Reflections from the Snow Ch. 02

Then, some internal timer seemed to click and said, "Time to get on with things." So I did. I came back to the world, invested myself into my work, saw friends, did things. I lived. After some months, I even developed the presence of mind to actually look for Beth on my own. So much better than just sitting there being a passive schmuck. But it yielded me nothing except the limited satisfaction of knowing I had tried something, at least. I called every Beth, or Elizabeth, or Bethany Miller I could find in the area. Let me tell you, in the greater Boston area there are quite a few. And many of them don't like strange men calling them asking about their past. But most definitely none of them were my Beth.

She had probably long ago married and taken a new last name. One that she quite probably still carried in the happy marriage that she so richly deserved.

And so I let go and moved on. Mostly. For a while.

I had definitely moved on from my failed marriage, of that I was sure. Val, my ex wife, was already engaged. And I bore her no ill will for it. She deserved happiness just as much as anyone. I just hoped the poor bastard she was going to marry liked to clean!

No, the broken marriage was not the issue. But Beth still was. She still lived in my mind as that might-have-been, could-have-been, should-have-been lost piece of my world.

By the summer I was dating again, a little half-heartedly maybe, but not without pleasure. Yet every pair of eyes I gazed into lacked that gleam of mischievous animation that was Beth's; every kiss failed to quicken my pulse, like Beth's had; every touch failed to heat my skin, like Beth's had.

And as time went on, I began to wonder why, and how, she left that note. It was an itch that wouldn't go away. I tried not to scratch it, but the more I ignored it, the more it rankled.

Finally, one muggy August night I sat myself down at my kitchen table and put Beth's note, which I had carefully stashed in one of my kitchen drawers, in front of me. I pulled out a legal pad and started taking notes.

OK, so what did the bartender say? She was looking for a guy with a hat named Robbie who had been in the bar earlier that evening.

I wrote "guy with hat" on the pad.

How would she have known I had a hat? She must have seen me, of course. Seen me coming out of the bar. But when?

I wrote "saw me!", then "when?"

I thought back to when the bartender, the owner, Mel, gave me Beth's note. It was January, a couple of weeks into the year. I'd been going there to drink and feel sorry for myself ever since I'd gotten back from visiting my parents over the holidays. But Mel hadn't been there at first. It was just that last night I'd been at the bar that he had first returned. And he had said . . . what? What had he said about when Beth came in?

I wrote, "Mel. Mid January."

I replayed the scene in my mind: I gave him my credit card, then my license. He asked my name, asked if I knew Reno, then handed me the scribbled note. He said a lady came in and asked for a guy in a hat.

"Credit card, license. My name, Reno? Gives me note. Lady comes in."

When? WHEN?

I reviewed the scene again: Card, license, name, note. A lady came in, a lady came in.

I tapped each word I had written on the pad with the tip of the pen as I went over it in my mind.

Card, license, note. A lady came in . . . A lady came in a few months back. A FEW MONTHS BACK!

OK, OK! Mid January, then a few months back. I scribbled furiously on the pad. So, around the time my divorce was getting finalized. October, November? Could it have been as early as September? Maybe, but I wasn't visiting the bar that much in September. Heavy work project, late hours. But October and November, damn near every night. Practically kept the place in business single-handedly. That wasn't much help.

When did I stop going there? I considered my timeline. I stopped going there sometime in November, then picked up again at the New Year after getting back in town. But when had I stopped in the fall? And why?

I thought back: After the divorce was finalized there was a shitload to do. Pack the house, arrange movers, meet with the realtor. It was a whirlwind. Then Thanksgiving, which I spent with my now-fellow divorcee Charlie and his extended family, bless their pointy little heads, then another couple of weeks wrapping up the new living arrangements, then off to Phoenix for a long holiday stay with the folks.

So, after it was finalized, I stopped going to the bar for a while. When did we sign the decree? I thought back to that day. I had to take part of the afternoon off work and schlep across town to the lawyer's office. Val was early, of course. Or at least she was already there when I arrived and looked like she'd been waiting for hours and it was my fault. She had that look down cold.

The lawyer was behind schedule, so we had to wait some more. That was fun. Then he was finally ready and we signed and that was that. I don't know why Val insisted we sign together. You don't have to do that, once you've agreed on terms. I think she saw it as some kind of penance we both had to pay for giving up. I didn't fight it. Too many fights already.

Papers signed, I headed back to work, but got caught in a traffic jam and after a while just said "screw it" and headed home. But rather than sit at home feeling sorry for myself, I decided to sit in a bar feeling sorry for myself, so hopped on the subway to my familiar destination.

It was already getting cold that afternoon. I could feel the wind shift about 4:00. By the time I got to the bar it was snowing. I remember sitting in my favorite booth and staring out the window at the snowflakes coming down. And that was the last night I was there until January.

I tapped my pen on the legal pad. A lady comes in . . . A guy in a hat . . . Snowflakes coming down . . . Snowflakes . . .

My mind wandered back once again to the ski trip with Beth and Maureen and Paul. It was the last day of our trip. Paul and Maureen had taken a lift to the top of the mountain, but Beth and I decided to take a break and grab some hot chocolates at the base lodge. It was mid-afternoon so the lodge restaurant wasn't too crowded. We managed to find a relatively private little corner of the deck off to the side of the building and we sat there on a bench by ourselves, sipping hot chocolate and enjoying the bit of sun that was peeking through a break in the clouds.

Beth, the mischievous little devil, was always thinking of new ways to torture me, so under cover of our heavy down parkas, she secreted her hand inside my pants to give me a little squeeze. Her hand was icy cold of course, and I squealed like a pig when she touched me. That delighted her to no end. But after teasing me about what a wuss I was she got that look that I knew spelled trouble for me. She extracted her hand from my pants and jumped up.

"I'll be right back!" she tossed over her shoulder as she ran into the restaurant.

A few minutes later she returned holding another mug of hot chocolate.

"I was thirsty!" she giggled as she sat and snuggled up against me.

She leaned her head against mine and wrapped both hands around her mug of chocolate. I could have spent the rest of the day like this, but after a minute or two she put her mug down and whispered into my ear in a sing-songy voice, "I have a little surprise for you."

Then I felt her hand making its way under my trousers again, but this time when she grasped me her hand was wonderfully warm from holding the mug of hot chocolate.

"Like that, sailor?" she whispered and punctuated her question by gently inserting her warm tongue into my ear.

I instantly hardened.

"Mmm. Guess so." More tongue, and her hand very expertly massaged my most vulnerable spots.

I nervously looked around, but either no one noticed us, or no one cared, and soon I didn't either.

Beth alternately nibbled on and tongued my ear while deftly massaging my cock. It wasn't long before I was panting and felt the pressure building.

"That's it sailor, don't hold back. Just let it be."

I climaxed as unobtrusively as I could and figured I'd just have to live with the sloppy undergarments for the rest of the day.

But Beth, clever little vixen that she was, had stuffed some paper napkins down there at the last minute and sopped up most of the mess.

I gave her a big kiss.

"You know," she said winking at me, "you've got a great, big, shit-eating grin on your face right now. But before you protest," she continued hurriedly, "I want you to know that's alright, because I love making you happy." And then she planted one of her passionate, heart-stopping, stroke-inducing kisses on my lips.

At that moment the sun disappeared behind the clouds and a gust of wind kicked up, whipping our woolen ski caps off of the railing in front of us. I lept up to retrieve them.

My god! Of course, that was it! The snowflakes. The wind. My hat. That evening, coming out of the bar. The wind whipped the hat off my head and I chased after it. I practically knocked someone down. A woman. A lady. A lady who later walked into a bar and asked for a guy in a hat. Beth. It had to be!

I never looked up, but she must have seen me, seen my face. Recognized me. But if she recognized me, why didn't she say something?

I replayed the scene again, writing down the cue words to help cement the memory.

"Leave bar. Wind. Chase hat. Beth?"

Oh god, did I actually see her? Well, only a pair of shoes and the hem of a dress, but it was something. And did I actually touch her?

I replayed the scene again. Hat flies off, stumble after it, bump against woman's legs a bit, she jumps aside.

Yes, I touched her! My god, I practically bowled her over. Did I even say "Excuse me, ma'am" or "Pardon me?" I couldn't remember. She probably thought I was just a stumbling drunk trying to get home. No wonder she didn't come after me.

Yet, something must have changed her mind. Something made her walk into that bar and ask for a guy with a hat. A guy with a hat. That's it. A guy with a fucking hat. And write down her name and phone number and hope against hope that some drunken schmuck-with a hat!-would walk back into that bar and be recognized and get her note and call her. Which actually fucking happened! Except that the fucking phone number didn't work!

I violently threw the pen onto the floor, and the legal pad followed. Tears started to flow and once the dam had been breached, there was no stopping the flood. I sobbed like the bereft, like the guilty, like the damned. I sobbed for all the mistakes I had made, all the wrongs I had visited upon others and never atoned for, for all the happiness I had missed or caused others to miss. I sobbed for my whole, fucking, pitiful life.

The next morning, my pityfest expunged from my system, I set about devising a plan for finding Beth. I knew she was in Boston-or did I? She could have just been visiting. Maybe she actually lived somewhere else. But the number she gave was a local number, so she must be here! Or at least she was once here. Even just two months after leaving that number at the bar it had been disconnected. Had she moved out of town?

No, I couldn't think that way! I had to assume she was still here. But I had no success searching the phone book under her maiden name. She must be married. I had to find her married name. But how?

The only thing I had to go by was a disconnected phone number. Surely there was a way to trace previous owners of an expired phone number. But I had no clue what it was. Would I have to hire a private eye? That seemed a little creepy, but if that's what it took . . . Or the police could probably trace it. But what pretext could I give that would convince the police to check on a disconnected number? Of course! Charlie! Charlie had once mentioned that he had a cousin who was on the force! Maybe Charlie's cousin could look it up somehow.

I was resolved. That's where I'd start!

Sure enough, it worked. It cost me a very expensive steak dinner to make up for Charlie's trouble, who in turn swore that he was in even deeper debt to his cousin now. But Charlie always was a teller of tall tales, so I wasn't too worried for Charlie's sake.

The important thing was that I now had a name: Bernard Viscoli.

Bernard Viscoli. Somehow it didn't seem like the kind of name a guy that Beth would want to marry would have. But heck, you can't control someone's name, just like you can't control who you fall in love with. At least it wasn't "Smith" or "Jones"! How many Bernard Viscolis could be in the Boston phone book?

It turns out the answer to that question was a big, fat zero. Not a single one in the phone book and not a single one through directory assistance. Damn! There had been a Bernard Viscoli last November, but no more. Or did the mysterious Mr. Viscoli have an unlisted number? I thought about going back to Charlie and asking if he could search for unlisted numbers, but I figured that might be pushing it.

Then I tried Beth's name plus Viscoli, then the variants Bethany and Elizabeth. All drew blanks. Back to square one.

I sat myself down at my kitchen table yet again and reviewed what I had: a probable full name-Beth Viscoli, a disconnected local phone number, a glimpse of a pair of shoes and the hem of a dress, and . . . And what else? Nothing. Nothing but that and the bartender's story.

The bartender, Mel! Maybe there was something he didn't mention, some detail, that could help me find her. I looked at my watch: 10:15. I grabbed my coat and hat and ran to the subway station.

Thirty minutes later I was pushing my way into Corcoran's Pub. I hadn't been there since the night Mel handed me Beth's note. It looked just the same. Just being there lowered my spirits. Too many dark memories associated with the place. I didn't even dare look over to my old "favorite" booth.

I looked for Mel but someone I didn't recognize was working behind the bar. I approached the nearest barmaid.

"Excuse me, miss. Is Mel around?"

"He's in the back, working on the books. Doesn't like to be disturbed. Anything I can help you with?"

"No, it has to be Mel."

"Better if you come back another time."

She turned to go, but I grabbed her arm. She yanked it out of my grip in alarm.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" I exclaimed, backing off a step and throwing my hands in the air. "I didn't mean to startle you. But please, it's urgent. Please!"

She looked me up and down and decided to take pity on me.

"OK, I'll ask. But I'm not making any promises. Who should I say is asking?"

"Tell him it's the guy with a hat. From Reno."

She gave me a questioning look, shrugged, then disappeared through a door at the back of the room.

I took a seat at the bar and waited. Mel walked out a few minutes later. He sat on a stool next to me.

"The guy with the hat. I'd recognize you anywhere," he observed dryly.

"I'm Robert," I said, holding out my hand.

He shook it.

"What can I do for you, Robert from Reno?"

I launched into my story.

"The note. You remember the note?"

He nodded in assent.

"I'm looking for Beth, the lady who walked in that night looking for me. The phone number didn't work, it was disconnected by the time I called. I think I've figured out her last name, but I just can't locate her. Has she been back here?"

Mel shook his head.

"No, 'fraid not. Least not that I know of. Sorry."

"No, I figured that would be a longshot. But maybe there's something you can recall from that night that might help me find her. Maybe something you forgot to mention. Some little clue. Anything," I pleaded.

"I think I told you everything," he replied. "Like I said, this lady walks in, says she's looking for a guy with a hat that had been in earlier. His name was Robbie. Left a note with her name and number on it. Then she leaves. That's it."

"But surely there's more to it than that," I suggested. "Think back, try to describe exactly what happened. Here, I'll help write it down, make it more specific."

I grabbed a few nearby cocktail napkins and searched around for something to write with, but didn't find anything handy. Mel regarded me skeptically for a few seconds, let out a big sigh, and reached into his pants pocket and handed me a pen.

He began his story again unprompted.

"A lady walks into the bar . . ."

I interrupted him immediately.

"Did you see her walk into the bar?"

Mel gazed thoughtfully into space.

"You know, I guess not. I first noticed her already sitting-no, standing-at the end of the bar, just over there."

He pointed at the end of the bar nearest the entrance.

"I was filling an order or something down at the other end and when I looked up, there she was."

"OK, then what happened?"

"OK, so I walk up to this end of the bar and ask what I can get her. She looks all flustered and embarrassed and says she's looking for a guy she thought had been here earlier that evening."

"A guy with a hat," we both intone together. We both laughed.

"I tell her that's not much to go on and she says . . ." He pauses and stares absently for a few seconds. "And she says he's got hazel eyes, too."

My eyes began to moisten. Beth always exclaimed over the color of my eyes.

"Then she turns to go. But I start to feel sorry for her and ask if this guy with a hat had a name. 'Robbie,' she says. But she doesn't give me a last name. I think maybe she couldn't remember it."

That stung me a little bit. How could she not remember my last name? Before I could reflect on this further, however, Mel continued.

"Then she tries to go again but I say that she should leave her name and number in case you come back."

I interrupt.

"What was she wearing? Can you remember?"

After considering for a while, Mel answered, "I can't recall that very good. Nothing very noticeable, if you know what I mean. She must have had a coat or a jacket on. I just can't see that when I try to remember. She had a hat, or a cap, or something. I remember water drops or something kind of glinting against the light when I looked at her once."

"Probably the snow melting. It was snowing that night."

"If you say so."

"OK, so you tell her to leave a note . . ."

"Yeah, that's right. I say she should leave a note, so she comes back to the bar and sets her stuff down and writes her note."

"Her stuff? What stuff? What did she have with her?" I ask urgently.

"Stuff, stuff, stuff," Mel says, drumming his fingers on the bar counter. He suddenly brightens.

"She had this bag, this big, tan bag. I remember it now 'cause she set it on the counter when she wrote her note."

"Was it her purse?" I asked.

"No, no, it wasn't a purse. It was like this cloth bag you carry stuff in. Whaddya call it . . . a tote bag!"

"Alright, so she had a tan tote bag. Not a purse, a tote bag. Right?"

"Yeah, that's right."

Mel squeezed his eyes shut and slowly shook a clenched fist.

"And there's something on the bag, some symbol or something."

He keeps shaking his fist with closed eyes.

"It's like a shield, or something. A blue shield with this swirly thing at the bottom. I remember now 'cause when she was writing the note I didn't want to be rude and stare at her so I just kind of looked at the bag. It was a blue shield with this swirly thing at the bottom and some letters at the top."

"Letters? How many letters? What were they?"

"Hmm. Letters. What were the letters? I think the first letter was a 'b'. There weren't many. Maybe three or four. It was like 'BMW' or something."

"'BMW', like the car maker?" I inquired eagerly. I felt like we were finally getting somewhere.

"Mmm. I don't know. Maybe. I didn't really recognize it. I'm pretty sure about the 'b'. I think."

He didn't sound very convinced or convincing, but at least it was something.