Promise

Here’s something Howard never knew. He didn’t know that when someone you love dies, you become a different person. You’re changed. On a deep, almost cellular level, he would never be the Howard he was the day before her death.

Howard loved Tina. He’d loved her since they met in an elevator twelve years before. She was chatting to her friend, telling a joke, and she turned to Howard and smiled, as if to include him in her conversation. 

When the elevator stopped at his floor he didn’t get off. Just stared straight ahead, wondering if she knew he was following her. And she did. As she was stepping off on the 37th floor she turned to him and said, “Tina. Tina Moretti. I usually leave around 6:30.” And she smiled her twinkly smile and headed off to work. 

What lucky people, Howard thought, how lucky those people are that get to work with Tina Moretti all day. 

He got to the lobby at 6:08 and waited. She walked across the lobby toward him at exactly 6:30. And that, as they say, was that. 

Tina and Howard. She said she just knew. She said he seemed shy but strong and that’s just what she liked so very much about him. And she was right. He’d turn day into night for her. He’d walk to the ends of the earth for Tina, if that’s what she asked. But she never really asked for anything until the end. 

Their love was simple in the best possible way. They loved each other with all of their hearts and were each other’s very first picks. They worked well together, enjoyed life as it came their way, celebrated each other’s victories and propped each other up when troubles arose. Neither ever felt restless or empty. Howard and Tina filled each other up in a way that is far far too rare.

The only snag came when Tina got sick. Howard had no idea how serious it was, but looking back, he began to see that Tina had known all along. Her single request was that if she were dying, Howard had to make it quick. She didn’t want to prolong her life, to have to lay in bed unable to move, to talk, to smile at Howard. And she made Howard promise. 

Promise was a sacred word to both of them. It wasn’t tossed around easily like, I promise I’ll fix the mower or I promise to be there by 9:00. Because what if the mower was broken? What if you couldn’t fix it and had to buy a new one? Then, in a sense, you’d have broken your promise. What if there was an accident and you got there by 9:23 instead of 9:00? Another broken promise. So they had both agreed to only use that word when it meant an absolute vow. A promise. So Howard promised her. Yes, he said, yes, I’ll make it quick. He said it easily because she was fine. Tina wasn’t going to die. Everything was going to be alright. 

At the end the doctors said he could take her home from the hospital. Make her comfortable. Hospice. They gave him a medication calendar, and pills, and a walker (A walker! For Tina?! They didn’t know anything!) and names of the nurses who would be arriving the next day. 

Howard had made up the bed with her favorite flowery sheets and laid her down gently. She was so much smaller. It was all happening so fast, Howard couldn’t keep up. Tina’s voice was soft and much rarer now, but her eyes still shone like stars. He looked into them now, silently begging her to keep living. So he could keep living. Please, Tina. Please. Please. 

“Howard,” she whispered, “you promised.” He told her he thought that they might be making a mistake. Or the doctors had made a mistake. Clearly, an enormous mistake had been made because nothing was right with the world if Tina Moretti would be missing from it. Tina Moretti was life. She was too filled with energy and love and laughter and kindness and courage to go missing. What would happen if she left? Where would she go? It was impossible to even think about. So he didn’t. 

He made her soup she couldn’t swallow and filled glass after glass with her favorite juice (mango) which went untouched, her bright eyes following him as he puttered around the room, desperate to bring her back to life. 

That night they lay side by side on their bed, holding hands, listening to each other’s breath as they’d done for years. They turned and looked at each other, a soft light filtering through the windows. “Howard,” she said. He began to cry and Tina’s small hands, always so gentle, held Howard close as he clung to her and the exquisite life they had shared. “I promise” he said as he wept, knowing he had to do the one thing in life that he could never ever imagine doing.

They spent that last night together talking. Realizing that all the important things had already been said, which was a great comfort to them both. 

They talked through memories, old jokes, Howard brushed her shiny hair. She asked if she could wear her favorite dress, his favorite too, with small forget-me-nots in the pattern. He slipped it on her carefully, zipping it up one final time. He measured out the pills and stroked her pretty face. 

“Keep living, Howard. There’s more love than you know.” He nodded because that’s all he could do. But Tina Moretti had him make one final promise to her. “Promise me.” It cost her so much to speak as her life had begun to fade. And Howard promised, unsure of what he’d even promised to do. She died just over an hour later. He held her for two more then got up and called the nurses, canceling their visit.

So today, eleven months after Tina’s funeral, Howard went for a walk. He walked past the diner they had their Sunday breakfasts at, walked past the shop that sold Tina’s favorite perfume, walked past the second-rate bakery Tina bought pastries from because she worried they were going out of business. He walked past his barber shop, then stopped, turned around and walked inside. 

He didn’t know the barber, it was some new guy who asked Howard if he wanted a cut and a clean shave. Howard sat in the chair and the man snapped a striped cape around his neck. “Been awhile, huh?” said the barber. As Howard began to answer, he coughed, unaccustomed to using his voice. “Yes. Yes, quite awhile.” 

The barber was a quiet but comfortable presence as he expertly cleaned up Howard’s ignored and overgrown hair. He shaved away the stubble that had been sitting too long on Howard’s now mournful face. 

Once done, both of them gazed at Howard in the large mirror. The barber smiled, satisfied. “A new man, unstoppable. Ready to face the world.” Howard’s feelings didn’t match the barber’s enthusiasm, yet reflecting back at him was a new man. His life was permanently altered, but it was in that moment that Howard realized the alteration didn’t have to be all bad. 

He tipped the barber well, as Tina would have insisted, and continued his walk. 

Since her death Howard saw the world through new eyes. Sadder eyes. Eyes that still searched for Tina in a crowd and probably always would. 

But now he decided to keep his eyes open to possibilities. To unexpected joy. To love in all of its forms.  And he wouldn’t stop. He would keep living because Howard kept his word. Because Howard had made a promise to Tina Moretti.

Wally (Cathedral City Part 5)

“You’re crazy!”

She’d screamed it at him, hurling it across the room, her face contorted with rage. 

He’d never seen her like that before. Not even close. She was always slow to anger. Even slow to happy. 

It felt like she’d slapped him. Truth be told, that would have hurt less. In that moment, he was far more afraid of her than he was of his mission.

Crazy? How could she say that? From the very first he’d told her of his plans. Of his research. Of his lifelong quest! He was crazy?! She was the crazy one! 

You can’t tell someone you love them and six years later pretend you don’t know what they’re talking about. Pretend you don’t understand when they’re getting close to achieving their dreams!

So here he was, sitting on their bed, holding his carryall. He was truly ready to go. He wished he could feel more excited, but he couldn’t get the look on Karen’s face out of his mind. He just didn't understand it. 

Wally had always been an explorer. A pioneer. It drove him since he was a little boy, the thought that there had to be more to the world than his filthy, sad house and his angry, friendless parents.

At first he just imagined things - The whole wide world, people speaking in different languages, eating different, exotic foods, living lives filled with dreams and adventures. 

But then Wally expanded those thoughts, partly because he couldn’t afford to travel anywhere, partly because, like his parents, he was nervous around others and thought it might be difficult to participate in the whole wide world if he couldn’t stop stuttering.

So his thoughts took him beyond this world and into the next. And once he opened that door, there was no turning back. He read everything he could about outlying universes and their inhabitants. About life elsewhere and communicating with those beings. Everything became easier once he started his search. Even his stuttering stopped. 

His life had been so bleak before. So cruel. But now, anything seemed possible. Anything at all. Even finding a wife. 

And he’d found her. He’d found Karen at Deenah’s Diner, named after her grandma. He ordered his supper from her and she’d asked him whether he’d prefer slaw or fries. Fries, he’d said. She’d given him a small smile and when she’d turned toward the kitchen he’d noticed her slight, sweet limp. 

In that short time he knew he wanted to marry her. I mean, she was already taking good care of him. (She’d brought him the slaw instead of the fries, “Heart healthier,” she’d said softly.)

He’d come back to Deenah’s four times that week before he got up the nerve to ask her out. She’d told him that he could buy her a coffee after her shift that night. 

They’d talked for hours. Well, maybe not hours, but a long time. Longer than he’d ever talked to any girl. And she was real pretty in her own way. 

After a few weeks he bravely broached the topic of his research. He crossed his fingers under the booth (their booth!), hoping she wouldn’t laugh. And his wish had come true. Not only did she not laugh, she asked him questions, wondered aloud with him about life on other planets, about what was out there.

That same night he’d taken her back to his house and shown her his workshop. He’d shown her his maps, his experiments, the theories that connected it all. It all made perfect sense. She’d even agreed! She’d agreed! 

He told her that he was reaching out to his community, letting them know that he thought he’d found the landing spot. The exact location of when they’d arrive!

And now, that day was here. He’d heard back from the experts. (Okay, maybe not official “experts”, but certainly amateur/experts, like himself.) They’d all agreed that the date lined up. The location lined up. This was the culmination of his life’s work and where was Karen? Who knew?! 

As he sat, perched on his bed, holding his small tatty bag, he was lost. Just lost. 

Thinking back on Karen and her reaction, he realized it was when he mentioned starting a family, that’s when she began to boil. But he thought she’d be thrilled. He was. Karen had wanted to start a family, “more than anything,” that’s how she’d phrase it. “More than anything, Wally.”

He’d put her off for years, not telling her why, and he knew she was getting nervous. But he also knew that when he gave her the great news, it would have been worth the long delay. More than worth it. “They’ll need to repopulate their planet, Karen.” 

That’s honestly what seemed to have started it.

She’d stood in their yellow-checkered kitchen and yelled, “I’m forty three! I waited for you! You told me to wait and I waited!” That’s when she picked up his dirty, ketchup-smeared breakfast plate and threw it right at him. Right at his head. 

He tried to explain that age wouldn’t matter on their planet. They’d probably live forever. And their baby would be one of the first new babies born there. They might even re-name the planet after him or her. Can you imagine? Can you just imagine?! 

Their baby wouldn’t be saddled with late nights at a diner, or cruel jokes about stuttering or limps. Their baby wouldn’t have to wait to feel loved because they’d be loved from their very first breath. Their baby would practically be royalty. 

Their baby would be born into a joyful world. A world filled with hope and love and big ideas. 

But Karen had just called him crazy, grabbed her purse and left out the kitchen door, slamming it shut. 

Wally stood up. He had no choice, he had to meet the ship. Karen would understand. Maybe they could come back for her someday. He sure hoped so. He slipped a framed picture of her into his bag. 

He’d taken the photo himself. Karen was in her robe, sitting on the porch, holding her coffee cup. And she was smiling at him. Her face beaming with shy love. 

Two days later Wally felt bleary behind the wheel. His mind searching for the name of the singer of the song he’d just heard…Rita? Lita? He couldn’t remember.  He rolled down his window, taking in big gulps of fresh air.

And in an instant he knew he was getting close, he sensed it even before he saw the sign: Cathedral City. 18 miles. He was almost home.

Farewell

Wendy Margaret Cope

Mom, wife, best storyteller, keeper of our secrets, fan of the underdog, 

glorious gardener, skateboarder, spellbinding letter writer, avid traveler, wine enthusiast, 

advocate of courage, adventure and kindness, 

open door for strays, stronger than anyone I've known, 

magnificent chef, forever curious,

and born with a roaring, infectious laugh.

Nothing's the same but our love for you.

Mother's Day 2017

(That's me with the big hat, white purse, and huge smile. Not much has changed.)

When I was little, say five years old, I took to dressing like an adult. Or my version of what an adult would dress like. I was eager to move to New York and live in an apartment where I would paint my nails a classic red, banter wittily over luxurious dinners, and star in Broadway plays where I would receive nothing but rave reviews and standing ovations.

I began carrying a pair of white gloves and a cream colored clutch purse. Inside the purse were loose keys I found in a kitchen drawer that I would use to fake open my bedroom/apartment door, and crayons that I would smoke while sitting on my toy box, gazing out over the imaginary Manhattan skyline.

I would wear strands of plastic pearls and large hats, my favorite knee-high boots that had a small but thrilling heel, and layers of cherry chapstick that in my mind was a deep crimson. I would reapply this constantly between drags of my crayon.

I did this daily and with all of my heart. And it never even occurred to me that this might be seen as silly. Or weird. Something to make fun of.

And that was entirely because of my amazing Mother.

Never once did she laugh or roll her eyes or use a condescending tone. Quite the opposite. She would knock on my apartment door playing the role of “neighbor”, asking if I was interested in a snack, which I usually was. We’d head down to the closest diner which, as luck would have it, was located in our kitchen. She took me shopping for new looks at vintage stores. She offered up her old purses and perfume. She not only encouraged my imagination, she applauded it.

I began asking friends over after kindergarten and they would be required to pick an outfit from my toy box and dress as adults as well. Everyone was game. My cousin Clay was the only boy allowed but he kept it cool by dressing as a cowboy which went over big with the girls.

But, as often happens to weird little kids, time marched on and some of my friends began resisting my fun. They were now six and seven and they wanted to wear their own clothes and jump rope, not write short fiction and pretend to submit it to small publications.

 (Side note: My Mom collected all of my writing and printed copies of my “book” which I proudly titled, Mousetracks. Inside you will find selected stories such as, “The Hippy Who Lit A Match” and “The Very Scary Thing”.)

Soon my friends no longer accepted my invitations. And they weren’t extending any themselves. It was a hard lesson for a six year old and one I didn’t fully get at the time. I just knew that I was suddenly considered odd and no one wanted to play with me.

I stopped carrying my purse and gave up crayons cold turkey. My Mom immediately noticed. She asked if I wanted to go to Goodwill to shop for an evening gown. Of course I wanted to, but I declined.

I tucked my soft gloves and colorful hats away inside my toy box.

I lived in Seattle, not Manhattan. My pearls were as imaginary as my lipstick. I was six and friendless and miserable.

I didn’t understand that people would abandon you if you didn’t match their version of the world. That being different, to some, meant being bad.

And the reason these concepts were so foreign to me was because my Mom was so proud of who I was. Of every single thing about me. There was nothing strange about me in her eyes. Her love was pure and true and relentless.

One night, when I was feeling particularly lonely, she knocked on my apartment door and asked to come in. We sat side by side on my toy box. The sun was setting and summer was coming on.
“What do you see when you look out your window?” she asked me. “The backyard. The McNeil’s roof. Dad’s old surfboard by the barbeque,” I said.

Then she asked me this, “What do you want to see?”

It took me a moment before I offered up shyly, “New York.”

 “Tell me about it,” my mother said. “What’s out there?”

I told her everything. My dreams, my hopes, my nail color choices. She knew most of this already, of course, but it felt good to hop back into who I really was. To feel comfort in the truth of myself. And the comfort of my Mom’s earnest desire for me to go after my dreams, no matter what.

That night we had dinner at our favorite diner in the kitchen. We both wore strands of pearls and large hats.

And that is my Mom. All of my life she has not only encouraged my adventures, but demanded that I run toward them, heart first.

And she makes it all possible with the constancy of her powerful love in a world that can so easily misunderstand you. She is my person to call in the middle of the night who will listen for hours. She is the vault of my deepest secrets. She is the roaring laugh when I need it most. And the hand to hold tight when I feel lonesome or lost.

She is the friendly neighbor sitting at a diner who celebrates a crayon smoking five year old and lets her know that everything is going to be alright. Better than alright. Everything is going to be magnificent.

Finding Our Way

One of the troubles you face when someone you love dies, is that they’re no longer there to love.

You have no place to put all that love you have inside. It just fills up until you feel a sort of soft, permanent, empty ache.

Since Ed died, our house is much quieter. Our routines are very different. Our time moves more slowly.

Ed had a huge personality, just enormous. He loved life and wasn’t shy about it at all. His zest was truly infectious. 

Toward the end, after he lost a leg and his cancer returned, his love of life was just as fierce. A lesson to us all.

Along with life, Ed also loved music, so our mornings always started off with some songs. (Specifically Chris Stapleton and Kacey Musgraves.) The two of us would lie in bed and I’d rub his achy body and sing him happy tunes in my peppy but remarkably off-key voice. 

Then we’d head outside. Slowly, carefully, but happily. Followed, of course, by Ed’s breakfast. 

And because Ed had issues with his esophagus, he had to eat in what we liked to call, his throne. He needed to sit upright to eat and then lounge in his throne for an additional thirty minutes or so. We did this three to four times a day. 

Truth be told, I absolutely loved feeding Ed. He was always breezy and feeling fine and I’d get to play more of our favorite country songs and hold him in my arms and sing my heart out. He was the biggest (and frankly, the only) fan of my voice. I would tell him how much I loved him and how my world was far brighter because he was in it. 

I like to think that he understood every word.

Evenings were when he got his best walks. And when Ed could no longer walk much, we zipped him around in his stroller.

Near the end, his ears and eyes began to fail him as well, but the guy could smell a treat a mile away. On these strolls, Ed would lift his head up high and take in deep breaths of the world; the grass in the park, dinners cooking in nearby homes, the scent of seasons changing. 

And then, as too often happens in life, we had to say goodbye. 

So here we are. With far emptier mornings, with extra room in our bed, with songs left unsung, with our never-ending love searching for a place to land.

And with Ed’s achingly empty throne. 

But, as Ed would gleefully remind us, life is meant to be lived. Joyously, colorfully, and with passion. And, of course, with a lot of good country music.

We’ll get there. We have to. Ed showed us the way.

The Windbag City

A handful of days ago I found myself in Chicago's O'Hare airport, just minding my own beeswax, waiting to board a plane. And then waiting some more.

The sad task of telling us passengers that the flight had been delayed fell to a teensy fellow who was swimming in his maroon colored United Airlines uniform. His child sized hand gripped the mic and he whispered, Good eve...(nervous cough)...ning. I'm sorry to tell you that this flight has been del..."

And before he could spit out the full word, a robust woman wearing a crocheted vest and a crazy look in her eyes, dashed to his desk and shouted, "I MUST GET TO LOS ANGELES!!!! GET ME ON THE NEXT FLIGHT OUT!"

What on earth, thought every single person in the entire airport. The lady was clearly flipping her emotional wig. It was hard to watch but impossible not to hear. (When I say she was yelling, I'm doing a disservice to the yellers of the world, because this was off the charts loud.)

She then turned on her sensible heel and grabbed the handles of a nearby wheelchair. It's occupant, a dazed looking, silver fox.

"HE NEEDS OXYGEN!" she shrieked at pretty much the surrounding Chicago area.

Stop hogging it, I thought cruelly. But on and on she went until the poor little United employee just about evaporated into a puddle of nerves and polyester.

(Here's an important point - I'd spotted these two grifters earlier that evening. They were arguing with a skycap who was insisting that the hundred dollar bill they'd given him was a fake. Neither of them looked to be in need of a wheelchair, or additional air.)

So, due to the apparent lengthy delay and the late hour, I thought it best that I retreat to the United Club for a free cocktail and some stale nuts. (I've been a long standing member since a 78 hour delay in Omaha. Don't ask.)

As I pushed open the door, imagine my surprise when I spotted the screaming Mimi and her chair-bound cohort arguing feverishly with a United Club employee. The two of them were insisting that they be allowed entrance, for free, immediately, despite not being members.

"HE NEEDS TO LAY DOWN!!!! ARE TRYING TO KILL HIM?!!!! HE NEEDS OXYGEN!!!!! HELP US!!!! I AM BEGGING YOU!!!!!"

Sweet mercy, I thought, she's got stamina. And so did, Joanne, as it turns out, the cool as a cucumber United Club employee. Joanne didn't bat a lash or break a sweat. I felt like she deserved a trophy, a raise, and a tiara.

It went something like this:

Joanne: From what I understand, neither of you were booked on the flight to Los Angeles, nor on any United Airlines flight. That being said, I cannot allow you entrance to the United Club.
Screaming Mimi: YOU ARE HEARTLESS!!!! DO YOU HEAR ME?!!!!!
(Side note: We could all hear her just fine.)
Joanne: May I ask why you are seeking medical attention in a lounge?
Screaming Mimi: HE NEEDS TO LAY DOWN!!!
Joanne: Despite it being called a lounge, there are no actual sofas. I'm going to contact a physician and have you two escorted immediately to our medical facility.
(Joanne smoothly picks up the phone.)
Screaming Mimi: WE DON'T HAVE TIME!!!!! JUST LET US IN SO HE CAN LAY DOWN!!!!
Joanne: (into phone) I need to speak to the doctor.
Screaming Mimi: OXYGEN!!!!!
Joanne: (calmly to Mimi) Someone will be here shortly. To help your sick father.

Joanne didn't bother to hide her disbelief. At this point it was clear who was winning, so Mimi reconsidered her approach.

(I should add that the silver fox was silent during the entire exchange. His role, it seemed, was to appear as sick and weak as possible. He was doing a stellar job.)

Screaming Mimi: (speaking softly) I'm so sorry, my nerves are getting the better of me. I think I just need to sit down and gather my thoughts.
Joanne: And get your father his oxygen.
Screaming Mimi: Of course. OF COURSE!
Joanne: Where's his tank?
Screaming Mimi: (a lengthy pause) We don't have one...for personal use.
Joanne: That's odd.
Screaming Mimi: NO IT'S NOT!!!!! ARE YOU TRYING TO MURDER MY FATHER?!!!! ANSWER ME!!!!! MY GOD!!!! WILL THIS NIGHTMARE NEVER END?!!!!

As it turns out, it ended swiftly, because some medical personnel arrived and whisked these two lunatics away.

A while later, after finishing my book and a bowl of bad cashews, I headed back to the terminal to board the plane.

And again, imagine my surprise when I spotted Screaming Mimi and her sidekick. On the plane. Sitting happily in first class. Not an oxygen tank in sight.

As I walked past them, two things struck me - First, Mimi's father seemed to have made a swift recovery because his cheeks were simply rosy as he stood to hand his jacket to the flight attendant and casually accept his complimentary glass of champagne. And second, the two of them were, in the absolute truest sense, flying the friendly skies.

Farewell, Our Magnificent Ed

2002-2015

"...it wasn't that his sweet, gentle heart had stopped,
 but that he had finally given it all away."

Buddy (Cathedral City Part 4)

He knew it. He knew he should have paid more for the sign. He'd been pinching pennies for years just to buy the store, never mind adding the gas pump. But, he realized too late, you just shouldn't cut certain corners.

Buddy was just closing up when he heard the faint sizzle of the "Q" and the "u" burning out.

Now, in bold neon, his life's work was called "..icky Mart".

He shut the cash register drawer and leaned against the counter. He'd done everything right. The station was located next to a freeway entrance. He kept it clean and well stocked, even adding more health conscious snacks. He made sure the prices were reasonable and he was always polite. Always.

He'd been brought up that way. Manners were important in his family. And hard work. Being sensible and playing fair.

His whole life he'd played by the rules and all he had to show for it was the icky mart.

Eight years ago he thought he'd had it made. He'd known Becky since second grade and from the moment he saw her and her shiny red hair he'd felt like she was the one for him. They got married in her parents backyard when they were both twenty four.

He'd taken good care of her, he never doubted that. He'd done his best to love her well.

But Becky wanted more out of life. Or at least that's what she told him. "I want more, Buddy. I don't want to just sit around this dusty old town until I die. Don't you want more? Don't you?"

It felt to Buddy like she was pleading with him.

He'd told that he did, that's why he'd been saving up for the Quicky Mart. He told her his plans to add a gas pump and how that would bring in more money. That they could finally afford to move out of their apartment and buy a little house. Maybe even one with a pool. She'd looked at him like he was speaking Japanese. Just staring at him. Or past him. She left two days later.

For a while he'd waited for her to come back, but after two months he'd boxed up what she'd left behind.

He never knew how much Becky had liked to read. Half of what she owned were books. It made him feel sad for her. He never realized how big her dreams really were.

Buddy had dreams, too. Just different dreams, he guessed. He loved Cathedral City. He'd grown up here, just like his mom and dad had. He loved the look of the desert mountains at sunset, and the dry winds that blew.

And, if he were being really honest with himself, which he tried very hard to be, he didn't miss Becky all that much. Oh, he missed her company. Someone to have breakfast with, go to the movies with, someone to sit out on the porch with on a warm, cozy evening. But he didn't really miss Becky, the person. He felt awful for that.

Buddy knew that he was waiting. For what, he wasn't sure, but there was an itch inside. Maybe that's what Becky had felt.

Buddy thought that once he'd opened the Quicky Mart, once the pump was installed, he'd feel more at ease. That his soft ache would end.

But now, here he was, low on funds, with a burned out sign. Living in the same apartment that he'd first rented with his runaway wife, boxes of her left-behind books stacked in his carport.

He felt stupid even thinking about it, but years ago, when he saw the movie, Ghost, it had affected him. It was silly, it was Hollywood magic, but it had made him yearn for a love like that. He knew he didn't have anything like that with Becky. But Buddy was nothing if not practical. His life was solid, that's what counted. That was real.

Yet somehow, the movie stayed with him. To love someone that powerfully. Not out of duty, or responsibility, but from your heart. Because you had no other choice. How would that feel?

He stashed what little cash there was in the safe, wiped down the counter and shut off the radio. He still couldn't get that Lita Ford song out of his head.

What he needed, he told himself, was a good night's sleep and some straight thinking. He had to stop it with the romance. Buddy laughed to himself. Ghost. Good thing he hadn't told anyone.

He was just shutting off the lights when he saw her. Standing next to the gas pump. A couple of suitcases in the backseat of her Camry.

Buddy couldn't take his eyes off of her.

And then it happened. She turned her gaze toward Buddy, standing all alone in his dimly lit store.

He could feel his pulse race. And, more than that, his lonely, hopeful heart felt full for the very first time in his life.

They stood there, these two strangers, their eyes locked on one another, the heat of the desert night surrounding them.

Because they had no other choice.

Rainey (Cathedral City Part 3)

She swam her last lap then stepped out of the pool. The night was warm with a soft, perfect breeze. 

This was her favorite time to swim. She loved standing outside, slightly out of breath, watching the city lights blink on until Los Angeles became a bright, ridiculous carpet.

She stood there for what seemed like forever, wondering, like she’d be doing a lot lately, when things had started to go so bad. 

Was it the decision to move to Hollywood fourteen years ago? Fourteen? God, she felt old. That’s what happens in this town when you have more looks than talent. You get old really fast.

So, she'd married Charles. It seemed like the perfect solution. He was successful, rich, and kind of handsome in the right light. He got invited to all the A-list parties and she loved getting dressed up. 

When they were still dating he’d have one of his assistants deliver a box from Barneys or Neiman’s and inside would be the perfect dress. Sometimes he’d include shoes. How did he know her sizes so precisely, she’d wondered. How could he have guessed her favorite colors or fabrics? Back then, she figured it was due to his devotion, his attention to her every word. 

Fourteen years later she knew the truth. He’d called her agent. Rather, he had one of his assistants call her agent. They’d been only too happy to tell all of her secrets. A client of their’s dating a producer of his caliber? That was the brass ring!

They were married six months later. He was getting to that age. He needed to get married. A man in his fifties can look a little shifty with nothing but a string of twenty-something’s on his arm. The one thing Charles could not afford was to look vulgar.

She was the right girl at the right time.

She suddenly realized she couldn't think of the last time she'd seen him. He’d been in France and Italy on “business” and from there…she honestly couldn’t remember. 

At some point they’d both dropped the pretense of trying. They slept in separate rooms, often separate homes, and, like now, separate countries. 

She had truly believed all this would be enough. She’d grown up in a trailer. Literally. A trailer park. 

Her mother was a ruined beauty who’s hope for anything but her daughter’s future had run out years before. But they had both seen stars, and the moment it was legal, Lorraine (now, Rainey) headed to L.A. 

But the town was much tougher than Rainey had expected. She was one of thousands of pretty girls. Thousands. She didn’t know how to make herself stand out. It was exhausting and terrifying. She got anxious. She began to lose herself. She no longer had opinions, or likes, or dislikes, for fear of saying the wrong thing. Offending someone important. 

She was slow to get up in the morning, almost dreading what the day would bring. She’d spend hours applying makeup and trying on outfits, just to sit in a room with girls who looked exactly like her. 

One by one they’d be called into another room to read a few lines for a role that required “a very pretty girl”. And one by one they’d return, in two minutes or less. 

Then each one of these “very pretty girls” would get in their dusty cars, hoping they had enough gas in the tank for the long drive home. Hoping they’d get the part, hoping they’d been noticed, hoping they’d make it in this hot, mean town. 

Rainey had met Charles on one of those auditions. He’d walked her out, in front of all the other actresses, and she was sure the part was hers. It wasn’t, but she did get a lovely dinner. 

She’d never been to the restaurant before, never even heard of it. He picked her up and she had waited outside of her building, not wanting him to see her bleak, tiny apartment. 

Over dinner he’d complimented her and she’d trusted every word. 

Standing by the pool, on this warm, breezy night, she felt astonished. She had fallen for it all. He was the best in the business. Looking you in the eye and making you believe things you knew couldn’t possibly be true. He was Hollywood’s very best trick.

And still, she’d stayed. She had no one to blame but herself. For years now his assistants had been delivering beautifully wrapped boxes, filled with perfectly chosen gowns, to a sea of other women. And she’d stayed. And stayed. And stayed. 

It took her having it all to realize she had nothing. She felt almost embarrassed of herself. Allowing her life to come to this. 

She turned away from the city lights and dove back into the pool, swimming her final lap. 

Within an hour she was on the freeway. Just a suitcase, her credit card, and a new set of dreams. This time around she may not have a pool, but she’d have an opinion. 

She smiled, realizing Charles wouldn’t notice she was gone for quite some time. Weeks maybe. 

She turned on the radio, trying to find something to match her mood. She found, Lita Ford’s, “Kiss Me Deadly”. The song was halfway through, but Rainey sang along, her voice sounding stronger than it had in years. 

She decided she’d try her luck in the very next town. 

And there it was up ahead.

Cathedral City. 18 miles. 

Craig (Cathedral City Part 2)

Craig knew immediately that he’d been caught. The Vice President of the bank had never even glanced at him before, and now, first thing Tuesday morning, he asked Craig to step into his office. His tone was grim.

Craig had never been anything remotely close to cool, but he did his best impersonation as he made the long walk from his tellers station to the oversized and rarely seen office of Mr. Barret.

“Ooooh, looks like someone’s in trouble,” joked Rhonda. She worked at the station next to Craig and smelled permanently of black licorice and tuna. “Yep. Sure does,” he said, speaking softer than he’d intended. 

Craig stood outside the office’s closed door. He didn’t know if he should knock or just walk in. One seemed too meek, the other too brash. Did it really matter at this point? As Craig stood at the threshold and debated his next move, he stared at the door. It was impressive. It seemed heavy and a little wider than most doors. He raised his sweaty hand and knocked.

“Have a seat,” said Mr. Barret. Craig didn’t know what to do. There were a lot of options. Two chairs faced Mr. Barret who was sitting behind his enormous desk, but there was a third chair, made of deep green leather, that was just off to the side of the desk. 

Mr. Barret finally motioned Craig to the chairs that sat across from him. Craig quickly took a seat in the left one, hoping it was a good pick.

“Let me get right to it, Craig. Over the past several months, we began to notice some…irregularities in withdrawals that were being made. Initially we thought this was an anomaly, but as time went on and sums continued to go missing, we were forced to come to some very disappointing conclusions.”

It was over. Craig’s life was finished. Oh, why, why, why had he done it?! He’d always followed the rules. He'd never once had a speeding ticket. He donated to the Red Cross and volunteered three times a year at the soup kitchen downtown. His bills were paid on time, he wrote thank you letters for gifts he received at Christmas. Oh, my god! What had he done?! 

He stared, unblinking at Mr. Barret, sweat beginning to pool under his arms. Could he just put it back? Or blame it on smelly old Rhonda? Should he make a run for it? Just race to his car and go on the lam? 

He didn’t even know what that meant. On the lam. If he didn’t know what it meant, how could he succeed at it? 

He had started stealing eleven months ago. Just a little. It began as an accounting error that he'd noticed but nobody else had. At the end of the day, before he could even think about it, he grabbed the cash. Just shoved it in his pocket and walked out of the bank like it was an ordinary day. 

But it wasn’t an ordinary day. As he drove home he found himself smiling. No, beaming. He felt bold. Confident. Two things he’d never felt in his entire life. 

Sitting in his apartment, he counted the money. Nine hundred and forty two dollars. He smoothed the bills out and laid them across his secondhand coffee table. 

He never expected to do it again. Never. It was a one time thing. And he could explain it away if anyone noticed. He practiced what he’d say the next morning in front of the mirror. And while he practiced, he noticed that his eyes looked particularly blue that day. In fact, they were shining. 

And so it began. Monthly, then weekly, then daily, Craig stole. A life of crime. It was easier than he’d ever imagined. Tucked behind his Ikea bookcase was two hundred and forty three thousand dollars. 

“Do you think that’s something you could do for us, Craig?” 

Mr. Barret was watching him closely and Craig stared back with glassy, terrified eyes. 

“If it’s too much to ask, we can certainly appreciate that,” said an unappreciative Mr. Barret.  “To be quite frank, you seem rather uncomfortable.”

Craig nodded for no other reason than to buy some time. “What exactly would this entail, sir?” 

“Just keeping an eye out. Nothing too complicated. It’s clear that it’s one of the tellers and we just want you to let us know if you notice anything…untoward. Does that sound like something you would be interested in doing? And, of course, you’d be compensated.”

And then, unable to stop himself, Craig laughed. Hard. It erupted from deep within him and filled Mr. Barret’s oversized office, bouncing off the beautiful oak walls and his well-stocked bar. 

“My apologies, sir. I’m just so pleased to be asked to be of service. I’d be more than happy to apprise you of anything, anything at all, that seems amiss.” 

And with that Mr. Barret rose from his chair, his arm extended. Craig found himself robustly shaking the relatively limp hand of the bank’s Vice President. “A disappointing grip,” thought Craig. 

“How’d it go?” asked Rhonda, her grisly scent surrounding him. Craig unlocked his cash drawer and pretended to tidy up some loose bills. “They caught me red-handed, Rhonda. The cops will be here in moments. If I move quick, I should be able to lose ‘em.”

Rhonda laughed. Her sad, simpering, rarely heard laugh, then she got back to work.

Later that night, driving on the freeway just over the speed limit, Craig grinned. He didn’t even recognize who he’d become, but he liked it. Thrilling. That’s what life was, thrilling, he thought. Anything was possible. Especially with over three million in cash stashed in your trunk. 

He flipped on the radio, feeling the sudden urge to sing. Lita Ford’s, Kiss Me Deadly, was playing and Craig joyfully belted out whatever words he could remember. 

He’d been heading south for hours, no real destination in mind. 

And that’s when he saw the sign: Cathedral City. 18 miles. 

Cathedral City

Cathedral City. Bonnie loved the sound of it. Majestic. Like Camelot, in a way. She was surprised that there hadn’t been a song written about the place. It just had a ring to it.

Bonnie’s second best friend, Denise, had moved there eight years ago. Right after her divorce from her third husband, Bruce. Denise loved it. “You can’t beat the weather, Bon.” And practically the week after her move, Denise had met Ricky. Now they were living together in a condo that had an extra bedroom and a community pool. Ricky had even put in a little wet bar right next to the powder room.

Cathedral City. 

It was time. 

Bonnie sat up in bed and lit her 29th Pall Mall of the day. Fuck it, she thought tiredly, as smoke streamed from her nostrils.

She needed to quit. At least limit it to 15 a day. But it’s hard to cut down when your husband is cheating. Again. 

Bonnie knew it the minute she laid eyes on her at Roy’s company picnic two months ago. Her name was Tanya and she was petite and energetic and showed just enough plump cleavage to give her an edge. Just his type, Bonnie thought, as she'd nodded hello to her husband’s newest mistress. 

Thing is, this time she couldn’t even summon up the energy to get mad. The first time it happened she threw her Gilly’s ashtray at him. 7 stitches in his growing forehead. She’d moved out when she found out about the second. But money was tight and he was apologetic and it just seemed simpler to try again. 

She felt like all her life she’d been mending her broken heart. And each time it got easier. Probably because the love she gave was smaller. Handing out bits of it to test the rocky waters. Living small. That’s what she was doing. She used to dream of a life worth celebrating and now she just tried to make it to payday. 

Cathedral City. She could be there by morning. Pack a couple bags and leave a note: Headed to a better life. Give Tanya my best. 

As Bonnie tossed her suitcases in the backseat of her Camry, she felt something she hadn’t felt in a long time. Hope. Just a small flicker in her chest, but it was there. She smiled her first real smile in ages.

The night was warm and she rolled down her windows, letting the wind tangle her blonde-ish hair. She flipped on the radio and laughed out loud. Lita Ford’s, Kiss Me Deadly, was playing. Good luck omen, or what? She turned it up and sang along with whatever words she could remember. 

Bonnie hadn’t felt this happy in years. Decades maybe. She felt light. Her hope grew. This time it would be different. Her life had been a series of Roy’s and half efforts. This time, she’d do it right. She’d learn from her mistakes. 

Roy already felt like a memory. By the time she reached Cathedral City, he’d be nothing but the butt of a joke.

It’s funny, she thought, how much easier feelings become. The very first time she got her heart broken (by quarterback, Doug McClaren) in high school, it ruined her. Night after night she cried. She embarrassed herself by calling him until he told her stop. And she even called twice after that. But, she thought, as the years go by, you realize that feelings are fleeting. Heartbreak doesn't stay with you like you think it will. All emotions are short-lived, momentary really.

And with that Bonnie lit a Pall Mall, realizing suddenly that the same could be said of her moments of happiness. They were just that. Moments. 

She turned off the radio. And focused on the road ahead. 

Cathedral City. 18 miles.