Can't Get Enough of Your Love (32 page)

“Well, Bobby, it's my move. I'll visit you soon.”

I stand and walk as slowly as humanly possible back to my car, cutting across where Roger has already been. Roger and his tractor cruise off in the opposite direction.

He's making defensive moves, taking his time. I can't blame him. He's playing careful, biding his time. I suppose I can do that, too, though it's not in my nature. I really want to run past all these dead people, tackle his ass, and kiss his freckles off.

In a cemetery? That wasn't on our list. Hmm. We'll have to add it.

When I get to my car, one of my windshield wipers holds a single white rose. I pick up the rose and smell it. Fresh. I look around, hoping to see Roger watching me. I'm sure he is. This is so sweet. But it's white, not red. Red is for love. What's white for?

Oh yeah. White is for friendship.

He wants to be friends. What's that old saying? Oh yeah. “Make new friends and keep the old. One is silver, one is gold.”

I'm all up for a golden friendship.

I am definitely coming back here soon.

I mean, it's not every day a living girl gets a fresh flower in a cemetery.

T
he football season mercifully over—though I did get Curtis, the Bony One, on the all-district team—and the weather getting colder, I have to get the woodstove going. And once it gets going (and the smoke dissipates some), it puts out a nice, even heat and gives me hot water all the time. I'm so glad that I chopped so much wood this summer. The wood smell is nice, Jenny's dollhouse is cozy, and all that's missing is someone who smells nice to cozy up to.

I need to see Juan Carlos.

I drive up Williamson Road to Berglund after school. I figure that Juan Carlos is married by now, so maybe he'll take some time to talk to me.

After being molested by several salesmen trying to sell me a Chevy Trailblazer “with a rear DVD-player for your kids,” I get to the service department. “I'm here to see Juan Carlos,” I say. I don't say, “Is Juan Carlos available?”

I'm on a mission, and I won't take no for an answer.

Juan Carlos comes up to me, wiping his greasy
hands on a blue towel, and we walk out of the waiting area to the parking lot outside. He leans on an old Chevy van. I don't see a wedding band, but I doubt he'd wear one while working on cars.

“How have you been?” I ask.

“I have work to do,” he says.

I have work to do, too. “Fifteen minutes. That's all I'm asking.”

“So … talk.”

This is going well. “I just wanted a chance to explain.”

“And to apologize?”

“Yes. I'm sorry for what happened.”

He nods.

“You never would have married me, anyway.”

He puffs out his chest. “I might have. I was faithful to you.”

“Would you really have married me? And be honest.”

He looks away, squinting that cute squint of his. “No.”

“I thought so.” My heart thuds. “Why not?”

“You are not Catholic. You do not speak Spanish. You do not like to do what I like to do.”

He didn't like making love to me? “Such as?”

“I like to salsa, to mambo. I love to dance, but where we went that time, that was not dancing. I am a good dancer, and you would have been impressed.”

I nod.

“I also like to play soccer and watch soccer on the television. I do not like American football at all.”

Or, evidently, American football players.

“I like to work on cars. I like to drink Corona, and I do not need the lime. I love to eat. We have nothing in common. We are so different.”

“I like to eat.”

He doesn't respond.

“Would you have married me if I was pregnant?”

“Yes, but only if you had been pregnant. That would have been the only reason. I must go back to work.”

“You didn't love me at all?”

He steps closer, his voice hoarse. “Yes, I did, Lana, like my heart was on fire all the time. You do not know how hard it is to have a dying mother and a need for a living woman. She was getting sicker all the time we were together, and I did not notice as much because of you. I could have saved her if I had been paying attention.”

Whoa. It's time to go. “I am so sorry, Juan Carlos. I want you to know that you are a good man, and any woman would be lucky to have you. I mean that.”

“Lahhh-na,” he says, and my heart hurts. “I hurt for so long after you hurt me.”

“I'm sorry. That's all I can say. Is Monique good to you?”

He smiles. “She will learn. I will teach her.”

“Are you, um, married yet?”

“Not yet. Soon. I must go.”

I grab his arm. “Why did you ask me to your mama's wake?”

He sighs and looks away. “I wanted to see you.”

“Why?”

“To see if my heart was still on fire for you.” He looks back at me. “I felt no fire.”

“Oh.” I shouldn't have asked.

“Goodbye.” He walks away.

“Bye.”

I had wondered earlier what was wrong with this man, and I think I've finally figured it out. Juan Carlos was too good for me. That's what was wrong with him. He was just too good.

T
wo down.

I'm still not sure about the third man, but at least I have a white rose in a vase on my kitchen table because of him.

Most of the leaves outside have fallen or been blown away by the November winds, so checking Bobby's grave on Election Day for debris seems a stretch. Mama will know what to do.

“You want a reason to visit a grave?” she asks.

“Well, yeah.”

“You're paying your respects, right?”

“Yeah.” And I'm hoping a redheaded tractor driver pays more attention to me this time than last time. “But I can only pay my respects for so long, you know? I need something that will keep me there a while, until Roger notices me.”

“Plant bulbs, then.”

“Huh?”

“Plant bulbs around the grave so they'll come up in the spring. If you plant the right mix, flowers will bloom there throughout most of the year.”

“It's a great idea. How do you do it?”

She explains, and yes, I take notes. I don't want to screw this up.

I carry a spade, some white powdery bulb food, and a garbage bag full of every bulb I could find at Home Depot to Bobby's grave on an overcast, chilly day. Bobby's plaque and the area around it still look pristine. I check a few other plaques and graves to see if maybe Roger is giving Bobby's resting place special care, but they are all just as spiffy.

Then I start digging, following Mama's instructions not to “plant them too shallow or the squirrels will eat them.” I don't have a plan, really, mainly because I mixed up all the bulbs. I could be planting a daffodil or a crocus or a tulip—it will just have to be a surprise. I even put several bulbs in the same hole, not because I'm tired, but because I'm curious what will happen this coming spring.

I'm almost halfway done when I hear a tractor. I don't look up, and keep digging. Eventually I smell the exhaust. I still don't look up. I drop three bulbs into my latest hole, sprinkling them with the bulb food. Then I see boots, Roger's boots.

Instead of saying, “What are you doing?” or “You can't do that,” Roger takes the spade from me and digs another hole. I look up at him, and he's intent on digging his hole, no expression on his face. I drop in three more bulbs, sprinkle them with bulb food, and he pushes the dirt into the hole, tamping it down with the spade.

“This is a good idea,” he says.

I'll have to thank Mama. Her idea brought him within a few inches of me.

“If everyone did this,” Roger says, “we'd save a fortune on fresh flowers.”

He digs, I drop and powder the bulbs, and he fills in the dirt, his face a study in concentration. We do this until I'm left with one little bulb. I look around the disturbed ground for the perfect place, pointing at a spot centered above Bobby's name. He digs, I drop the bulb and the powder, and he fills in the dirt. We're pretty damn efficient.

“Done,” he says.

I hope not. “Thank you.” And now for my next move. “How've you been?”

“I am fine. How are you?”

So formal. “I wanted to talk to you after Bobby's funeral.”

“So why didn't you?”

“It wouldn't have been appropriate.”

“Not appropriate to talk to an old friend?”

He said “old” friend. Hmm. Does “old” mean I'm no longer his friend? “I guess I should have spoken to you.” But what would I have said? “I, um, I never had a chance to answer your question, the one you asked that night before …” The end.

“It's okay, and in a way, I'm glad you didn't get the chance. You see, um, I'm engaged now.”

I have no words. I am numb. How is this possible? What, was I the training bitch for these three men? I am oh for three: swing and a miss, strike three; wide left; incomplete pass on fourth down….

“Lana?”

“Um, yeah. Well.” I can't think! “Um, who's the lucky girl?”

“Someone I
know.”

Oh, he said that with attitude, but I deserved that. I really should walk away, but I have to ask, “When's the wedding?”

“Soon.”

Oh, I don't know, why not have a
triple
wedding, where I give all three of you away? You'll save a fortune on flowers, and you'll even get a nice group discount on the tuxedos. “Well, um, that's … that's nice.” They have all gotten on with their lives, so why can't I? I stand, and slap some dirt from my hands. “I guess I'm done.” In
many
more ways than one.

“Have you had that dream again?” he asks.

What? “What dream?”

“The one with the milk chocolate baby.”

What a time to bring this up! The man has just destroyed any hope I had of getting one of my men back, and he's asking about that dream? I can't tell him that I
have
had the dream, and that the last time,
she
had hair as bright as orange oak leaves.

“No. I don't have that dream anymore.”

“Oh.”

I don't think I have any dreams anymore.

“I miss talking to you like this,” Roger says.

I miss this, too. “Yeah.” We did have some good conversations. “It's been pretty quiet for me, too.” I gather the garbage bag, what's left of the bulb food, and my spade. “I'll see you later.” Though I'm pretty sure that I'll never see him again.

I feel a tug at my elbow.

“Why wasn't I enough for you, Lana?”

I don't have a simple answer for that one, but at least one of my men touched me. That's something.

“Why did you have to have two others on the side?”

I can't even turn to look at him.

“Why was I the last part of your love square or whatever it was?”

I turn because I finally have an answer. I focus on his boots. “You were the final piece to the puzzle, Roger. You were what was missing from the other two.”

“So the other two guys weren't enough for you?”

“No.”

“I completed the puzzle, huh?”

I look up and see him smile. “Yes. Roger, if it's any consolation—”

“It won't be,” he interrupts, his smile vanishing.

No, I'm sure it won't. “I just wanted to say that I thought—think—about you the most. I even wear your boxers every now and then. I've, um, kept them clean. They kind of hang on me now….”

He steps closer. “It wasn't my …
turn
that day, was it? I came over when I wasn't supposed to, huh?”

He had already had his “turn” the night before. “No, it … it was all kind of random, you know?”

“I don't know, and I'll never understand.”

Nor will I. Nor will I. “Well, it wasn't easy.”

“It ended easily enough.”

Yeah, I'm standing in a cemetery just full of ends today. But I don't want this conversation to end. “Is she nice?” I ask.

“Who?”

“Your fiancée.”

“Yes.”

“And does she …” I have no right to ask this, but I have to know. “Does she satisfy you?”

“Sexually?”

Me and my big mouth. “Not necessarily. I meant—”

“She knows what to do.”

“Sorry I asked.”

“Glad I answered.”

Ouch. How much lower can I get? “I … I better be going.” I turn away from him, walking in the general direction of my car.

“Lana.”

I don't turn, but I stop. “Yes?”

“Am I your last stop today?”

I turn. “What?”

He walks closer, his hands in his pockets. “I mean, have you already spoken to Juan and Karl?”

“Yes.”

“And they wouldn't have you back?”

I shake my head. “Karl's with my ex-best friend Izzie, who is pregnant with Karl's baby, and Juan Carlos is going to marry a girl named Monique soon.”

“So I'm your last resort? Again?”

Why did I stop? I must have a need for abuse. “You're not my last resort, Roger. It's not like that.”

“You could have fooled me. You fooled me in so many ways, Lana, or should I say, Peanut or Lahhhna.” He smiles.

Can I trust that smile? I have no choice. “Y'all must have had quite a conversation after you left me that night.”

“We did.” He laughs. “That was one of the weirdest nights of my life. Believe it or not, we stopped and tried to fix Juan's car. It was kind of good therapy. We gave up on it, though, mainly so Juan and Karl would stop arguing about the damn alternator. Juan rode with me, and we followed behind Karl—until his Blazer ran out of gas just a few miles down four sixty. Then … we all got in my truck and went to IHOP.”