The Tinderbox Tapes
ISBN-13: 978-0615588230 (Custom)
ISBN: 9781620955444
ISBN-10: 0615588239
BISAC: Self-Help / Personal Growth / Success
Paperback Edition, March 2012
Copyright 2012 by Brian Hicks
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication, including artwork, may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in an information retrieval system or database without prior permission in writing from the publisher. For more information contact Britin Partners, LLC.
All Biblical quotations are from the New International Version.
Published in the U.S. By
BRITIN PARTNERS
Nashville, Tennessee
www.brian-hicks.com
Cover Design: Creativindie
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“If we all did the things we are capable of doing, we would literally astound ourselves.”
For
Tina, Carter, Evans and Bradley
For thirty days every year, Michael Turner was hooked on Imodium like Willy Wonka on Milk Duds. He hadn’t planned it that way, which is precisely why it was that way. Giving no thought to the consequences, he first got engaged to a girl whose birthday was seven days after Christmas, then went for the trifecta and married her on January 25th. The three biggest gift-giving days of their relationship were just thirty days apart, and he was married to Julie Claus.
Julie Turner was a born gift-giver. “Some people can sing and dance,” she’d say, “I give gifts.” She considered it a Divine calling, and it showed.
“If the thought counts,” she told him more than once, “the gift and the wrapping tell the person what you’re thinking. It’s always in the little things.”
If his wife’s assertion was correct, Michael’s gifts said, “I give up.” That’s not to say he didn’t give gifts; he just didn’t give good ones. She never said she was disappointed, but he knew she was, and his self-imposed pressure stymied his already deficient creativity.
He didn’t know why he was so bad at it, though it likely had something to do with the gift. Julie didn’t know about that, and there was no reason to tell her; it didn’t involve her. Still, she would make him talk about it, and what purpose would that serve? It was twenty-five years ago and he didn’t lose sleep over it anymore. Besides, this anniversary was different. This year, for the first time in a decade, he had a plan.
Hoping to relax his increasingly spastic colon, he suggested that instead of buying presents, she should let him plan a weekend getaway at a surprise location. They could use their time away from the boys to reconnect; “Quality Time,” he called it.
“The trip,” he said, “is the gift.” To his amazement, she agreed.
Today there were no nerves; no unrealistic expectations; no last-minute sprints to the mall, and his only anxiety was whether the resort -- a place they’d never been -- would meet expectations. If it’s true that you get what you pay for, however, he felt good about his odds.
So it was with the pride of a puppy fetching a ball the first time that he turned the black Ford Explorer onto Florida’s scenic highway 30-A, just east of Destin.
“Okay,” she said, clapping her hands together. “I’ve been good for almost four hours, but I am D-I-dying! Where are we going?”
“You’ll see in about thirty seconds.” He smiled as he reached over and squeezed her hand three times. I…love…you. She squeezed four times in return. I…love…you…too. They’d been doing it since high school.
They arrived at the Watercolor Inn & Resort, located in the community of the same name, just before seven o’clock in the evening. Clouds veiled the moonlight as they drove into the 500-acre Gulfside community of million dollar homes. A few scattered lights from wood cottages with metal roofs and large wraparound porches cast a faint glow in the darkness; a stark contrast to the high-rise condominiums and bustling activity of Destin, and Michael was pleased with himself.
As he slowed the Ford to the posted speed of 20 miles per hour, they noticed the streetlights. Each one was capped by a metal lampshade, covered with tiny star-shaped cutouts, and looked like a child’s night light. They lined both sides of the two-lane road that meandered through the resort, as if ushering the couple into a Thomas Kinkade painting.
“How cute are those.” She gave his hand an approving squeeze.
“Puh-lease,” he teased. “Those are no big deal. We made those when I was a kid. Ice pick and a bucket, and you’re all set.” When placed over a flashlight, it made for great fun on summer nights in the backyard with his dad -- his real dad. He hadn’t thought of it in years.
The beachfront hotel appeared deserted as he turned into the parking lot.
“Pretty quiet,” he observed; then, noticing a license plate from Ontario, “Looks like it’s us and the snowbirds.”
The tiny parking lot was dotted with the same lamps that had escorted them into the community, producing light that was more ambient than practical. The four-story hotel was constructed so that, from the outside, it appeared to have only two floors. It didn’t so much sit on the sand as nestle in it, like it had been lowered into place by a crane, without disturbing the dunes and indigenous foliage surrounding it.
“It’s perfect.” She unbuckled her seatbelt, crossed one leg under the other and turned toward the door, gaping through the window like a child arriving at Disney World.
He couldn’t suppress the grin that burst onto his face. He had already impressed her, and there were more surprises to come. The trip is the gift, he thought. Why didn’t I think of this 10 years ago?
He slowed further, allowing her to fully experience the moment, before creeping to a halt beneath the portico extending from the front door over the drive, where they were met by a gray-haired man serving double duty as valet and bellman. He looked more like a PGA pro, in navy golf pants and matching turtleneck that peeked from the top of his moss green fleece pullover emblazoned with the inn’s logo on the left breast.
“Welcome to Watercolor,” he greeted them with a smile as he opened Julie’s door and the cool January air rushed inside. His baritone voice was almost as soothing as the place itself. “This your first stay with us?”
“Yessir it is,” Michael answered, grabbing his phone and sliding from the driver’s seat onto the pavement. It was a welcome break after the nonstop drive. He stretched his arms high over his head, then pulled his jacket from the backseat and walked to the rear of the SUV.
“Special occasion?” The bellman waited patiently with his luggage cart as Julie collected her Diet Coke and the pillow she never left home without.
“Anniversary,” he replied, opening the rear gate.
“How many years?” The bellman joined him behind the Ford and Julie walked to the front doors of the inn, admiring the long, lean handles that were sculpted to resemble clusters of sea oats.
“Um, ten.”
“Well, congratulations. Thanks for celebrating with us. Let me get those, and if you need anything while you’re here, just call down and ask for Percy.”
“Thank you, Percy,” he replied, placing a large black suitcase on the cart while the bellman removed a red paisley Vera Bradley duffle.
“Is this one yours?” Percy asked.
Michael chuckled and decided he liked the old man.
“Leave your keys in the truck and I’ll park it for you later,” Percy continued. “Take your time checking in. Your bags will be in the room when you get there.”
Michael handed him a twenty dollar bill and thanked him. He didn’t have twenty dollars to tip a bellman, but there was something about the first impression of this place that made him feel like a millionaire and he felt compelled to play the part.
His cousin was once a valet in Atlanta, and a pro basketball player handed him a hundred dollar bill to park his Bentley. For some reason, that story had stuck with him. The Ford wasn’t a Bentley and the twenty wasn’t a hundred, but it still felt good to press the likeness of Andrew Jackson into Percy’s hand.
It’s only this one time, he reasoned, and next time I’ll be able to hand it to him without a thought. He challenged himself just as he had done every time he tipped someone his entire adult life.
The room on the third floor made the impression he hoped it would. The white linens on the king-size bed were trimmed in the same pale blue that covered the walls; the furniture slip-covered in khaki.
“Beachy,” he said, making his way to the balcony.
She explored the bathroom. Its most prominent feature was a large white subway-tiled shower, with inset windows looking into the sleeping area on the other side. It was covered in white wainscoting that rose to meet the glass of the shower walls, with a row of hooks upon which hung 2 thick terry cloth robes.
“Hey Hon,” he called to Julie as he walked back into the room, “in the daylight I bet you can see the ocean from the shower!”
“Oh, look at this.” She was inspecting the silver tubes of shampoo, aloe and conditioner sitting on the black soapstone countertop. They were fashioned after small tubes of paint. “Watercolor…Very cute, babe. You did so good.”
She wrapped her arms around him and kissed him.
“It’s a long way from the Dogwood Inn,” he said.
“Don’t be picking on that bed and breakfast. We had a great honeymoon.”
She was right, but this was still an improvement over the old, cold house in the North Georgia Mountains; the kind of step up you’d expect after ten years of marriage. It was mostly make believe, of course. They couldn’t afford it today any more than they could a decade ago, but he had gotten her here this weekend, and that was something.
“What time is dinner?”
He glanced at his watch. “Bout thirty minutes, but it’s just down the hall.”
“Oh, good.” She walked over to the large black suitcase which Percy had placed on a wooden luggage stand beside the closet. “What are you wearing?”
“Just jeans and my cool dude shirt,” he said, referring to the one he’d picked up on a recent trip to Nashville. It was long-sleeved and white, with a large Cross of St. James motif embroidered in steel blue on the back. There was a small label inside the collar that read, “Enough excuses. Just get it done.” He considered it fate that he’d been drawn to the one shirt in the store with that specific admonition, so he bought it. Its blend of cotton and rayon felt like velvet and looked like something Billy Ray Cyrus would wear onstage. He wasn’t sure he had the confidence to pull it off, so he hadn’t worn it before.
Tonight, though, he was indomitable. To be sure, she would unveil a surprise of her own before the night was over, but this year he had already matched her. If the trip was indeed the gift, maybe Julie Claus had finally found her Santa.
“Okay,” she said as she walked back into the bathroom, “I’ll be ready in a sec.” Then, pointing to the Vera Bradley bag sitting on the sofa, “Don’t be nosing around.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
They were seated at a small table along floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the beach, just as he’d requested. Because it was dark, they couldn’t take advantage of the view, but it didn’t diminish the mood. The candles flickering atop each white linen-covered table created an ambience almost identical to the one that had greeted them on the street outside.
The winter population on Florida’s Emerald Coast was only a fraction of its summer denizens, so although it was Friday night, the crowd was slim. The dozen or so patrons spoke in hushed tones. Even the occasional clink of silverware and glasses was barely noticeable beneath the dulcet harmonies of classic American Standards wafting from ceiling mounted speakers, and Michael was again proud of himself.
“Oh. My. Gosh,” Julie leaned forward and whispered as they perused their respective menus.
“Get whatever you want,” he chuckled as he leaned across the table and kissed the back of her hand. “The trip is the gift, remember?”
“Yeah, but this isn’t a gift card to the mall.”
“No, it’s not,” he agreed, “and that’s the point.”
“Thank you for doing this. It’s almost perfect.” Her grin told on her.
“Here it comes,” he smiled back.
“What?”
“Let’s put it this way. When a man says, ‘The trip is the gift,’ he means the trip is the gift. When a woman says, ‘The trip is the gift,’ she means the trip is the place you go to give the real gift.”
“Why Michael Tuhna,” she replied in an exaggerated Scarlett O’Hara drawl, “whateva’ are you tawkin’ about?”
“As if…” He challenged her in mock accusation, and had to admit he was more than a little curious.
“We’ll see.” She leaned back in her chair and twisted a lock of her long auburn hair as she nibbled her bread. Her green eyes smiled at him, but provided no clues.
“That we will.”
He wanted to skip the meal and take her back to the room, to see her face when she saw the rest of her surprise, and to see what she had planned for him; but instead changed the subject.
“For now,” he said, “you better bolie up.”
Julie reached behind her back and unclipped the insulin pump that was attached to the waist of her jeans. She quickly estimated the carbohydrates she planned to eat and pushed buttons in her usual sequence, directing the cell phone-sized device to administer a dose of insulin, a “bolus.” The more carbs she ate, the more her bolus amount.
She was diagnosed with Juvenile Diabetes at thirteen. “As if my body didn’t have enough going on,” she once told him; but she coped well, learning to give herself shots by sticking oranges. By the time he entered the picture two years later, her regimen was so unnoticeable that most people never knew she had the chronic condition. Michael, however, knew too well. He constantly inquired about her blood glucose levels, asking, “How’s your sugar?”
Her customary response was that if it wasn’t okay, he wouldn’t have to ask.
She was right.
His only experience with the frightening reality of diabetes had become known as “The Episode.” During her first pregnancy, he awoke late one Saturday morning to discover his semiconscious wife lying beside him on sweat-soaked sheets. He panicked when she didn’t respond to his initial attempts to wake her, then realized she was having a “low spell,” which meant he needed to pull it together and coax her into drinking a small glass of orange juice to bring her sugar level up to something closer to normal.
Plan A quickly failed when she sat up in bed and took the small glass of juice in her hands, lifting it slowly to her lips before looking at him mischievously. Instead of drinking it, she threw the glass against the wall, shattering it and painting the wall a shade they later referred to as “Tropicana Orange.” If the symptoms of low blood sugar made one appear intoxicated, Jules was a mean drunk.
Plan B was a bit dicier, as it required him to give his wife an injection of fast-acting Glucogon to quickly raise her glucose levels and restore her sanity. Michael had never given someone a shot, much less a combative someone. Still, he couldn’t see tying up an ambulance when there were real emergencies to be tended to. He was a grown man, college educated. He could handle it.
His technique was akin to a teenage girl attempting to pierce her own ears, and he cursed himself for his inability to simply stick the tiny syringe into his wife’s thigh; not that she was any help. Each time he tried to insert the needle, she slapped his hand away and yelled at him, claiming she was “perfectly orange juice” and didn’t need his help.
On the third failed attempt, the needle nearly broke off in her thigh. The resultant 911 call and observation of his otherwise acquiescent wife fighting two EMTs to the floor were sobering reminders of the deadly power of diabetes. Until that day, she had been so controlled he’d rarely considered the severity of the condition. It unnerved him so badly that he sometimes became her overbearing parent.
They were finishing their red velvet cupcakes when Julie asked, “Seriously, can we afford this?”
“Uh, Buzzkill, party of two, your table is now available.” He sat back and patted his stomach, “That’s okay. I can’t eat another bite anyway. I’m officially miserable.”
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to kill the mood.” She surveyed the dimly lit restaurant. “This is a really nice place…”
“We’re fine,” he reassured her.
“If you say so. This is all wonderful, but I don’t want us to be broke later.”
“We’re always gonna be broke later,” he said, “but we’re good tonight. You want more coffee?” He motioned to the waiter.
“My mouth does, but my stomach says no thank you. That lobster is unbelievable.”
“I’ll take your word for it.”
“You don’t know what you’re missing.”
“I can guess.”
“No, you can’t.”
“Hey,” he got more serious. “You ever wonder where we’re going?”
“To…” She rapped her fingers on her chin as if searching for an answer. “The room?”
“I was thinking a little more long-term than that.”
“How long-term?”
“Well,” he didn’t want to sound unhappy; that would offend her, so he chose his words carefully. “Like, ten years ago, if you had asked either one of us to describe where we would be today, we wouldn’t have gotten too much right. Now I’m looking at the next ten years and wondering if they’re just as random, or can we describe something sitting here tonight and then somehow be living it ten years from now.”
She reached across the table, tilted his coffee cup and peered into it. “What’d he pour in there?”
“Yeah, yeah…It’s the first of the year. You know how I get.” He was fumbling for a grownup conversation and was frustrated his wife didn’t want to play along. “Look, we’re another year into our lives together. You just had a birthday. Mine is right around the corner…”
“Mmm, thirty-five. Do I need to have somebody wheel you back to the room?”
“You know what I mean. Every year that passes I’m reminded that things aren’t exactly how I hoped they would be.”
“I don’t know what you’ve been hoping for, but I think we have a lot to be thankful for.”
“And we do, definitely. I just…” He thought about it for a few seconds. “Do you ever wonder if life is just happening to you? Like you have no control over it and you’re just rolling along, taking it as it comes? And I’m not naive enough to believe you can control it anyway. I’m not talking about that. I’m talking about having a direction instead of settling in to the average, everyday routine that sort of happens to you along the way.”
“Seriously, no more coffee.”
“No, think about it. I have these big dreams about getting a vacation place down here and fixing up the house or buying a new one or whatever.”
“You’ve always been a big dreamer,” she interrupted. “That’s one of the things I love about you.”
“But what about when the big dreams never materialize and the positive attitude doesn’t lead to anything tangible? I don’t want to be that guy at sixty years old who’s still waiting for his ship to come in. I’m telling you, Jules. I’ll do a Thelma and Louise off a cliff somewhere.”
“Stop being so dramatic, please,” she shook her head. “I think they’re materializing just fine.”
“Yeah, and a broken clock is right twice a day.”
“Please, Honey. It’s not as bad as all that. Dave will retire in, like, any minute, and you’ll be the new vice president, and that will be pretty tangible. I mean, I’d like to think all the sacrifices have been worth something…If you even want the job.”
“That’s the thing. I’m not necessarily talking about a promotion. I guess that’s part of it, but even if you assume you’re in the right job, do you just sit there waiting for your boss to retire or die so you can move up? That doesn’t seem like much of a plan, you know; just waiting for something to happen? And that’s what we’re doing; waiting for Dave to retire. And then there’s family and lifestyle and whatever. We don’t go to theme parks and ball games or any of that stuff. Come to think of it, what do we do?”
“We don’t do theme parks because you don’t like to be around other people’s kids,” she reminded him.
“Well, there is that…”
“But seriously, that stuff isn’t a big deal. If we could just pay the bills and breathe a little, that would be nice.”
“I’m sorry, what?” He cocked his head as he chided her.
“Sorry.” She ungrudgingly corrected herself. “That will be nice.”
“Thank you, Ma’am.” He had playfully chastised her for years about the difference between “That would be nice” and “That will be nice.” The former seemed a bit indifferent, he had always asserted, though it wasn’t really dismissive either. It was, to be more accurate, polite; as if to say, “We both know it won’t happen, but it’s very sweet that you have such lofty dreams for us.” It was akin to the way we speak to our children when they talk about becoming astronauts one day. They might as well say they’re going to become Jedi Knights and defeat the Empire. It was that same verbal pat on the head we give them so as not to crush their little spirits.
The latter, on the other hand, conveyed a certainty that the dreams will eventually come true if we just believe enough. After the believing part, he admitted, things got a little fuzzy, but they could at least get their thinking right while he tried to figure it out.
“Okay,” he said. “Pay the bills, cash in the bank. What else?”
“Definitely change your schedule.” She had always disliked his travel, which had included a year-long stretch in which he left home each week on Sunday afternoon and returned Friday night at midnight. When she became pregnant with their second child, he took his current management job. The travel slowed with his new role, but he was often out of town three nights a week.
He wasn’t required to be gone that much, but he chose to be, for reasons he didn’t fully understand. As far as his wife knew, it was what he called “the nature of the beast” -- sales trainers travel. Still, if there was one thing Julie would change about her life, it was his schedule.
“One day you’re gonna admit you hate that company and you hate my job,” he challenged her.
“I don’t hate it. I just don’t like what it does to you…to us. Sometimes I think you’re too caught up in it to see it, but the travel takes a toll, especially on the boys. And one day you’re going to have to decide whether it’s worth all that. I’d hate to see you realize you gave up your children for a job that, in the end, you could take or leave.”
“Fair enough, I suppose.” He didn’t want to have that conversation tonight, so he moved on. “Okay, so there’s a start. Ten years from now, if I was home more and we had the bills paid, that would constitute a dream come true for you, right?”
“It doesn’t sound like much, but yes, I think it would.”
“See, for me it’s bigger than that.”
“Bigger, how?”
“Um…” he thought for a moment. “Like in fifth grade, I read a book on JFK and decided I was going to be President one day. Well, Governor first. Then President.”[
She couldn’t suppress her laughter. “How’s that plan coming along?”
“Duh…” he replied, “There was that little scandal in college, if you recall…”
“So it’s my fault we’re not living in the White House,” she returned his volley.
“No, goofy.” They’d exchanged this banter before. “I don’t want to be President. In hindsight, I think I just wanted my own plane. I’m just saying that I used to have big dreams about making a difference and leaving a legacy or whatever; stuff I actually believed could come true, and now… Not so much.”
“Okay, and why is that?” She put her elbows on the table and leaned toward him, more serious now.
“I don’t know,” he said, shaking his head.
“Well, if you don’t know, I certainly don’t know; so what do you suggest we do about it.”
The waiter interrupted them by clearing their dessert plates and confirming that the check would be charged to their room. When he left, Michael lifted the napkin from his lap, folded and placed it on the table in front of him while Julie awaited his response.
“Here’s the thing,” he finally said. “My dad was thirty-five.”
“Oh.” She took his hands in hers as the weight of the realization settled on her. In less than a month her husband would be the same age as his late father when he died. “I didn’t think about that. We never talk about it so it didn’t occur to me. I’m sorry. I don’t…”
“It’s okay,” he interrupted, “I’m fine with it. I just think about where he was at my age, and where I am now…Seems like I’ve wasted a lot of time, you know?”
“Why would you say that? You’re happily married and have two wonderful boys. If you ask me, that’s time well spent.”
“Absolutely,” he agreed. “You know that’s not what I mean.”
“But that’s the most important stuff. Sometimes I think you forget that.”
“Okay, but I don’t think I’m meant for middle management at an insurance company, either.”
“That’s not a bad thing. Your dad was a manager.”
“I’m not saying it is; and anyway, his thing was sales. That’s different.” He sat back in his chair and fingered his napkin. “I don’t expect you to get it. It was easier for you. You wanted to be a teacher your whole life. I know we’ve talked about it a million times before…”
“Yes, we have, and again I ask, have you prayed about it?” She did that to him often; cut through his chatter and got straight to the point. He was never sure if it was that, or her freckles, that most attracted him to her. Still, he wasn’t ready to concede.
“You know that’s not my thing,” he said, folding his napkin like a paper airplane.
“It used to be.”
“That was a long time ago. Besides, God doesn’t talk to me like he talks to you.”
“That’s because you don’t talk to Him.”
“Maybe.” He wanted to change the subject.
His wife did it for him. “Well, if you think it’s time for a change, what are you going to do about it?”
“I ain’t know!” he laughed at himself and leaned forward again, taking her hands in his and kissing the back of each of them.
“What else is new,” she smirked and pushed his hands upward so his fingers intertwined with her own. “Are you ready to go? I’ve got something for you in the room.”
He grinned, but before he could speak, she dropped his hands. “Shut it! It’s still early and I’m too full for all that.”
“Okay, okay,” he was laughing, “But I knew you couldn’t help yourself. The trip is never the gift, is it?”
“Just you wait, Henry Higgins,” she said as she stood and stomped each foot twice so her jeans fell down over her boots, “Just you wait.
When they returned to room 301 at the end of the hall, Julie pulled her Vera Bradley duffle from the floor of the closet and hopped onto the king-size bed, crossing her legs.
“Are you ready?” She almost chirped, unable to contain her excitement.
“I certainly am,” he said, “but you have to open yours first.”
“What?” She didn’t try to hide her surprise. “I thought the trip is the gift, silly.”
“Well, I just figured since this is our tenth anniversary, maybe we’d do a little extra.”
“Now I’m impressed,” she said, “and you’re prepared enough to have me go first? You don’t have to lock yourself in the bathroom to finish wrapping it or something?”
“On it like a bonnet, babe.” He handed her a pastel purple envelope as he sat next to her on the bed. “First things first.”
She opened it and removed the greeting card. As was her custom, she skipped the preprinted sentiment and read only his handwritten note at the bottom.
“I love you not only for what you are, but for what I am when I am with you. I love you not only for what you have made of yourself, but for what you are making of me. I love you for the part of me that you bring out.” Elizabeth Barrett Browning wrote those words maybe 150 years ago so I could give them to you today. I could never find the words to tell you how much the last ten years have meant to me. You and the boys are the constants in my life. Thank you for loving me. Thank you for making me a better person…I love you Mrs. Turner. Always.
She leaned over and kissed him. “That’s very sweet. Thank you.”
“You’re quite welcome.” He walked to the DVD player and pressed play. A ballad began playing over a black screen. She recognized the tune by the second note, just as the picture from their first date at the high school homecoming dance faded in from the center of the screen.
Photo after photo faded in, faded out, flipped and spun as Peter Cetera and Cher serenaded her through a pictorial journey of their nineteen years together. They both laughed and cried as they walked down memory lane; his Miami Vice phase; her Madonna bob and black lace bows; proms and the wedding; pictures from each of the boys’ birth.
“How did you do that?” She asked as the video ended, wiping mascara from her cheeks.
“Tracey, of course. She has some program on her computer or something. I honestly have no idea. We were talking about it at work one day. She told me to bring in the pictures, pick the song and leave her alone.”
“Well, she nailed it. Thank you. That took some effort.” She kissed him again.
“You don’t think it’s cheesy?”
“Oh, it’s totally cheesy,” she said. “I don’t think you know how un-cheesy you’ve been lately. I’ve missed it.”
“Hercules! Hercules!” He clapped his hands and felt like a child bringing home straight A’s. “Oh, and she wants one of us to text her, but only if you cried.”
“Ha! Okay. I’ll text her later. Right now it’s your turn.” She reached into her bag and began removing several individually wrapped gifts. She then handed him an envelope which contained an anniversary card and he sat silently, reading her handwritten note inside:
I know we got off to a rough start, but I’m grateful God put us together. I love you in so many ways. These gifts represent each of the ten reasons I love you most. Happy Anniversary!
“Wow, Honey. Ten?”
“Sure, one for each year.” She handed him the first small gift-wrapped package and seemed more excited than he did. Indeed, part of the joy of receiving a gift from Julie was seeing the expression on her face when you opened it. He read the attached note aloud, “I love you for your ability to express yourself in cards and notes. It’s the first thing about you that I fell in love with.”
He tore off the paper, opened the box and found a black Waterman rollerball pen, his favorite kind. It was a replacement for the one he broke six months earlier. Though not expensive, the pen was a luxury and other things always took priority in his mind. It would have been months before he bought it for himself. She knew this about him, and he liked that she did.
She handed him the next gift with a note attached.
I love you for the dreams you have for our family. One day we’ll have that place at the beach and it will be nice, but until then, something to help us dream together. It was a Coastal Living magazine.
“See,” she said as she leaned in to him and held his face in her hands, “I love those big dreams.”
He continued reading notes and opening gifts as she handed each one to him in succession. Each was small, inexpensive, and insightful.
The ninth note read, I love you for the father you are to the boys. I’m so grateful they have your example to follow. He wondered if she was giving him a reputation she hoped he would live up to; not that he thought himself a bad father, exactly. He just sometimes thought his boys should view him more as a warning than an example.
He unwrapped a small black wood frame holding a black and white photograph of Ryan and Zachary sitting on their parents’ bed one morning, still in their pajamas with severe bed head. They had laughed uproariously that Saturday as the two had climbed into bed and Jules got up to grab the camera.
“Wow. Thank you for all this,” he said. “Really. It’s too much.”
“Wait!” she interrupted him, “You’re not done yet.”
“You’re kidding. This is incredible. How could there be more?”
“Well, for one thing, you’ve only opened nine boxes.” She handed him the tenth and final note.
I love you because you continue to search for your passion, your purpose and your meaning. My prayer is that this will help you find your voice.
She pulled from her bag a square box wrapped in the same festive paper as the others.
He peeled away the wrapping to reveal a brown cardboard box, emblazoned with candy bar logos and sealed with packing tape.
“Hmm…” He jiggled the box but nothing moved inside. Pulling the room key card from the front pocket of his jeans, he grinned at her. “You’re really good.”
He was trying to discern from her expression what was in the box, but her face betrayed nothing. She sat on the edge of the bed with her arms crossed, twisting strands of her hair into a loose knot like she did while watching television or reading a book.
Slicing the packing tape with the key card, he opened the flaps and began sifting through tufts of powder blue tissue paper to reveal six audio cassette tapes resting atop a cassette player. They were obviously old. Each one was numbered in black ink, though nothing indicated their contents; not that he needed to know.
He exhaled as he slumped back into the bed’s oversized pillows. “Wow,” he mumbled before looking up at her. “How did you find these?” It was a rhetorical question, but it reflexively leapt from his lips before he could stop it.
She let go of her hair and sat up, almost bouncing as she spoke. “Remember when I helped your mom with her yard sale?” Her smile was wider than it had been all night. She was clearly proud of herself.
“Yeah?” He was still staring at the tapes, not sharing her enthusiasm.
“Well,” her pitch climbed higher as her smile grew wider still, “we were in the back bedroom closet and I came across a box of your old stuff -- mostly plaques and trophies -- which I didn’t remember you won a creative writing award, by the way; some track medals, pictures…and these tapes. I’ve been dying to give them to you. I almost broke down and did it at Christmas, but it felt more right to do it now. And then tonight at dinner… I’m telling you, this is meant to be.”
“So you know what they are.”
“Pretty much. Your mom said your dad recorded them before he died. What I don’t know is why you never told me about them or why you evidently have never listened to them. I mean, this a big stinkin deal, Honey. Don’t you agree?”
No, he didn’t. Not exactly, anyway, though he knew it was pointless to argue. Experience had taught him she wasn’t going to let this go, but he figured he could at least go down swinging. He pulled himself up, inched to the edge of the bed and attempted to plead his case.
“Okay. Let me try to explain,” he began. “Dad was a big fan of motivational speakers. I mean, like, really big. Like the way people get about Elvis. He said the reason he was a successful sales manager was because of his books and tapes. Mom said he called them,‘Bread for the head.’ He especially liked the tapes because insurance salespeople are always in their cars, usually by themselves. Since the Pontiac had a built-in 8-track player, he used to carry around a cassette player on his front seat. He had this little box in the floorboard filled with batteries. That’s where he got the idea to make his own set of tapes for me before he died.”
He put the candy bar box on the bed as he continued.
“It was all a little much at the time. There’s not a nine-year-old boy on the planet who wants to sit down with a tape player for hours and listen to his dead father tell him to always wear sunscreen or whatever, so… I didn’t listen to them.”
“That’s what your mom said.”
“Right. So she would ask me about them from time to time, and they would end up in the corner of my room or on the shelf in my closet. I would basically ignore them for a few weeks, then she’d put them away again. He left her a couple of tapes, but I think she was listening to these all along, too, just to hear him saying different things.”
“She was. We had that discussion, too. She said there’s some good stuff in there, but she could never get you to listen. Your dad made her promise not to force you; that when you were ready, you would do it on your own.”
“Okay.” His mom had never told him that. “He gave them to me on my birthday right before he died. So for a couple of birthdays after that, she would bring them out and try to get me to listen. I just couldn’t. Every time she brought those tapes out, it was like we had to memorialize him all over again. It made for some really crappy birthdays, you know?”
“Yeah, but in twenty-five years you never once listened to them?”
“Nope. After my thirteenth birthday, she put them away yet again and later that year she met Steve. They got married and life sort of went on. Then in high school I got more interested in a certain young lady, as you may recall. Mom never talked about them again until I graduated. She told me they were there any time I was ready to listen, but after all that time, life was moving along and it just didn’t make sense to backtrack. Besides, you know how I have that amazing ability to avoid everything that’s uncomfortable.” It was a weak attempt at self-deprecating comic relief.
“Yes, you do!” She agreed a little too enthusiastically. “Still, you just blew him off.”
At times, her ability to get straight to the point was much less attractive than her freckles.
“He took the time, while he was sick,” she added, “to leave this incredible gift and you returned it, unopened.”
“It’s not that simple,” he reminded her, “and it wasn’t entirely unopened. You know the box on my dresser that I keep my keys and stuff in?”
“Yeah,” she shook her finger at him. “That’s another thing. You said it was your granddaddy’s. You look at that box every day, and it never dawned on you to at least mention where it came from?”
Because if I told you, I’d have had to endure this conversation. He wanted to say it aloud, but opted instead for, “Well, I’m telling you now.”
“No,” she interrupted, “you’re admitting it now. Like everything else about your childhood, I had to hear it from your mother. He gave you the tapes in that box. And for the record, you pile your stuff everywhere except in the box. We’ve had that discussion about a thousand times, too.”
“Whatever.” He rolled his eyes. “He did indeed give me the tapes in that box. The initials on the top are my granddad’s. Call it the Turner family heirloom. So I’m not a completely horrible person. I mean, it’s been with me since my ninth birthday.”
“No one is saying you’re horrible,” she assured him, “I just can’t believe you’re not even curious.”
“Oh, I’ve thought about it, maybe eleventy million times.” He was trying to ease the tension as he knew what was coming.
“And?” She sat up and crossed her arms.
“Look, Julie…”
“No ‘look Julie,’” she persisted. “You’re not the least bit curious? He’s your Dad. I just don’t see how you go twenty-five years without even wanting to hear his voice, regardless what he says.”
“You have no idea how many times I wanted to hear his voice, but I preferred to hear it live and in person. Didn’t work out that way. Life sucks. You move on. And right now I prefer to not talk about ancient history on our anniversary. Besides, it was so long ago, I honestly don’t remember him that well. What good will it do now?”
“I don’t want to upset you,” she almost whispered, “and I don’t know what’s on those tapes, but I gave them to you because I don’t think you’re as happy as you could be. I thought they might be what you’re looking for. And after dinner tonight, I know this is definitely it. I do, Michael. I just know it.”
He didn’t respond, but instead, fingered through the tapes in the box as if mindlessly flipping through the card catalogue at the library.
After a long silence she asked, “Are you mad at me?”
“No, course not,” he kissed her cheek as he slid off the bed. “It’s just not what I expected tonight.” He walked to the glass door which opened to the balcony, pulled back the curtain and stared outside. The glass was cold. If he hadn’t known the Gulf of Mexico was out there, the current scene wouldn’t have clued him in. It was simply black. Even the horizon was indistinguishable. Only the muffled sound of waves crashing onto the beach gave a hint of what lay beyond the soft glow of the lights lining the wood-planked walk that meandered along the dunes three floors beneath him. He hadn’t noticed it was raining until now. The light shining beneath the star-speckled lampshades illuminated the steady drizzle otherwise hidden by the night.
As he continued staring through the glass door, his own reflection came into focus. He’d been avoiding this for twenty-five years. He would never tell her, but he was a little relieved, like a man refusing to go to the doctor is secretly relieved when she finally forces him to go. It can’t hurt, and there’s an outside chance it might help.
He turned back to look at her. She was still sitting on the bed with one leg crossed under the other, which she dangled off the side of the bed.
“Well, listening to them now makes a lot more sense than it did when I was nine. I’ll give you that.”
“There’s a new journal in there,” she said. “Just in case you want to take some notes. You can use your new pen, too.”
“You know…” he smiled as he spoke. “The trip was supposed to be the gift.”
“I think your gift is going to take you on a trip!” Her tone was lighter now, and she returned his smile.
“Let’s hope it’s not the kind where you lose all your baggage,” he smirked.
“Let’s hope it is.”
“Well…”
It was more a statement than a question. Julie was leaning against the bathroom door frame with her arms crossed, looking at Michael, who was still lying in bed.
It had been a week and he still hadn’t listened to the first tape. He had been working in Portland all week, but now it was Saturday and he was out of excuses.
“Thought I’d listen to number one,” he half whispered, not opening his eyes.
“Good.” She turned back into the bathroom and stood in front of the mirror, pulling her hair into a ponytail. “I’ll keep the squires out of your hair. Take as long as you want. S’posed to rain all day and stay in the 40‘s so I figured we’d lay low.”
“Okay.”
“You know, I was thinking,” she said. “You should probably get those copied onto CDs or something. I don’t know what happens to tapes that are twenty something years old.”
“Yeah, I thought about that, too. I’ll have to call around, see if I can find somebody who does that.”
“Please do. I know you get busy, but I’d hate to see something happen to them.”
“Okey doke,” he exhaled as he stretched and yawned and tumbled out of bed.
After brewing a pot of coffee, his signature blend of half hazelnut and half French vanilla beans, he filled his favorite mug from The Loveless Cafe in Nashville, and shuffled toward his study at the end of the hall.
Though he and Julie had lived in the house from the day they returned from their honeymoon, it still didn’t feel like his. Her grandparents built the 2,000 square foot ranch in 1953. With it’s red brick and black shutters, it looked like every other house on the street, though it had the distinction of being the only one with an aboveground bomb shelter in the backyard. It was equipped with electricity and running water, and for six days in October 1962, Paw Paw was the most popular man on the block. A windowless cinder block structure of 18’ x 21’ with white painted walls nearly four feet thick, today its dank interior harbored his lawn equipment; an asylum upon which he rarely intruded.
As a result, the azalea bushes had merged to form an unbroken circle of thick shrub around the perimeter of the house. Likewise, the magnolia tree in front and two large oaks in back always needed pruning, and the grass was perpetually unkempt. It looked out of place in the historic Riverton, Georgia neighborhood, where residents took pride in preserving the heritage of their homes, and he was certain his neighbors said bad things about him.
Someday Dave would retire; he would get promoted and hire a landscaper and things would change. Someday he might even convince Julie to move from the house that held more memories than a wedding photographer’s vault. Someday they would start fresh in a new home that wasn’t secondhand.
The home had three bedrooms, two bathrooms and, at the end of the hall, the room Julie’s grandfather added some time in the 70’s. “Did all the work myself,” he used to say. It featured dark paneled walls and matching hardwood floors, with one solid wall of floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, and had served admirably as Paw Paw’s den. The only color in the room came from a small multicolored oval rug, which the grandkids nicknamed “The Amazing Technicolor Dream Rug,” upon which sat a large, tufted navy blue velour recliner.
Michael’s dream was to have a library and office at home, with coffered ceilings and dark, wide-planked hardwood floors; bookshelves on every wall. He’d have one of those ladders with wheels that glides around the room on a track so he could reach the top shelves. It would be a two-story room, with a spiral staircase, a simple catwalk around the upper floor and nothing but bookshelves lining the walls. “Books, books everywhere,” he would say to Julie when he dreamed out loud. “And lots of oak or mahogany or some rich sounding wood like that.”
“Someday,” he often said.
Today had yet to become someday, however, so Paw Paw’s hand me down den was the closest thing he had.