I was standing in line at the
bakery waiting to purchase recently roasted espresso beans when I recognized him,
sort of. With those giant, super blue eyes, I thought, he has to be related
to Charles, has to. Maybe he’s his dad. No, this guy isn’t that old, must be
his brother. Wonder what he’s doing here in town, now that Charles is . . .
I assumed the woman beside him was his wife.
They held their jaws in a similar way, the way folks who’ve been together
decades do.
Right then I realized who the young man was hanging back by the door, leaning
against the wall, one foot up against it. His hands were jammed deep inside his jean pockets and as he studied the floor, his pale
hair feathered in toward his face directing my attention to the almost glowing zit in the cleft of his chin. Hey, that’s Charles’s boy. Why isn’t he up with his aunt and uncle? Teen angst, I decided.
When
it was his turn, the not-Charles man stepped up to the counter, deliberated
over the biscotti selection, then glanced back to Charles’s son, made a motion
like he was lassoing and drawing the boy toward him. The boy refused to be
drawn.
Not-Charles
cleared his throat and spoke up. “What flavor biscotti do you think your
mother’d like?”
The
boy shrugged. “No clue.”
Not-Charles
stabbed the bakery case. “Two cranberry orange please, seems I remember
her being fond of cranberries.”
His
voice was similar to Charles’s, but not quite as deep. More than once I’d complimented Charles
on the bass rumble of his words.
“You
should work in radio,” I told him one day.
“Nah,
being Mr. Mom is good.”
I’d
turned to face him on the park bench that spring morning, reached up and
patted his head.
“Good
daddy. Good husband. Sit. Stay.”
His
face had gone a little ruddier than usual.
“I’m
serious,” I said. “You’re a good man. Shelley’s blessed to have you.”
Not-Charles
pointed to the scone selection. “Pick something out," he told his lady friend. "I’m buying.”
As
I watched the two of them, I noticed he wasn’t as tall as Charles either.
Charles had been six foot two, at least. This guy wasn’t even close and his upper back was rounded, almost dowager-humped.
As
he moved toward the cash register, I decided to speak. I wanted him to know
what a great guy I thought Charles had been before he got sick, went out west
for treatment, then dropped off the town radar.
I
pecked the man on the shoulder and he turned toward me, eyebrows raised, face diagonal.
“You
must be Charles’s brother. You have the same big blue eyes, plus your voice is similar.”
He squinted at me, seemed to be trying to place my face.
“You’re
wrong,” he said.
I
sagged. “But—”
“I
am Charles.”
My
heart skittered in my chest. Mist formed on my palms and under my
arms. I wasn’t certain I’d be able to take another breath.
Quick,
I thought, act normal, make it seem like you knew all along—that he wasn’t
dead.
“You’re
Charles?” I said. I stepped forward quickly, desperately really, to embrace him and to buy myself time for the swelling of my eyes to diminish. “It’s been so long! Why, you look great! I thought
you— I mean, I heard you moved away, to some state that starts with an ‘I.’”
As
he launched into a report about the missing years, I couldn’t help staring at
his eyes, tried to remember who told me he’d gone blind. I attempted to focus on
his words but all I could think was: I thought you were dead, but you’re not,
which is great, but you’re different—shorter, and your eyes are buggy now, and
your voice doesn’t vibrate my sternum anymore. What kind of drug does that?
He
rested his hand on his companion's shoulder. “This is my sister Jan. We’re here in
town visiting my son.”
I
extended my hand, managed to smile even though my mind was galloping about all willy-nilly. She’s
your sister? What happened to Shelley? Did she leave you? Good golly! Who leaves a man with cancer?”
“It
was great seeing you,” he said as they headed for the door. “Tell me your name
again? You look familiar but—”
When
I told him, his smile increased. “Of course, I remember now. You look
different. Your hair’s longer, right? That threw me off. Hey, nice seeing you. Merry
Christmas.” Then he, they, were gone.
Outside the bakery I took careful steps to allow my heartbeat and breathing to slow. Inside my car I sat with my hands in my lap. After a minute I flipped the rearview mirror down.
"I just saw a miracle," I told my reflection, "indeed I did— a dead man
walking, free."
