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------- ------- ------- ------- ------- ------- Frank inspected his bush beans for slugs every morning; there were always a few. No garden without slugs! He picked them off the plants carefully, there ought to be an industrial use. The chipmunks had eaten his tomatoes last year, one bite out of each, he’d been more exasperated than angry. Chipmunks were cute. Slugs weren’t. He’d put up a chipmunk fence, and it seemed to be working. -------He glanced at the 18 foot catboat that filled one side of his garage, he’d been building it for over two years. It was beautiful and long since finished, but he couldn’t stop working on it. He’d thought at first he was afraid, maybe too old to test himself against the wind and the waves. But then he realized that if he stopped, he’d need another project. ------- Eggs and sausage for breakfast, his favorite meal, but only once a week. He made an effort to stay in shape. He checked the calendar: two hours to work on the novel, a committee meeting at ten, then lunch with Harry. They’d talk until two. After that...nothing. He’d go out for supper. ------- ------- There were tables for two at The Boathouse and others eating alone and reading. He was used to it now and no longer felt guilty. It was hard to see exactly what the guilt had been about. Not enriching someone else’s life? That seemed presumptuous. ------- It was a nice evening. After supper he walked a mile down Commercial Street and back. Provincetown was different after dark, edgier and more entertaining. He sat on a bench in front of Town Hall and watched the parade. He’d been surprised at first that no one hit on him. Apparently he sent out the wrong vibes. A lover of Mozart and Dylan Thomas, student of religion, wordsmith, amateur shipwright, fair watercolorist. -------It was too early to go home so he went to a bar, something he rarely did. He nursed a beer, then a second one. That would be his last. He had a half hour drive. He hadn’t noticed the bandstand until the footlights went on. A pianist appeared, a guitar player, and Neil Albers, an androgynous creature dressed in silver. ------- Frank was about to leave when Neil began to sing, and he sat down again. She had a voice like a mountain brook. It had to be a she. The tune was familiar, but the words were wildly original, a poet had written them, no slapdash songwriter. ------- Frank had dated a few times in the past two years. Nice women if you ticked them off on a checklist, but no more than that. The brain was highly adaptable, it could find pathways around dead cells, but he’d about concluded that re-lighting the fire was beyond him. A lounge singer half his age and of uncertain sexuality was not a good idea. He was about to leave again when Neil Albers, in all her silvery splendor, drifted into the chair across from his. ------- “Buy me a drink, sailor? Hey, I’m kidding,” she said, in response to his stunned look. She held up a bottle of Sam Adams. ------- “I ...I really enjoyed your singing,” Frank was finally able to say. “The music was from Sesame Street?” ------- “You got it,” Neil said. “You must have kids.” ------- “Two,” Frank said. “They’re grown now, and I have a couple of grandchildren.” ------- “You like your grandkids?” ------- “I just wish I could see them more often. My boys live in Florida and California, couldn’t be much farther away. Did...you write the lyrics?” Of course she had. ------- “Uh huh,” Neil said. “So you know that much about me. ‘Neil’s a stage name. I’m a woman, obviously, and mostly straight. All I know about you is that you’re a good-looking widower and you aren’t drunk. Not a bad start. What’s your name?” ------- “Frank Clarkson. How do you know I’m a widower?” ------- “Oh, Frank. Give me a break. You look like a school principal at a biker’s picnic.” ------- “I was a school principal,” Frank said. He felt a twinge of suspicion, but he dismissed it. There was no way she could have known who he was. “I didn’t realize it showed. I’ve just been thinking that I like classical music and books and stuff. I’m pretty much a private person.” ------- “Take my word for it, Frank. You don’t ever want to be a public person. It was a lucky guess about your being a principal. You just look like someone’s father. Just what I need.” ------- “Well, I guess I’d qualify,” Frank said with a smile. “I’m sixty seven. You must be...what, in your thirties?” He’d been looking at her cautiously. She had a boy’s haircut but a girl’s pretty face with a few wrinkles around her eyes and mouth. She was tall and slim and spoke with same clear voice he’d heard from the stage. What could she want from someone like him? ------- “I’m thirty eight. And not for me, Frank, for my kids. Josh is eight, Becca’s ten. They’re the ones who need a father. Or a grandfather. And, believe me, good ones don’t grow on trees. The job doesn’t pay a dime, but there are perks.” ------- “Perks?” ------- “The kids. They’re terrific, just like your grandchildren, only here on the Cape. And there’s me. You find me attractive, don’t you?” ------- Frank nodded. -------“You usually so talkative? It’s okay, I can talk for both of us, but you’re welcome to say something here.” ------- “I talk,” Frank said. “Sometimes. I just don’t know what to say.” ------- “I have to go on again now,” Neil said. “After that I go home to my kids. Meet me tomorrow at the Blue Heron Gallery, at noon. I work there. You can buy me a sandwich, and I’ll tell you about myself. We’ll see how it goes.” ------- “Sure,” Frank said. “Lunch tomorrow. The Blue Heron.” ------- Neil squeezed his shoulder and left. He sat through her next set and drove home in a daze. As he pulled into his garage he saw the catboat. It was beautiful, and he was ready to sail. ------- 18 August 2009 ------- |
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