A Different Blue

Chapter Fifteen





I found a table and two chairs, a loveseat with a matching recliner, and a bed frame that we brought up from the basement. Wilson insisted on having the sofa and recliner steam cleaned. He made up some excuse about Mrs. Darwin having already scheduled someone to come for some of her things, but Mrs. Darwin looked completey clueless when I mentioned it to her the day the steam cleaner arrived. Wilson also miraculously produced a brand new, double-sized mattress and box springs that he said had also been in the basement, though I hadn't seen them.

I presented him with a check for six hundred dollars the next day and told him I was on to him and to knock off the extras because I couldn't afford them, and I wasn't taking freebies. I loaded up my tools, discontinued my lease of the storage space, and gathered up my few belongings from Cheryl's. It was probably the easiest moving day in the history of moving days. Cheryl was a little surprised but not especially emotional. She seemed a little worried that she might not be able to pay all the bills that month but was considering possible roomates by the time I left. I wondered if I would see her again. I wrote down my new address and told her she had my number if she needed to reach me. She nodded, replying, “You too.” And that was all.

There was a huge dumpster at the edge of the complex, not far from where my truck was parked. I looked down at the garbage sacks filled with my clothes, and then back at the dumpster. Soon I wouldn't fit into most of my things, and they all stunk like Cheryl's apartment. I didn't want to bring them into my new place. I wanted to fling them high and wide, letting them land in a smelly heap on top of all the other trash. Tiffa had called me a few days before and told me she'd sold three more of my pieces. Together the pieces had gone for a thousand bucks. I could afford new clothes if I was thrifty. Tiffa said she would bring the check by Wilson's place when I was settled. She seemed to have all the details on my big move, which both surprised and pleased me. I liked that I warranted mention in Wilson's conversations.

I dug my boots and my shoes out of the bags, as well as a few other things I didn't want to part with, and piled them on the passenger seat. I couldn't replace everything. Then with great relish, I threw every last piece of clothing I owned away.





The very best thing about my apartment was the vent in the ceiling. If I stood beneath it, I could hear Wilson playing his cello. I don't know why the sound traveled the way it did, but once I discovered it, I placed the sagging recliner beneath the vent in the center of my tiny living room, and I would sit there in the dark each night, rocking and listening as Wilson's music whispered through the metal slats above me and wrapped me in sweetness. He would have laughed to see me there, my face upturned, a smile on my lips, as he made the strings sing without words. He played one particular melody every night, and I would wait for it, sighing with satisfaction when the familiar tune found its way to me. I didn't know the name. I had never heard it before, but every time he played it I felt like I had finally come home.

The weeks following my move were the happiest I had ever spent. I hit the thrift shops and the garage sales to furnish my new home and fill my new closet, and my wardrobe underwent a drastic transformation. Gone were the skin tights jeans and low cut tops. Gone were the short shorts and boob tubes. I found I liked color – lots of it – and dresses were cooler in Nevada than even shorts, so the majority of my purchases were sundresses in happy shades and cool fabrics, with the added bonus that there was room for my expanding midsection.

My home became my haven, a heaven, and I pinched myself everytime I returned. Even the fear of what the future would bring did not dim my pleasure in my new place. If I saw something a a garage sale that I could afford and it made me happy, I bought it. The result was a bright yellow vase with a chip in it, and an apple green throw on my couch, surrounded by red and yellow throw cushions Mrs Darwin didn't want anymore. Mismatched dishes in bright colors and throw rugs to match filled the cupboards and covered the floors.

I sanded down the table and chairs from the basement and painted them barn red. Then I placed three glass canisters with wooden stoppers in the center and filled one with red cinnamon bears, one with skittles, and one with chocolate kisses. And and no one ate them but me. I found a cuckoo clock with a bluebird that chirped on the hour and bronze Julius Caesar bookends for five dollars at a garage sale. The bookends made me laugh and think of Wilson, so I bought them. I built myself a book shelf – working with wood has its more practical advantages – painted it apple green to match my throw, and filled it with every book I owned and every book Jimmy had ever owned. My two Caesars guarded them seriously, keeping them aligned like obedient soldiers. My wooden snake and a carving Jimmy and I had done together sat atop it, along with the housewarming gift Wilson had surprised me with.

I had come home after my first big day of shopping to find a little package outside my door. It had a note attached and BLUE written across the envelope in bold letters. I unlocked the door and dumped my bags in the entryway, unable to contain my curiousity.

I opened the package first – I couldn't help myself. The card could wait. Inside was a little porcelain blackbird with bright blue eyes. It was dainty and well-formed, with fine detailing and sooty feathers. Standing in the palm of my hand, it was maybe four inches tall from head to foot. I placed it carefully on my countertop and tore open the card bearing my name.



Blue,

You never finished your story. The blackbird needed a safe place to land. I hope she's found it. Congratulations on your new nest.



Wilson



My personal history, the one I had tried and failed miserably to write, was included with the note. I read it once more, noting the way I'd left it, with the blackbird hurtling toward the earth, unable to right herself.



Once upon a time there was a little blackbird who was pushed from the nest, unwanted. Discarded. Then a Hawk found her and swooped her up and carried her away, giving her a home in his nest, teaching her to fly. But one day the Hawk didn't come home, and the bird was alone again, unwanted.

She wanted to fly away. But as she rose to the edge of the nest and looked out across the sky, she noticed how small her wings were, how weak. The sky was so big. Somewhere else was so far away. She felt trapped. She could fly away, but where would she go?

She was afraid because she knew she wasn't a hawk. And she wasn't a swan, a beautiful bird. She wasn't an eagle, worthy of awe. She was just a little blackbird.

She cowered in the nest hiding her head beneath her wings, wishing for rescue. But none came. The little blackbird knew she might be weak, and she might be small, but she had no choice. She had to try. She would fly away and never look back. With a deep breath, she spread her wings and pushed herself off into the wide blue sky. For a minute she flew, steady and soaring, but then she looked down. The ground below rose rapidly to meet her as she panicked and cartwheeled toward the earth.



I dug into my purse and found a pen. Sitting down at the table, I added a few more lines.



At the last minute, the bird looked upward, fixing her sights on the horizon. As she raised her head and straightened her wings, she began to fly instead of fall, the wind beneath her lifting her back into the sky.



It was silly and cheesy. But I felt better for having written it. It wasn't an ending, exactly, but maybe it was a new beginning. Then I folded up Wilson's letter and my story and tucked them into a copy of Dante's Inferno that I knew I would never read but that would forever make me think of harpies and history, heartache and holding on.

In the weeks that followed, I was suspended in a happy timelessness. My baby's birth was still far enough in the future that I could push thoughts of motherhood away, even as I began regular visits to the doctor, having made no real decision beyond acceptance. I had accepted that I would not be ending my pregnancy. I would be giving birth. I owned that responsibility. I claimed it. I was living on my own, working in the cafe, and selling my carvings. And I was happy. Beyond that, I just didn't know.





When Tiffa sold four more of my sculptures, I stopped placing them at the cafe, simply because I couldn't meet the demands of both and Tiffa could sell them for so much more. I apologized to Beverly, explaining my dilemma.

“That is wonderful, Blue!” she said firmly, resting her hand on my arm. “You have nothing to be sorry for! Don't apologize for success! Are you crazy? I might have to smack you up side the head, girl!” She squeezed me tightly and then pulled me into her office, shutting the door behind us.

“I found a roll of film when I was cleaning out some old filing cabinets the other day. I had it developed. I have something for you.” She pulled an 8 x 10 frame from a plastic Walmart sack and handed it to me. “I thought you would like this.”

I stared down at a picture of Jimmy and me, our eyes squinting against the sun, the cafe in the backdrop, Icas at our feet. I drank it in, speechless.

“I had just purchased a new camera and was taking shots of all my regulars that day. There were pictures of Dooby and Wayne having their morning coffee, same as they've done for the past thirty years. Barb and Shelly were waitressing for me back then, too. I have a cute one of them in their aprons keeping Joey company in the kitchen. Barb's gotten fat. So have I, for that matter.” Bev patted her stomach ruefully. “I forgot that she used to have a pretty cute little figure. I haven't shown her the pictures. Thought it might depress her. I don't know why this roll didn't get developed, but you know me, always moving a mile a minute.”

Beverly tapped the glass, pointing at an unsmiling Jimmy. “He turned up that day, out of the blue, which was the way it always was with Jimmy. I got lucky, I guess. I ordered him to pose for a picture. You were so cute, smiling and thrilled to get your picture taken. I remember thinking what an old codger Jimmy was. He wasn't thrilled about the picture at all, even though he didn't say much. He just made me promise that I wouldn't display it in the cafe. At least he put his arm around you. It's easy to see that you belonged together – just two funny peas in a pod, you and your daddy, huh?” Her words were like a slap, especially because they were so heartfelt.

“You think so?” I whispered around the memories that clogged my throat. “You think we belonged together, Bev?”

“No question about it, honey,” Bev declared, nodding her head as she spoke. I managed to smile, hugging the picture to my chest. I'd never shared the fact that Jimmy wasn't my father with Beverly. In fact, the only person who knew, besides Cheryl, was Wilson. The realization struck me. I'd told Wilson things I had never told another soul.

Bev cleared her throat and straightened her blouse. I could tell she wanted to say something more, and I waited, almost certain that she had noticed the changes in my figure.

“You're changing, Blue.” Her words echoed my thoughts almost verbatim, and I held the picture tighter, mentally shielding myself from the discomfort of the topic.

“You've softened up some, and it looks good on you. And I'm not talking about the weight you've put on.” She eyed me pointedly, pausing for effect, letting me know she was on to me. “I'm talking about your language and your appearance and your taste in men. I'm talking about that cute Sean Connery you're friendly with. I hope you keep him around. And I hope to hell you've told him about the baby, 'cause I'm guessing it ain't his.”

“It's not. We're not. I mean . . . we're not in a relationship like that,” I stammered. “But yes, he knows. He's been a good friend.” But Bev was more right than I wanted to admit. Something was happening to me, and it had everything to do with Darcy Wilson.

“That's good then.” Bev nodded to herself and straightened some papers on her desk. “I'm your friend too, Blue. I've been where you are, you know. I was even younger than you are now. I made it through. You will too.”

“Thank you. Bev. For the picture, and . . . everything else.” I turned to go, but she stopped me with a question.

“Are you keeping the baby, Blue?”

“Did you keep yours?” I asked, not willing to answer her.

“Yes . . . I did. I married the baby's father, had my son, and got divorced a year later. I raised my boy on my own, and it was hard. I'm not gonna lie.”

“Did you ever regret it?”

“Regret keeping my son? No. But getting pregnant? Getting married? Sure. But there's no way to avoid regret. Don't let anybody tell you different. Regret is just life's aftertaste. No matter what you choose, you're gonna wonder if you shoulda done things different. I didn't necessarily choose wrong. I just chose. And I lived with my choice, aftertaste and all. I like to think I gave my boy the best life I could, even if I wasn't perfect.” Bev shrugged and met my eyes steadily.

“Knowing you, I'm sure that's true, Bev,” I said sincerely.

“I hope so, Blue.”