To Catch a Falling Star (43 page)

I hate Dan’s logic, but it gives me a measure of relief. “God, Dan, won’t you help me?”

“I can’t, Tarry. You alone, are responsible for your stars. Your parents did you wrong. Life did you wrong. It’s about damn time you do it right.”

“I don’t know how, Dan.”

“Oh, son. You underestimate yourself. You came here to take the heat instead of Mel. And you’re asking me for help. You’re doing it, Tarry. You go on. Prove to Mel that you’re worthy of her. Prove to her that you’re the man to lead her. Fix yourself and your life. Do the possible and expect God to do the impossible. Have a little faith along the way. Good things happen to those who believe it.”

With my elbows on my knees, I hold my head between my hands. Silence tells me Dan’s finished talking.

I get up. Dan gets up. We shake hands. “I won’t disappoint the faith you put in me, Dan.”

“I’m sure you won’t, son.”

Without another word, I leave.

Just one more stop and I’m gone.

I KNOCK AT the door. While I wait for Pop, I think of the past week since Tarry left. I talked to Dad and he surprised me when he said Tarry had already spoken to him. I was relieved, but mostly I felt proud of Tarry. It warmed my heart.

“Hey, Pop,” I say when he opens the door.

“Oh, look what the February bitter cold blew in! A fresh breath of air for this old man.”

I hug him tight. Jeez, Pop is so frail inside my embrace. I feel guilty for neglecting him during the past few months. I barely have visited him during my involvement with Tarry. Though I made sure I bought and delivered his weekly groceries, my visits have been fast and otherwise scarce. I guess embarrassment played a role in my avoidance. Each time Pop looked at me, it felt as if Tim knew I was infatuated with Tarry. Irrational maybe, but that’s how I felt.

“Mel, come in, dear. Sorry to keep you waiting in the cold.” I hand him a couple of grocery bags, gather the rest from the ground, and follow his slow steps. Pop is legally blind and can only see shadows. Diabetes is a hateful disease. It steals toes, vision, and kidneys. Pop endures dialysis three times a week.

“Have a seat, dear, I’ll make a good pot of that Colombian coffee you got me last week.”

“Please allow me, Pop.” Since I know this kitchen as if it were my own, I put on a pot of coffee to brew. I start putting the groceries away.

With a grin, Pop says from his chair. “Same old Mel, eager to please, eager to give, eager to help. You’re my angel.”

Way to increase my guilt for not coming over, Pop.

“Well, the good part about you being blind is you don’t have to see my embarrassment. You’re still a flirt. No wonder Tim was so charming. He took after you.” I regret mentioning Tim. Pop avoids talking about his son. I understand, but it always slips out. “Speaking of angels, I bought you the sugar-free angel cake you like.”

“Where is my rascal?” he asks.

“Oh, she is at school. I wanted to talk to you privately.” I pour coffee, cut a slice of cake, hand it to Pop, and sit at the table across from him.

“How are the kids doing in school? Good?” I ask.

“They always do. But for the past week they’ve been happy campers.”

“Yeah?” I ask.

“That young fella that you’ve been going out with, Tarry, he said his name was. He came over.”

“What?” Coffee spurts from my nose and mouth.

“Christ, Mel. Calm down. I knew you weren’t going to stay alone for the rest of your life. It wouldn’t be what Tim wanted for you.”

Wondering how he found out where Pop lives, I ask. “Why was he here?”

“He asked me not to tell you.” He pauses. “But I told him that if you asked, which I knew you would, I would say the truth.”

“What did he want, Pop?”

“To buy the lake shack.”

“What?”

“He wanted to buy the shack.”

“I heard you, Pop. Please explain what’s going on.”

“I sold him the shack.” He takes a generous bite of the cake.

“You what?”

“I sold him the shack.”

“So you’ve said, but why?”

“Well, for a while now, I haven’t paid property tax. The town was going to eventually take that land away,” he says with a shrug and takes another big bite of the cake.

“And…” I prompt him.

“Tarry bought the land and paid the back taxes.”

“He did what?”

“He paid the back taxes.”

“Pop!”

“He also set up a trust fund for each of the kids.” He eats the last bite of his cake. “God, I love you, Mel. This cake is so good,” he says and sips from his coffee. “That land was worth some good change. So, Mel, I’m sitting on a small fortune.” He grins. “You won’t need to worry about us anymore.”

“Pop, why did you never tell me anything about the taxes?”

“Why? To put an additional burden on you, Mel? I knew you had to work overtime to support the kids and me.”

“But you loved the lake shack.”

“I wanted to pass it to my kids, but they’re gone. Besides, it’s still in the family.”

“What do you mean?”

“Yesterday, Tarry’s attorney took me to sign the papers. The lake shack is now Ella’s.”

“What?”

“God, Mel. How many times are you going to say ‘what?’”

“Pop, please explain.”

“Well, your Don Juan convinced me to sell him the land. I agreed, after all, I need the money. The contract stipulates that he will be responsible to pay all the taxes, but while I’m alive, I’m responsible for the property. In other words, only when I kick the bucket will it officially be Ella’s.”

“Why did you accept it?” If there is someone more full of pride than me, it’s Pop.

He sighs, pauses for a while. “I’m old and tired Mel. The kids are still young. This disease is chewing me up, one bite at a time. God knows how long I’ll be around. I have my pride, but I can distinguish charity from a blessing. That young man loves you, Mel, maybe as much as my Tim loved you.”

“Why didn’t you talk to me first, Pop?”

“Because I know you wouldn’t let me do it. Young Tarry told me how much you did for him. He said he wanted to give it back somehow.” He smiles.

I look at Pop’s face. His eyes, which were once clear blue, have a glazed layer of white. He’s right. Time passes and values change. There is wisdom in molding to the changes.

“Do the kids know? Are they okay with it?”

“Mel, they don’t have to wear Salvation Army clothes anymore—not that there’s anything wrong with that. They can go to any university of their choice and they have cell phones. How do you think they’re doing?”

“How does the trust fund work?” I ask, drinking from the cold coffee.

“They’ll receive a specific amount of money monthly and college tuition until the day they graduate from college. For now, I’m the one to control the money. Once they are eighteen, the attorney will deal directly with them. Of course they’re aware of stipulations such as having to maintain a high average grade while attending college.”

“I don’t know what to think or say.”

“Take it as it is a blessing,” he tells me. “And please bring my little rascal to see me; I haven’t seen her in almost a week.”

I OPEN MY eyes. It is five thirty and I have a half hour to think about my life. It’s been a hundred and forty-two days since Tarry left.

I look at the shiny new picture frame at my nightstand. It has the image of Tarry with a buzz cut and a short beard, standing by street vendor’s flower cart. The cart spills chamomiles.

I get out the envelope he sent with the picture. The pressed and dry chamomile petals still carry their delicious scent.

I miss Tarry so much it hurts my bones.

A postcard attached to the picture reads:

Hey, Mel, Today was a bad day. I missed you so much that nothing could make me feel better. I took the train, and traveled to Amsterdam. I told myself that all I wanted to do was to get away. But the truth is, I was surrendering to the cravings and I knew just where to go. The best joint place. (It’s legal to smoke pot here.) Well, when I turned the corner near one of the bars where I used to get high, the chamomile scent you wear hit me. It was a high in itself. For a moment, I felt your presence so strong that I couldn’t go into oblivion and lose it. I took a picture so you can see. They are almost as beautiful as you are.

Guess what? The sales lady told me there is a field of chamomile nearby. I might check it out later.

With all my love,

T.

Tarry had sent me the envelope three months ago. A day later, I received a small bouquet of chamomiles. Attached was a note.
I needed a high, today. Love, T.
Since then, I frequently receive flowers at home or at work. Apparently, each time he craves, he sends me a bouquet of chamomiles. One night I got a bouquet at midnight. The delivery guy held the flowers as if holding a bomb. Before he could apologize, I said, “That’s okay, you can come anytime he calls.”

Brian, the young deliveryman, and I are now on a first-name basis. Some days, I get multiple bouquets. “You know he spends a fortune on this right? We have a special stock in the fridge just for you. These flowers aren’t easy to find at certain times of the year, you know,” Brian told me once. I just smiled back at him. My heart contracted and hurt it a little more.

Antoine Francis was born in London, a week ago. According to Portia, Nola refused to stay in the castle. She missed the city lights and life. Tarry e-mailed me a picture of him holding the baby. He is so beautiful. I cried the night away. First, because of the confirmation that the baby is indeed Tarry’s—secretly, I had hoped the baby wouldn’t be his. Second, because the jealousy and envy grinding away at my heart is the ugliest feeling I’ve ever experienced. Yeah, I know I’m being selfish. I admit to it, and in my defense, I do feel awful for feeling this way.

Each day without Tarry is a day I live only half. As I’m good at it, I put on my happy face and pretend everything is all right. However, I’m back to my daily half hour of depression.

STROLLING DOWN A quiet Main Street, I admire the tulips and daffodils holding hands around the gazebo. They spread out on the green, smile under the breeze, and giggle under the kiss of hummingbirds. The spring flowers proudly create an intricate tapestry of colors.