’s hand, but a surge of tourists forced them to walk single file. When they reached the restaurant. Jack and Diane got seated in a quiet outdoor section.
Santa Barbara City freshly painted bike lane on State St. and Figueroa St.
RAFAEL MALDONADO/NEWS-PRESS
“So, I promised myself I would not dominate the conversation. Tell me something about your last job, Diane. The one you retired from.”
The server brought a plate with a baguette and olive oil with pepper. Diane wolfed down a piece.
“God, I was hungry.”
Jack placed his napkin on his lap. “This is nice. I can’t remember when I last ate someplace that had cloth napkins.”
Diane laughed. “I hear you.”
“So, tell me about your job…”
Diane said, “I had no plans to retire then, but I couldn’t take the company anymore.”
“They forced you out?”
“In a way. I was in tech sales support, covering retail clients on the west coast. We had some management changes, they reorganized the company structure. Some bright light decided that all sales and sales support people should be based out of Indianapolis. They wanted all of us to relocate.”
“Relocate from LA to Indianapolis?”
“Right?”
The server stepped up. “Any questions about our menu?”
“I think we’re ready to order. Diane?”
“I’ll have the salmon piccata.”
“Excellent choice. And you, sir?”
“Chicken parmesan.”
The server took their menus and walked away.
“I see why your friends tease you.”
“What do you mean?” Jack asked.
“Chicken parm. Doesn’t get any more vanilla than that.”
Jack raised his palms in protest. “I go for what I like.”
Diane smiled. “Whatever.”
“So, back to you. Relo to Indianapolis.”
“Most of our customers were based in the east. The company figured they might as well put all of us nearer to them.”
“With more travel for you, for the west coast.”
“Yeah, plus summer humidity, winter snow and ice, and further away from my daughter.”
“Last time you mentioned you and she were estranged.”
“A topic for another time,” she said.
“Okay. Do you have grandkids?”
“None yet.”
“Yeah, me too…okay, so you quit and took early retirement.”
“Not exactly. I stalled. Finally, they offered me a severance package, and I jumped at it.”
Jack dipped a piece of bread into the olive oil and pepper. “Do you miss the work?”
“I miss the travel. Discovering new cities. Every trip staying in a good hotel. Great restaurants. Spa at night. Most of it on the company dime…and I miss fixing issues for my customers. The best feeling…”
“Yeah, I get that.”
Diane laughed. “One of the best fixes…I would show up at a retail location. Their point of sale equipment was acting erratically. I’d spot right away that they had tied the electrical cables alongside the data cables. Electrical interfered with the data transmission. I would fuss over it for a while, simply separate the cables, and voila, problem fixed. The customers loved me.”
“And here you are, cruising, no worries.”
“Eating a lovely Italian dinner with a man I hardly know yet. Who knew?”
After dinner and coffee, Jack and Diane walked back down State Street to Jack’s truck.
“Would you be interested in adopting a cat?” Diane asked.
“No way. Animals are okay, but I am not a pet person.”
“I may have to give him up. I can’t live like this. I need my sleep.”
Jack nodded.
“And please, Jack. No suggestions about me spending a night at your place.”
“It never entered my mind.”
Diane turned to him. “Am I not attractive enough?”
Jack laughed. “Between a rock and a hard place… yes, you are attractive. And yes, I am a slow mover. Very slow.”
“Sounds fair,” Diane said. “Just kidding you. I will give up Zero, and then we can take it as it comes.”
“Deal.”
Jack reached over, took Diane’s hand, and kissed it gently. She blinked, smiled.
Jack drove his truck onto the 101 South. He turned on one of his playlists. Art Tatum on the Pablo Group Masterpieces albums. He chose the session with Ben Webster on sax. “Chill. If you need to, take another nap. I’m cool with that.”
“I had coffee, but I may just do that. Walking and ocean air did me in.”
‘Call you when we get to your place.”
Jack smiled, steered south. Said to himself, Look at me, spending a day with Diane and not fucking it up. Go, me.
Harry played in the orchestra pit for 15 years till a stroke numbed his left hand.
This Week’s Story: A Stroke Disables a Theater Musician
Harry played keyboards in the orchestra pit for dozens of Broadway shows over the years. Now his left hand lay numb on the keyboard after a debilitating stroke.
Half a Keyboard
Bob Gillen
Harry spread his fingers over the keyboard. A deep breath filled his lungs. His right hand began playing a high, delicate melody. Harry closed his eyes. Let the music flare up inside him, burn out his fingers. His left arm lay at his side as melodies danced in the air.
For Harry, the piano was life. That life was cut down with the stroke that disabled his left hand. A life cut in half. There was no bass for his melodies. No bottom. No foundation. Playing melody with his right hand felt like riding a bike with only one leg. Not just difficult. Near impossible.
Harry continued playing. His left arm instinctively raised to the keyboard, but there was no movement, no feeling, in his hand.
Tears seeped from his eyes. Ran unchecked down his cheeks and splattered on his shirt front. He continued to play. He felt lopsided. Off balance. He closed his eyes again, this time to offset the dizziness he felt.
Today marked a month since his stroke. They caught it early. Limited damage, the doctors said. Limited, yeah. Maybe for them. For Harry, the joy of his life cut in half. His friends told him he could still play melody. That was better than losing his right hand. He could live without the bass, they said.
Harry knew better. Bass was the bottom. The support for melody. Without the bass he felt like he was dancing without shoes. Without feet.
His career was over. He would never play in the pit again. Eight shows a week. Eight times a week for the last fifteen years. Pure joy. He had his favorite shows, but he would play even for the bombs. Live performance was his life.
And the beauty of it. He played unseen in the pit. His joy bloomed nightly in the cocoon of the theater pit, shared with his fellow musicians. For the audience, the music was background to the stage action. They did not feel any need to see the orchestra. They knew it was there. That was enough.
After each show a few theater goers gathered at the edge of the pit, pointing out the instruments to their kids, their nieces and nephews, their grandkids.
Harry would make their night by waving from his piano bench. Then he’d stand and head for home.
Home. Where he sat now. Nowhere else to go. Disability insurance would cover some of his previous income. The rest? Who knows?
Harry reached deep into his memory. The muscle memory of playing for a lifetime. He began playing “Try to Remember” from the Fantasticks. “Deep in December.” This was his December, he thought. Reaching back like some old guy to recall the good times, the Septembers of his life. The times when the embers burned brightly. When life was good.
His left arm twitched. Harry moved the arm up to position his numb hand over the keyboard. The melody continued to flow from his right hand.
The pinkie finger on Harry’s left hand ticked. Twitched. Hit a deep C note.
Once.
Harry took his left hand in his right. Massaged it gently. Another tic. Slight.
He let his left arm fall to his side and resumed playing with his right.
His pinkie finger twitched again. Twice. Harry smiled. Played on with his right hand. Played on and on…
***
An Interview with a Film Composer
Here’s a link to an interview I did a few years back with film composer Thomas VanOosting. You may enjoy reading it. And thanks for stopping by.
Jack and Diane are back. They caught my interest in my last story. This week I’m following them on their second date. Will it work for them? No guarantees.
See my post for the first Jack and Diane story, Death by Millstone, here.
The Second Date
Bob Gillen
Jack Marin stepped into the hair salon. A young man greeted him from the reception counter.
“Who are you here to see?”
Jack glanced around, taking in the slick ambience of the salon. “I’m meeting a client of Krystal. Her name is—“
The receptionist grabbed a microphone. “Krystal, someone to see you.” He turned away to take a phone call.
Jack stood a moment till he realized he had been dismissed. He sat in a beige faux leather chair. In a room directly ahead of him a stylist dressed in black was blow-drying a client’s hair. The two chatted freely as she worked.
“You must be Jack. I’m Krystal.”
A woman in a black apron waved him over. “We’re back here.”
Jack followed her around a corner to find Diane Somers sitting in a salon chair, draped in a black apron. Diane pulled an arm out from under the apron, waved, smiled at Jack in the mirror without turning.
“Hey.”
“Sit here.” Krystal pointed to the empty chair in the next station.
“Jack, this is Krystal,” Diane said. “My stylist and friend for more than ten years.”
“Welcome, Jack.” Krystal picked up scissors and a comb.
Jack nodded. Talking to Diane and Krystal in the mirror made Jack uncomfortable.
“Thanks for meeting me here,” Diane said. “I’ve been running late all morning.”
Jack nodded to the mirror.
“So,” Krystal said, “I hear you guys just met last week.”
“We did,” Jack said. “At the beach.”
“Good beach weather,” Krystal said. “Almost too warm for this time of year.”
“Thanks to our fucked up climate,” Jack said.
“Tell me about it,” Krystal said. “My kids are so into climate change projects at school.”
“Krystal’s kids are adorable,” Diane said.
“Yeah?”
“Do you have kids, Jack?” Krystal asked.
“Two. Both back east, one in New York, the other Rhode Island.”
“Get to see them often?”
“Not enough. Damn pandemic. I haven’t seen them in almost two years.”
“I didn’t know you had kids,” Diane said.
Jack smiled. “Our first meetup kinda went down the toilet, huh?”
“No, no. I’m glad you had a chance to talk.”
“What about you, Diane. Kids?”
“One. A daughter here in LA. She’s an event planner, works mostly with a private high school.”
“Cool. She’s close.”
Diane shrugged. “I haven’t seen her since my husband died three years ago.”
Krystal had been listening intently. She returned to cutting and shaping Diane’s hair. She tipped Diane’s head forward to get at the back of her neck.
“My wife has been gone two years next month,” Jack said.
“You’ve both been through a lot, huh?” Krystal said.
“I still miss her like crazy,” Jack said. “The only comfort I have is knowing she’s in a better place.”
Krystal smiled. “She’s at peace.”
Jack laughed. “Funny. I believe in an afterlife. I know our spirits live on somehow. But I’m in no rush to get there myself.”
“It’s not your time yet,” Krystal said.
Forever, with nothing to do.
“It’s not that. I’m a doer,” Jack said. “I have trouble being idle. When I think of being in heaven, or in some spirit world, I shudder. It must be so boring. Sitting around feeling joyful. The joyful part is okay. It’s the sitting around. For eternity. Forever, with nothing to do.”
Diane peered at Jack in the mirror. “I think it would be wonderful.”
“Not so much for me.”
Krystal set her scissors on the counter. “Let me tell you a story.”
Jack turned to face Krystal, trying to keep one eye on Diane in the mirror.
“I went to a medium last year. We talked about this.”
Jack squinted at the thought of a medium.
“I felt something like you do, Jack. She told me the spirits aren’t just sitting around.”
“Oh.”
“She said they keep growing and learning.”
Jack leaned closer.
“The medium believes we go through a transition when we first die. We have to learn how to be in the new spirit world. In heaven. It takes some adjusting.”
“Do they join up with all the people who have died ahead of them?” Jack asked.
“Oh sure. They interact, learning from one another. Experiencing how they all were good, how they made mistakes, what they learned from that.”
“That’s fascinating,” Jack said. “So my wife is still growing…”
“Oh yeah. The medium even believes we all come back to live multiple lives. But we don’t remember our previous lives. Each one is fresh. We keep growing. Keep trying to get it better.”
Jack stared at his own reflection in the mirror. He murmured, “We keep growing.”
Diane looked at Jack, then caught Krystal’s eye in the mirror. Krystal winked.
“Jack, that means something to you.” Diane smiled.
Jack shrugged. “I think so. I need to think about this.” He turned to Krystal. “Your medium says we never stop growing, right?”
Krystal nodded.
“That’s cool. It makes sense. Why has no one ever said this before?”
Diane opened her mouth to speak. Jack cut her off. “This is why I gave up on religion.”
The conversation died for a few moments while Krystal blew-dried Diane’s hair. Jack stared at the mirror.
A half hour later Jack and Diane sat over hot drinks in a nearby coffee shop.
“Krystal is amazing,” Jack said. “You’re lucky to have her as a friend.”
“She has helped me almost more than my therapist. Since my husband died.”
“I can’t stop thinking about what she said…about her medium. That’s life-changing. I mean, I never thought of the next life as a time of growing. Really cool.”
Diane sipped her coffee. “Were you and your wife close?”
“Oh yeah,” Jack said. “My best friend.”
“My husband and I were the same,” Diane said.
Jack nodded.
“Have you talked to a counselor since your wife died?” Diane asked.
“You mean, a therapist? Nah. No need. I’m dealing okay.”
Diane stared at her cup. “Are you?”
“What?”
She looked at Jack. “I said, are you? Are you dealing okay?”
“Yeah. It gets better as I move along.”
She looked into his eyes.
“Does it?”
“What is this, a therapy session?” He leaned back in his chair.
“No, but I wonder if that’s what you need.”
“You hardly know me. This is only our second date. What are you talking about?”
“You told me I was a good listener.”
“Yeah.”
“Do you even listen at all?”
Jack ran his hands through his hair.
Diane pointed to his gesture. “You just watched me get my hair done. You have not said anything about how it looks.”
“It looks good.”
“Thanks. Too late.”
Jack shook his head in confusion.
“The day at the beach you gushed on about yourself. I listened. You never noticed that I dodged talking about what bothers me.”
Jack shook his head again.
“And just now you were up to your eyeballs talking to Krystal about your wife. You never asked me if I wanted to talk about my daughter. About our estrangement.”
“Sorry. I didn’t realize.”
“That’s my point.” Diane shook her head. “When we were just leaving the salon, Krystal whispered to me, “That man would melt the polish off your toenails.”
Jack squinted.
“She thought you were hot. Me, I feel like this will be too hard to make it work.”
Diane stood. “Thanks, Jack.”
Diane picked up her coffee cup and headed for the door.
I am a few weeks late posting here. It took longer than usual to get this story right. I hope you enjoy it.
Reader caution: possible trigger regarding abuse.
Death By Millstone
Bob Gillen
Jack Marin and Diane Somers sat in rickety aluminum beach chairs a few feet back from the water’s edge at Point Dume. Southern California at its finest. A sky that defined the word blue. An ocean that shimmered in the breeze like the sequins on a go-go dancer’s dress.
Jack wore a pale yellow baseball cap, faded jeans and a black sweatshirt. She was in gray leggings and an oversize white Oxford shirt. Both were barefoot.
Jack reached down for his Starbucks blond Americano, the cup wedged in the sand. Diane sipped a bottled water.
Seagulls squawked overhead. Jack breathed in the salt air. “This is nice.”
Point Dume. Credit: AllTrails.com
Diane smiled. “Blue skies and fresh air. The start of what could be a nice relationship.”
Jack choked, swallowed his coffee hard.
Diane put her hand to her mouth. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Shit. I always put my foot in my mouth. Let me re-phrase that. This is the start of a nice morning together.”
Jack leaned back in his chair. “Better.”
“I had coffee once with a guy I met on a different dating app,” Diane said. “Not the one where you and I met. It was a decent conversation. We talked about our kids. About what airlines we used the most. About our surgeries. After twenty minutes he suddenly stood up, said, ’Thanks, but this isn’t going to work,’ and he walked out.”
“Ouch.”
“Yeah.” She pointed her water bottle toward Jack. “I think when he realized I never had a hysterectomy, and he never had a vasectomy, he got scared and took off.”
Jack laughed.
Diane reached over and touched his arm. “Relax. Let’s just enjoy the beach together. No expectations.”
“That works for me.”
She sipped her water. “What kind of books do you like to read?” she asked.
“Mostly mystery and thriller. Some general fiction. You?”
“Contemporary fiction. Some biographies. A few romance novels thrown in, but I need to be in the mood.”
“What mood is that?” Jack stretched his legs out in the sand.
“Well…when I’m in an optimistic frame of mind. Then happily ever after makes sense. Most days, though, I’m not terribly hopeful.”
“Been burned?”
Diane blinked, reached down for a small picnic sack. “How about a snack?”
She pulled out a few containers with fruit slices, cheese bites, pretzels.
“Hey, thanks. I’ll try a pretzel.”
She grabbed two apple slices.
Jack said, “Last night I got fifty pages into a new thriller novel – an author I never read before. And I tossed it.”
“Boring?”
“No. Same old shit. A serial killer. A guy, of course, a long distance trucker, targets women at truck stops.”
“And?”
“And I am sick of crime stories where a guy targets vulnerable women and children as victims. The concept is so played out.”
Diane nodded slightly. “Yeah, I get that.”
The ocean breeze picked up. Jack reversed his cap to keep it from blowing off. Diane’s shirt fluttered in the breeze.
“Okay, enough on books. What about travel? Do you travel much?”
Diane brightened. “Whenever I can. I love to fly. Last month I went to Cabo again. My fourth time. My first time alone.”
“Never been there.”
“But you’ve been to Mexico, right? Other beaches?”
Jack shook his head. “I went to Tijuana once…for about an hour.”
Diane smiled. “Don’t tell me…a quick lay.”
I embarrassed you.
Jack felt his face redden. “No. Just to say I had been there.”
“I embarrassed you.”
“No…yeah, a bit, I guess.” He grinned.
“Why bother? I mean, why go only to say you were there?”
Jack grabbed a handful of pretzels.
“You say you like to fly. Well, I don’t. But I will drive anywhere. Hitting Mexico was part of a cross-country road trip I did with a couple of buddies, years back. Many years back.”
“That sounds like a cool adventure. Was one of the buddies named Charley?”
Jack looked puzzled for a moment. “Oh, I get it. Steinbeck.”
She smiled.
“It was a long time ago. We were native New Yorkers. Nick, Gene, me. The road trip was one last guy thing before we all got settled in our careers and our lives.”
Diane stood up. “Leave the chairs and snacks here. Let’s walk. Tell me your road trip story.”
Jack stood, wrapped his hands around his coffee cup. “This comes with me.”
The two walked east along the beach, the surf slapping gently on the sand to their right, the breeze playing on their faces.
Jack sipped his coffee. “I haven’t thought about this in a long time.”
“A good memory, though?”
“Mostly. We left from New York, drove west on I-80, hit Reno, down through Tahoe to San Francisco. Then down the California coast to San Diego…man, was Tahoe beautiful!”
“And Tijuana,” Diane quipped.
Jack nodded. “Return trip past the Grand Canyon, then I-70 through the midwest to home.”
Jack chuckled. “You’re not from the mid-west, are you?”
“Born and bred right here.”
“Okay, good. On the drive home we stopped at an upscale restaurant in Kansas City for dinner. Looking for a good mid-west steak. I told the waitress, in my lousy French accent, we wanted a bottle of red wine, Saint-Émilion. She stared at me, said they didn’t stock that. Then her eyes widened. ‘Oh, you mean,’ and she said in her best flat mid-western accent, ‘St. Emilion.’”
New York snobs.
“New York snobs,” Diane said.
“You got it.”
“It sounds like a trip you’d never forget.”
“Yeah, well…”
The shadow of a lone seagull crossed the sand in front of Jack as it passed in front of the sun.
“What?”
Jack kicked at the damp sand. “The trip was fine. It’s only after…”
“Do you not want to talk about it?”
“It’s okay.”
He sipped the last of his Americano as they walked.
“The other guys made their lives in New York. My wife and I moved out here. We lost touch. They’re both dead now. Nick a heart attack maybe fifteen years ago, I heard. The other guy, Gene…also a heart attack…shortly after he was arrested.”
“Arrested?” Diane stopped walking. Looked at Jack.
“Yeah. He was a predator. A child abuser.”
“Oh shit.”
“Yeah, shit is right. I only found out about him recently. When there was so much press about the abusers in the Catholic church, in the Scouts, other organizations. I was reading an article and saw his name.”
Diane turned to stare out at the ocean. “Was he…?”
“Was he an abuser when we took the road trip?”
“Yes.”
“I think so. I’ll never know, of course, but the paper said his crimes went way back. He often took the kids – his victims – camping.”
Diane gripped her water bottle hard.
“We did the trip in Gene’s car, an enormous Chevy Impala. And we carried camping gear. We camped maybe half the nights on the trip.”
Jack shuddered. “Fuck, I never thought of this before. We could have been sleeping in the same tent he used with the kids.” He stopped, sat down in the sand. Stared out at the ocean.
Diane sat next to him.
Jack took the lid off his empty coffee cup, scooped sand into the cup, dumped it out. He did this for a while, scooping, dumping, scooping.
Diane sat in silence.
“Jesus,” Jack said. “He should burn in hell for what he did to those children.” He crushed the cup in his hand, jammed the lid into the cup.
Diane whispered, “Speaking of Jesus, maybe all the guy can hope for now is forgiveness.”
Jack turned to Diane, shook his head violently. “No! I’m not much of a religious guy any more, but I do remember Jesus saying, if you hurt the children, you should have a millstone tied around your neck and be thrown in the sea.”
Diane nodded. “Yeah, he did say that. He also talked about loving everyone…”
“No. There’s no wiggle room there. You hurt kids, you die.”
“Do you think he was a tortured soul?”
“Seriously?” Jack pulled his ankles up to sit cross-legged. “A tortured soul? What about the tortured souls he left in his wake?”
They fell into a long silence. Both stared out at the ocean. They watched sandpipers run back and forth at the water’s edge, dodging each wave. Wave after wave hit the shore, disappeared in the sand, made way for the next one.
Finally, “How did I not see it?”
Diane said nothing.
Jack ran sand through his fingers.
“Was I blind? I mean, we knew each other. We were already in the jobs that marked our careers. Nick was studying for the bar in New York. Gene got his degree and was teaching elementary school in an underserved neighborhood in Brooklyn. I was engaged, planned to get married six months later. Shit, I was so naive.”
“What if you knew? What would you have done?”
“I would have turned him in.”
“He was your friend.”
“A buddy, yeah, but not a real friend. No friend does things like that.”
Jack brushed sand off the leg of his pants. “You know what’s ironic? Nick was a lawyer. I heard he worked for a firm that specialized in getting justice for abused children.”
“He represented the victims,” Diane said.
Jack nodded. “I wonder if that’s what got him. What caused his heart attack. Knowing what he knew.”
Diane drew up her knees, wrapped her arms around her legs.
Jack dug his heels into the warm sand. “Nick tolerated no bullshit. I’m guessing he would have thought, like me, predators should all burn in hell. These bastards preyed on vulnerable children. Stole their youth, ruined their lives for all their remaining years. And Nick would have known that these were not crimes of passion.”
Jack began tearing pieces off the crushed cup in his hand. “The bastards planned everything. Selected victims. Worked them and their families. Calculated all the abuse. Premeditated. Over and over.”
so many times there’s no happily ever after
Diane said, “Like I said earlier, so many times there’s no happily ever after.”
Jack picked up the pieces of his mangled coffee cup. “Let’s head back.”
They stood. Diane said, “Shit, I can sure clear a room on a first date, huh?”
Jack shrugged. “The last few years, it has always bugged me that I did that road trip with a guy who turned out to be a predator. How could I have done that?”
As they walked back to their beach chairs, Jack said, “Before the road trip I had bought a whole box of cigars. Garcia y Vega Bravuras. We smoked them at every campsite after supper. One night we were smoking at our campfire. Gene walked off to take our trash to a dumpster. On the way back, he stopped at the neighboring campsite to chat with a family that had two boys. Nick had to yell over to him to come back and leave them alone.”
“You think Nick knew?”
“Nick was smart. Street smart… If he did suspect something, he never let on.”
“And here you are, so many years later, walking a beach, trying to make sense of it.”
“Yeah. No offense, but with a woman I just met an hour ago.” He turned to Diane. “You’re a good listener.”
She smiled, nodded.
They reached their chairs. Jack tossed his crushed and torn cup down in the sand.
Gulls screeched high overhead. Diane caught Jack’s eyes. “I could listen more if you wish.”
“Let’s sit and enjoy the ocean for a while,” he said. “Maybe happy can be one moment without worrying about ever after.”
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