Reflections from the Snow Ch. 02

Author's Note: This story is a continuation of a story from several years back, "Reflections from the Snow." That story was conceived as a freestanding work. Yet, like the story's hero, I have been unable to quite let go of Beth. "Reflections in the Snow, Chapters 2 and 3" continue the story begun in the original "Reflections." I have decided to let the original stand as I first titled it, so there is no official "Chapter 1." Nonetheless, you may regard that earlier story as chapter 1 of these follow-on works.

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Prologue

The woman stood uncertainly on the sidewalk, clutching her knit cap to her head with one hand to keep it from blowing off in the steadily increasing wind. She looked to her right down the street towards the subway stop from which she had not long ago emerged, and to her left up the street into swirling snow and darkness. A series of darkened shop windows in that direction confirmed that she couldn't have encountered him beyond where she was now standing. She glanced to her right again. Only three lighted windows: an all-night drugstore, two darkened storefronts, a souvenir shop, and a coffee shop at the corner. Then a cross street and there was the entrance to the subway.

She turned to the doorway before her. The sign above said "Corcoran's Pub." This had to be it; he had to have come from here. She pulled the door open and walked in. The dimly lit room was about half full. A noisy table of three men in the middle of the floor punctuated the quiet conversation of the remaining patrons. A barmaid was collecting glasses and wiping clean a booth table along the front window. The bartender was busily preparing drinks at the far end of the bar while another barmaid jabbered at him from across the counter.

The woman stepped up to the end of the bar nearest the entrance, but didn't seat herself. She set her bulky tote bag on a stool seat and leaned awkwardly against the bar, casting occasional nervous glances to the still-occupied bartender.

Why hadn't she acted more decisively? she asked herself. Her heart had almost stopped when she thought she recognized his face, but he ran off so quickly! And then she just stood there, rationalizing how it just couldn't be him; it was just too improbable. And by the time she talked herself into chasing after him, he had already descended the stairs to the subway station, and then she had to wait for the light to change, and by the time she crossed the street and ran down the stairs to the station all she found was an empty platform and lights disappearing into the tunnel.

After resignedly walking back several blocks towards her original destination, she managed to talk herself into trying just one more longshot, even more of a longshot than chasing after a stranger who reminded her of a ghost from her past. So now she was counting on someone else to recognize her ghost for her.

The bartender finally finished preparing his order and walked over to her.

"What can I get you, ma'am?"

She hesitated.

"Well, uh, you see . . . " she spluttered.

The bartender didn't reply, but looked at her patiently.

She tried again.

"You see, I'm, uh, looking for a gentleman. A gentleman-a man-that I think was just in here a little while ago."

"And what does this man look like?"

"Well, he's got a medium build and dark hair. And he wears a hat."

"A hat. What kind of hat?"

"Uh, well, let's see. I just caught a glimpse of it when it blew off his head. I think you'ld call it a cap, like a driver's cap. It was dark, maybe gray, or maybe it was brown."

The bartender sighed.

"I'm sorry ma'am. That's not much to go on. You probably described about half the men that have been in this bar tonight."

"But the hat!" the woman protested.

"Lady, it's Boston. In November. People wear hats."

"He has hazel eyes . . ." Her voice trailed off.

The bartender regarded her pitifully. To her dismay, she felt her eyes moisten. She looked away quickly to hide her distress, which she herself didn't fully understand.

"Yes, you're right," she said, picking up her bag and turning to the door. "A lot of people have hats."

She got partway to the door when the bartender raised his voice.

"Hey, does he have a name?"

The woman turned and smiled wistfully, as if in remembrance.

"Robbie. Robert. Robert . . ." She struggled to remember his last name but couldn't seem bring it to mind.

"Can't seem to remember anything these days," she said apologetically. "What with the . . ." Her voice faded and she turned to go.

"Wait!" the bartender exclaimed.

"Wait," he said again more gently. "Why don't you write down your name and number? I'll keep it by the register. In case I recognize him."

The woman's face brightened.

"All right," she said. "That's a good idea. Yes, that's good. Thank you!"

She hurried back to the bar and set her bag on it. The bartender handed her a blank guest tab and a pen. She hovered over the note and chewed unconsciously on the tip of the pen, as if uncertain what to write. The bartender, who realized he was staring rudely at her, looked away and pretended to study the large bag sitting next to her. The woman, finally having decided what to write, scribbled furiously on the paper and handed it back to the bartender.

The bartender watched the woman leave and stood silently in place for a few seconds. He looked down at the note. It read, "Robbie-Reno, 1975? Beth." Beneath her name was a phone number. One of the barmaids walked up to him and regarded him with raised eyebrows. The bartender shrugged and slowly shook his head.

"Why do I get all the lonelyhearts? Now, where's that tape?"

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My hope was that the New Year would bring me new cheer, but that didn't seem to be happening. Neither a holiday trip to warm and sunny Phoenix, where my parents had opted to retire, nor two months further remove from my divorce, seemed able to puncture the envelope of gloom that surrounded me.

You might think that it's not too uncommon for recent divorcees to feel depressed, but in my experience, most of them are just as happy as clams. Take Charlie, one of my workout buddies. He had only been married five years when he and his wife decided to call it quits. For months afterward he looked like he could walk on water. He was just floating!

And Debbie, who worked in my department. I never even knew she was capable of smiling until she got unhitched. After her divorce, I had to reach for my sunglasses whenever she walked into the room.

So why was I so miserable? Perhaps it had something to do with the fact that we had worked just so damned hard to make things go, then, after all that effort, it just fell apart. It was like spending your life constructing an elaborate building, only to find that the foundation was faulty and once finished, had to be torn down. It was utterly deflating.

The Boston winter didn't help, either. The weather didn't even have the courtesy to be dramatic. Just always vaguely cold and vaguely gray. Not like a proper Reno winter, nestled up against the foothills of the Sierras, where storms would bring gloriously bright snowflakes and the most bracing cold came in the intense blue after a storm, so crisp you dared not turn your head too quickly for fear the air would cut your cheeks.

So, yet again, I sat nursing one more whiskey than is good for me, staring out a window, and thinking back longingly on my youth.

The frigid weather reminded me of my first year on the track team when I was a high-school sophomore, having no clue what "training" really meant and being thrown out with the distance runners for some endurance running. One frozen winter morning we had to run around a small lake not too far from school. It was maybe two miles around. About a dozen of us were lined up in a long string and told, "Run!" The catch is, when you're at the end of the line, you have to pass everyone to run up to the front. So not only do you have to maintain pace, but every so often you have to put on a burst of speed. I started about in the middle of the group and by the time it was my turn to pass everyone, I was already about to die. But somehow I dug deep and slowly, slowly mustered that extra bit of energy to start pulling ahead of those in front of me. But when I had passed almost the entire line, the guy in the lead-Dave, I can see that bastard's grinning face as clear as if it were yesterday-upped the pace and I started falling behind again. Not to be humiliated, with superhuman effort I found yet one higher gear and again started pulling ahead. But once more, as I pulled even with Dave, he stretched out those long legs of his (he was about six-two) and easily pulled ahead again. I tried desperately to catch him, but in the end I had nothing left in the tank and fell aside, gasping for air and coughing like my lungs would come up.

I kept a secret flame of bitterness burning for that long-legged sadist for several weeks, until Dave, who was a senior, invited me to one of his legendary parties. His family must have had money, because they had an enormous home with a motorized gate at the head of the driveway. The basement was huge, and had a pool table and an awesome stereo that blasted rock 'n roll at dangerous levels. And his parents, apparently, were entirely deaf. Or dead. Or vacationing-always. I never did meet them. It was at Dave's party that I learned the fine art of shotgunning beer. It was also at that event that I had the pleasure of meeting our team mascot-Janet. And after meeting Janet, I forgave Dave everything.

Janet, thankfully, was not a grizzly, the official school mascot. Janet was specifically the track team mascot. Not a sanctioned mascot, mind you. I don't think any of the coaches knew about her. But the rest of the team sure did. The thing about Janet was, you got a few beers in her, and she would make out with anyone. Perhaps even a grizzly! But certainly with anything that could wear pants, even if only a lowly sophomore.

As far as I know, no one ever "took advantage" of Janet at these parties. Maybe she had a boyfriend she did things with, I'm not sure, but at these parties, her big, beautiful lips were available to all comers. She was the first girl I really kissed, you know, more than just a peck on the lips. She was obviously quite practiced and boy, did I learn how much sensuality you could pack into a few square centimeters of skin! To be honest, she kind of spoiled me. I later had girlfriends who thought a kiss meant opening your mouth as wide as possible and assaulting the other party with the tongue. But Janet knew where all the good nerve endings lay. She would gently touch your cheeks with her elegant fingertips, close her eyes and draw you to her. She would first brush her barely parted lips gently against yours, then maybe gently bite your lower lip. Next, she might press her pouted lips against yours and swing her head slowly from side to side, creating a wondrous friction, then wrap her arms around your neck and pull your forehead against hers, then insert her tongue between your lips and your teeth. She had more ways of making two mouths meet than the Catholic Church has bishops. Janet was a gourmand of kissing. If a kiss were a daily meal, she could season each one with a different spice the year long.

Sadly, I only experienced Janet's talents on two or three occasions. Rumor had it that after one particular party she stayed out well past her curfew (which must have been pretty generous to start with) and had shotgunned a few too many beers into the bargain. When she finally staggered home, she opened her front door to find her father standing there in his PJs, arms crossed. She promptly threw up on his feet. That was the end of Janet's status as track team mascot and kissing maven. And the world is a poorer place for it.

The only woman I ever knew who could kiss like Janet was Beth. Beth wasn't a fancy kisser like Janet was. She didn't have "technique." But she, too, knew where all the good nerve endings lay. When I pressed my lips against Beth's, I knew I was in for an experience. Her lips weren't merely soft; they had depth. When you leaned into her lips, they leaned back. They met you, they took you in, they enveloped you. It was like easing yourself onto a waterbed-you would just sink in and you weren't sure you would ever want to get out again.

Beth, when she really got going, had this most enticing habit. I don't know how to describe it exactly. It was like she was humming, or purring even. She was totally unaware of it, I'm almost certain. I never pointed it out to her because I didn't want her to become self conscious about it. But I loved it. It made her lips vibrate ever so subtly, a vibration of pleasure and complete immersion in the moment that gently buzzed its way through my mouth into my head, and into my loins, and into my heart. In our last couple of months together, after the fateful ski trip, when we could at best arrange a few tens of minutes of fleeting privacy, we spent our most intimate moments making out and, honest to God, it was almost as good as sex. I could have spent hours feeling her being pulsate through her lips into my soul.

A startling noise from the street outside roused me from my reverie. Such reminiscences might brighten my spirits for a time, but eventually I had to face grim reality. I splashed back the last of my whiskey and reached for my wallet. I always paid cash here but on this night my wallet was empty. I looked up to catch a barmaid's eye, but the only one I saw on the floor was busy taking the order for a large party across the room. I looked at my watch; just enough time to catch the 8:45 if I hurried. I grabbed my coat and hat, slid out of the booth, and trotted up to the bar, catching the bartender's eye as I did so. I noticed it was Mel, the owner, who had been absent for the first couple of weeks of the year. On vacation, I guess. It was the first time I had seen him since I had gotten back from the holidays. Not that Mel would know me. I was just the poor slob that liked to nurse whiskeys by the window a few too many nights a week.

"Four Johnny Walker Blacks," I said, pulling my credit card from my wallet. Mel took the card and punched a few numbers into the terminal, then swiped. I pulled on my coat and hat, preparing to head out into the cold night and run to catch my train. Mel started to hand me back the card, but his hand froze as he looked at me. I couldn't understand what had so arrested his attention and turned to look behind me, thinking that something across the room might have caught his eye. But there was nothing notable I could see.

I turned back to face him. He was looking at my card.

With great deliberation he read aloud: "Robert Stearns." He looked up at me. "That right? Robert Stearns?"

"Yes, that's me. Do you need to see additional identification?"

"No, that's . . . Wait, yes, that would help, uh, clear things up. Driver's license?"

I found this all rather strange. Not many businesses asked for ID for a simple credit transaction anymore, least of all a modest bar tab, but I obligingly pulled out my wallet and tossed my driver's license onto the counter.

Mel picked it up and read out loud.

"Five-ten. Hundred sixty-two pounds. Hair: black. Eyes: hazel." He looked up at me. "Yup. That's you."

He handed me back my license and credit card. As the credit slip was printing out, he asked casually, "You ever go by 'Robbie'?"

This startled me. I hadn't used that nickname for years, decades really. Not since I was a freshman at college. I thought, at the time, that 'Robbie' was too childish for a real adult. 'Robert' was much more dignified, I felt. I had difficulty making it stick among my friends and acquaintances, though. I usually had to settle for 'Rob.' Nowadays I was Robert at work, Rob to my friends.

"I used to," I replied cautiously. "Why?"

He didn't answer directly, but as he ripped off the credit slip and handed it to me to sign, he asked, "Reno mean anything to you?"

This was getting to be just too much.

"What are you after?" I demanded, slapping the signed credit slip and pen back on to the counter.

My irritation didn't faze Mel in the least. He calmly reached around and tore something off a shelf behind him, then turned to face me.

"If Reno means something to you, I might have something here for you," he said, waving a scrap of paper in his hand.

We stared at each other for a long moment, then I replied, "I grew up in Reno. So, yeah, it means something to me."

Mel wordlessly handed me the scrap of paper.

"Robbie," it read. "Reno, 1975? Beth." I choked back a sob I didn't know was in me.

Beth? Beth??? But how? Was this some kind of prank, a cruel joke? But who would know to pull this stunt on me, even if they had the inclination?

"How . . ." I sputtered. "How did you get this?"

"A lady came in a while back, a few months, maybe. She was looking for a guy named Robbie she thought had come out of this place earlier that evening. A guy named Robbie with a hat."

"A hat?"

"I thought maybe she was a little off, if you know what I mean, but she had a look about her that was, I don't know, you just believed her. Or wanted to."

"Yes, Beth did have that gift. She made people believe in her."

"So I had her write down her name and number and I taped it up there," he said, indicating the shelves behind him. "Never thought I'd actually have need to use it and, to be honest, I had completely forgotten about it until tonight."

"What made you remember it?" I asked.

"The hat, I guess. That, and that look you got that says maybe you need to be found."

"Yes, perhaps I do. Thank you." I slipped the note into my pocket and walked out into the night.

For some reason I couldn't bear to even look at the slip of paper with Beth's handwriting on it during the ride home. When I got to my condo I set it on the kitchen table, but couldn't make myself dial the number written on it. I instead watched late-night TV and eventually fell into a restless sleep. I called in sick the next day and spent most of the morning with a cold cup of coffee in my hands staring at the note.

How could it be that this happiest of memories from my youth might actually come back into my life? What strange coincidence allowed our straying paths to once again intersect? Could it be fate, a concept I quite frankly scoffed at for most of my adult life?

Eventually, I gathered my nerve and yanked the phone off its cradle. With a shaking finger, I punched in the digits. The ringtone on the other end trilled once, twice, then stopped. A short pause, then a click. A female voice: "I'm sorry. The number you have dialed is no longer in service. If you feel you have reached this number in error . . ."

I stabbed the off button on the handset, then carefully redialed.

"I'm sorry. The number you have dialed . . ."

I hurled the handset across the room, where it hit the wall and shattered into a thousand pieces.

Rather like my soul.

Maybe it was seeing the days grow longer. Or perhaps it was just knowing that you had seen the depths and still lived to tell the tale. Or, maybe, it was just time. Just giving yourself enough time to let wounds heal, to let that damnable animal drive to survive push you on to the next day and the next after that, until the pain is no longer fresh and you dare to enjoy a small pleasure here, a friendly smile there, and begin to think of a future.

In the couple of weeks following my almost encounter with my past, I was desolate, barely able to function. There were days I barely got out of bed, days I virtually slept-walked through my work routines, days I slept twelve hours and days I slept two. But curiously, none of my days involved sitting in a bar drinking whiskey. Despair and self-pity were sufficient drugs for the time.