Time Bomb

37

Her father flew in the next morning from Texas. I’d expected Gary Cooper and got Lyndon Johnson out of a trash compactor: short, stout, big ears with banjo lobes, whiskey nose, crinkle chin. The only genetic link to Linda I could discern, a pair of small, delicate hands that he kept plastered to his sides. Nothing Texas Rangerish about his clothes either. Powder-blue sport coat, yellow golf shirt, white seersucker slacks, brown patent-leather loafers.

He called me sir a lot, not sure who I was. Not sure who his daughter was. When he walked into the hospital room, she gave a weary smile and I left the two of them alone.

She left with him the following day, promising to call when she got to San Antonio. Following through that evening, but sounding tentative herself, as if someone was listening in and she was unable to talk freely.

I told her to take her time healing. That I’d check to make sure the kids at Hale were okay. That I was there for her whenever she needed me. Working at making it sound convincing- putting a little therapist in my voice.

She said, “That means a lot to me, Alex. I know the kids are going to be okay. The person they’re using for substitute principal is really good. I went to school with him- he’ll do a good job.”

“I’m glad.”

“Can he call you? For advice?”

“Of course.”

“Thanks. You’re so terrific.”

“My head is swelling swelling swelling.”

“I mean it- you are. By the way, Carla has your gift- we got a gift for you. Last week. It’s a set of Mark Twain. The complete works. I know you like books. I hope you like Twain.”

“I love Twain.”

“It’s an old leather set, really pretty. I found it for you myself, in an antiques store. Wish I could be there to give it to you. But Carla will send it to you. Unless you’re at the school. Then you can pick it up. In my office. On the desk.”

“I’ll go by. Thanks.”

Pause.

“Alex, I know this is nervy, but do you think you could possibly come on out here, spend some time with me? Not just yet, but maybe a little later?”

“Sounds good to me.”

“Great! I’ll take you around. Show you a good time. I promise. You can have grits for the second time. As soon as things settle down.”

“Look forward to it. Remember the Alamo.”

“Remember me.”

Later that day Robin came by, with deli sandwiches and jug wine, a beautiful smile and a soft quick kiss on the lips.

We sat facing each other at the ash burl trestle table she’d hand-carved years ago.

First time in a long time we’d been in the same room. If we’d scheduled it, I’d have spent hours dreading it. But it ended up nice. Nothing physical, nothing covert or calculated or stiff. No excavation of old wounds, debridement of damaged flesh. It wasn’t denial. There just didn’t seem to be any scars either of us could see or feel. Or maybe it was the wine.

We sat talking and eating and drinking, discussing the piss-poor state of the world, occupational hazards, occupational joys. Trading bad jokes. The space between us smooth, soft. Baby-smooth. As if we’d birthed something healthy.

I started to believe friendship was possible.

When she left, my loneliness was tempered by the pleasant confusion of hope. And when Milo came by to pick me up, I was in an amazingly good mood.