7. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

F or the most part, Forrest had succeeded at his Wednesday night resolution. The rest of the week had gone fairly smoothly. Yes, Lucy had diverted eye contact a few times, and he had given a wide berth anytime their paths had crossed (it never hurt to maintain personal space). But by five o’clock on Friday, Forrest had nearly convinced himself that he’d overblown any changes he’d felt earlier in the week between himself and Lucy.

Now it was the weekend, and Forrest was driving down the road from Paducah to see his father in the small town of Mayfield. He wore a thick flannel shirt in brown and red plaid with an old, worn pair of jeans and work boots, ready for a morning of labor in the chilly fall air. When he called his dad earlier in the week to check on him, his dad mentioned that his yard was drowning in leaves. Lucy had been right about his father sounding tired. Forrest volunteered to drive down Saturday morning to rake and bag leaves. That evening, he and Porter would be watching the game, so Forrest was glad for physical, outdoor activity earlier in the day. Hopefully, it would burn off the nervous energy he had felt all week.

Forrest pulled into the driveway of the home in which he had grown up. The old two-story house was looking shabbier than usual. White paint chipped off the board and batten siding, and the dark navy trim only thinly disguised the rot around the windows. Although his store of good memories in this house was low, Forrest hated seeing the disrepair.

In the front yard, two large maple trees stood in the front, practically bare of leaves. The raking would keep him busy. Forrest wanted to get started soon, but first, he would check on his father.

As he unlocked the door with the same key he had used in high school, Forrest called through the house, "Dad, you up? It's Forrest."

"Hey son." His dad's voice, coming from the kitchen in the back, sounded like sandpaper. Forrest wondered if he had just awoken. Walking through the dark, paneled hallway to the kitchen, Forrest found his father unshaven and disheveled, his gray hair standing up on one side and pasted to his head on the other, and his yellowed hands shaking as he reached for the steaming mug in front of him. He looked desperately tired to Forrest.

When one's parent is an alcoholic, one becomes accustomed to seeing them out of sorts. This felt worse, somehow. Forrest's father had always been an alcoholic, but a functioning alcoholic. Today, he did not look as though he was functioning. Forrest promised himself he would call Gracie on the drive home.

"Hey, old man. How's it going?"

His father brightened a bit at seeing him. "Oh, I don't know, son. Your old man is tired today."

"I'm sorry to hear that. Have you seen a doctor recently?"

"Oh, no need. No need." The gruffness and faltering of his voice compelled Forrest to argue, but his father was not one to be persuaded on such points as pertained to his health. Forrest chose to remain silent. Maybe Gracie would know what to say.

"If you're sure?" Forrest could not keep the question from his voice.

"I am." His dad stared at him for a moment, and then smiled as he said, "And don't you go calling Gracie to get her all worried. I'm fine."

Forrest couldn't help but smile at his father's intuition.

"Have some coffee. I made it extra strong this morning."

"No, thanks. I stopped at the Coffee Bean on my way over."

"Oh, that milked-down junk isn't coffee."

"But it tastes good."

His father barked. Forrest was sure it was meant to be a laugh.

"How about I have a cup after I get the raking done?"

"That sounds fine. I'll have a bologna sandwich ready for your lunch."

Forrest steeled his stomach as it lurched at the word. There was no escape. He would be having bologna and tar-black coffee for lunch. "That'd be great, Dad."

Forrest headed to the garage where he collected the rake and a few bags. He went into the yard, and began working. Three hours passed with his mind blissfully empty of anything but the scraping of his rake and crunching of the leaves beneath his boots as he shoveled more into each bag. Finally, the yard was pristine (in great contrast to the house, the more cynical part of Forrest bemoaned), and he had hauled away several loads in his father's truck.

As he walked into the kitchen, his father was setting two plates onto the green Formica table. Each plate had the promised bologna sandwich with white bread, the kind that stuck to the roof of one's mouth. It had been years since Forrest had eaten such fare. The coffee shops and cafes Forrest frequented were all about artisan breads, ciabatta, and sourdough.

Next, his father set down two cups of coffee. Sure enough, it was pitch black. Forrest noticed his father’s hands shaking less as he placed the cups. He must have had a shot of whiskey with his morning cup to take off the edge. Forrest withheld judgment. He had learned at an early age that judging his father for alcoholism was a burden heavier than he cared to bear.

"Have a seat, son. Tell me how Lucy's doing?"

Of all the parts of Forrest's life upon which his father could inquire, he was unsurprised his father had chosen his secretary.

"She's wonderful. Although, you talk to her as much as me. You probably know more than I do." Hyperbolic? Yes, his father's weekly calls hardly equaled the hours he and Lucy spent within the close confines of their office. But, damn it, he didn't want to talk about Lucy O'Shields with his father right now.

"Yes, but she always talks about you, never herself." Of course she didn't. Lucy hardly noticed her own existence because she was always so busy keeping everyone else's in order. Forrest remained silent.

"She's a good girl, that Lucy. Never acts like she doesn't have time to talk to me. Always tells me what project you're currently working on. Of course, I don't know who the hell Walt Whitman is, but I appreciate she thinks I might."

"That does sound like Lucy."

"You don't suppose you and she might..."

"Not an option, Dad." Forrest's tone was unmistakable, and his father raised a palm in surrender.

"Whatever you say, son. I'd just like to see you settled, you know, like your sister."

"Marriage and family didn't work out so well for you, though, did it?"

Forrest saw his father flinch at the words. "I suppose you're right."

"Trust me, Dad. It's not for me." Forrest hoped his father heard the apology in his voice.

***

"Miriam, as a minister, could you please thank God on my behalf that it is Saturday night?"

As if to put a fine point on the request, the microwave beeped, signaling that the popcorn was ready.

Miriam was already sipping a glass of wine on Lucy’s sofa with Clark stretched across, his head lying on her lap, snoring. It was the one day of the week that she did not wear a clerical collar, and she looked relaxed in her seminary t-shirt and yoga pants. The hand that was not holding wine was mindlessly pulling at her individual curls, then releasing them as they sprang back into place. Lucy supposed if her unruly waves ever decided to become perfectly smooth curls, she would fiddle with them as well. Miriam said, "That good of a week, huh?"

Lucy carried the bowl of popcorn to the antique traveling trunk she used as a coffee table in front of her sofa. She picked up the wine Miriam had poured for her and sank into one of the robin's egg blue wingback chairs that sat across the trunk from the couch. Really, by the end of the week, things felt normal enough she almost wondered if she’d only imagined the events of Wednesday evening. Almost. She said, "It wasn't an awful week or anything. Just weird. And stressful."

"Tonight's movie has no start time. Do tell."

The two-word invitation to share elicited a string of words Lucy had not realized she was holding in. They spilled forth in rapid, clumsy sentences. "I had all the normal job stuff this week. Students crying. Legos on the floor..."

"Legos? In a college English Department?"

Lucy didn't seem to hear the question. She continued, "...books crashing..."

"That I can believe."

"...doctor’s appointments to remember. And then President Burke had to offer me that stupid job..."

"Oh, have we decided that's stupid?"

"I haven't a clue. And then Forrest picked the day after he broke up with Dr. Wray..."

"I assume you mean Dr. Bugs?"

"Yes, he picked that day to notice I never actually call him Forrest to his face. So now I'm trying to call him Forrest without being weird or anything..."

"It is his name."

"...and I had an editing meeting with him, and it was productive and all, but it was weird..."

"Weird?"

"...Yes. Weird. And then he walked me home because it was dark, and then he looked at me funny."

"Funny how?"

"I don't know. Just funny. But this thing happened when he looked at me. I felt a zing. A little zing. Like, an itty-bitty little zing."

"Itty-bitty? Did you just use the word itty-bitty outside of a nursery rhyme?"

"And then I spent the rest of the week in the office that I love and where I am damn good at my job..."

"Damn good."

"... but I felt awkward there, like our office space was tiny and I was Alice in Wonderland during that scene where she's huge. Do you know what scene I'm talking about? The one where's she so big?" Lucy's eye grew shockingly wide as she expressed how very big Alice was.

"Yes. Quite large. Proceed."

"Which is all so stupid. Because I am not that person. I'm not 21 and I'm not a school-girl and I don't blush when some guy makes eye contact with me."

There was a pause.

"So, yeah, it's been a long week."

"I'd say so," Miriam said, and then she took a rather large gulp of her wine. "I feel like you told me this lovely story because you would like to talk about it? Which leads me to the question, where do we start?"

"Not sure. That was a lot of sharing I just did." Lucy smiled sheepishly. Only Miriam was ever privy to stressed-out Lucy, and she had just been given a heavy dose.

"Okay," Miriam hesitated for a moment. "The new job possibility. Why is it, I believe the word you used was, stupid ?"

"Because there are a dozen practical reasons for accepting it and twice as many impractical reasons for declining. I don't know how to weigh those kinds of pros and cons. It is an impossible equation."

Miriam and Lucy discussed the various arguments that had been running through Lucy's head since Wednesday's lunch. Lucy knew the raise would be wonderful, and she feared turning down the possibility of this upward movement would close the door to future possibilities. At the same time, she was content in her current position. Happy even. On Sunday evenings, she didn't start dreading the coming of Monday morning or bemoan the weekend ending, or at least not usually. She supposed this weekend was the exception that proved the rule.

Miriam reached over for a handful of popcorn, earning a snort from the sleeping Clark. As she did so, she said, "So, like I said Wednesday, you have time to make this decision. It does sound like you've figured out what the 'but' was that you kept sensing after lunch that day. Simply put, you like your job. There are worse problems you could have."

"I know. I shouldn't complain."

"I wasn't meaning to guilt-trip you, Luce. It is okay to complain. This is a tough decision. Just give yourself some grace, okay?"

"That is not generally my way of being, but I'll try?" The implied question and the uncertainty of her expression communicated her doubt that she could go easy on herself in this instance. Miriam decided to move on.

"So, why is the name thing a big deal?"

"I've been asking myself that question for the last ten years. Saying Porter? Easy. Edith? No problem. Dr. Hubert? Irrelevant since his first name has basically been lost to posterity."

"Dr. Hubert is probably the name on his birth certificate."

Lucy laughed at the joke, grateful for Miriam's wit chipping away at her anxiety. Or was it the wine? It was both, Lucy thought. Definitely both. She continued, "But there is something about Forrest. Maybe it is because my first encounters with him were all fogged up with me being crush-y. Is that a word?"

"If it isn't, it should be. Continue."

"Yes, so I wonder if I've used Dr. Graham all of these years to keep the wall up that originally made my feelings so inconsequential. Maybe, it was just a misguided attempt to protect a vulnerable 21-year-old who knew she had an impossible crush."

Miriam nodded her head slightly, but her face held a hint of skepticism. "That seems possible. Even likely. That is probably exactly why you kept saying Dr. Graham those first few years. But once you had moved past the schoolgirl crush phase, why did the formality linger?"

"Habit?"

"Perhaps. And now, that leads us to our final point of discussion. I for one enjoy a good zing. So what do you think happened there?"

Lucy's voice took on an air of certainty she didn't feel but wished to convey. "Likely, it was his dimples. Occam's Razor, right?"

"Okay," Miriam sigh was long-suffering as she said, "but being that I have never, ever been one to stop at the simple answer..."

"Oh dear, no. Why do I come to you with my problems?"

Miriam chose to ignore this question. "Let me pose a possibility other than dimples. Not to say his aren't amazing. When I was in his class, I never wrote a comma in my notes without thinking of them."

Lucy laid a palm over her heart in solidarity. "So say we all."

"But. But what if you did get over the school-girl crush only to develop something more substantial and mature a few years later?"

This thought had already crossed Lucy’s mind, but she wasn’t prepared to admit it in front of a witness. So, she guffawed in a decidedly unladylike manner that would have mortified her mother. "That's ridiculous, Miriam. We have been average, run-of-the-mill friends and work-colleagues for years."

"Yeah, Luce, it's completely normal to spend the weekend reading..." Miriam turned her torso to grab a thousand-plus page book that she held up as she said, " Walt Whitman: The Civil War Nurse and Master of Romantic Era American Poetry so that you can chat with your boss over your lunch hour."

Knowing Miriam had made a point that was hard to argue, Lucy tried to justify the door-stop-sized book waving in front of her: "I’m interested in Whitman. Always have been. I love leaves, and I love grass, Miriam."

"And one other point."

Lucy steeled herself, knowing Miriam rarely made a point that wasn't spot-on.

"Why do you think you have hardly dated at all over the past ten years?"

"Oh, I don't know. Maybe it's that I'm always standing next to someone in a clerical collar."

"Touché."

"And I have had remarkably bad luck the few times I have dipped my toe in the dating pool."

"The professional accordion player was..." Miriam searched for a word, but when nothing came, she said, "well, he was something."

"How about the one who got in a fight with the waiter over the done-ness of his steak?"

"I concede that you have had some legitimately bad luck. But all I'm saying is maybe you haven't tried too hard for the same reason you aren't jumping on that new job. Maybe you're content with something, or should I say someone, who is already in your life."

Lucy had no comeback, no little joke to deflect or denial to insist upon. Miriam's hypothesis was solid.

"You're pretty quiet over there. Did I hit too close to the target?"

"Well, you are Mother Miriam."

Miriam grinned as she said, "Speaking of which, if you think it is hard to get a date sitting next to someone in the collar, try being the one wearing it."

"I'd rather stare at Hugh Grant."

"Amen, sister." Miriam picked up the remote and pushed play.

***

To walk to Porter's house from Forrest's apartment, Forrest came up to the house from the back. This meant walking by Lucy's garage apartment. She had deep-purple mums sitting next to her door at the top of the stairs. Next to her vehicle was another small sedan. Forrest wondered who it might belong to. And then he told himself that it did not concern him. And then he thought of how her hair always managed to escape confinement and frame her face in a mess of waves. And then he said a thank you in his head to college football and the distraction it provided.

As he rounded the corner, Forrest saw his friend sitting in a rocking chair on his fern-lined front porch, rocking Anna while watching Luke and Billy play a violent game of tag around the azalea bushes.

Once he was within hearing distance, Forrest called out, "Hello, Porter." Billy's eyes immediately darted to Forrest, and he started running as fast as he could directly towards him. Once he was a few feet away, Forrest planted his feet firmly, preparing to take a hefty blow. However, he still wasn't prepared for the gut punch he received as Billy yelled, "You’re it," and ran away. Thankfully, Luke, still young enough to not entirely understand the game of tag, desperately wanted to be "it." So with a short jog off the sidewalk and a quick tickle, he was able to tag the giggling boy and head to the porch.

"And that is how Finches say, 'Welcome to our home.'" Porter's joke did nothing to disguise his pride.

"Billy has a pretty good arm on him. Took my breath for a moment."

"Yes. He got it from his mother."

"Obviously."

Forrest took the rocking chair across from Porter. Porter said, "So, how has your day been?"

"Pretty good. I'm actually a bit sore. I spent all morning raking leaves for my dad."

"Oh, yeah. How’s he doing?"

"I don't know, Porter. He seemed old, really old today. Of course, he is old. But it was different today."

"I’m sorry. Nothing quite prepares you for how hard it is to watch your own parent age."

They sat in silence, allowing Forrest's worry some space. Although Porter was usually jovial and light-hearted, he was also good at being present for the hard moments. It was one of the many aspects of Porter's friendship that Forrest had come to value over the years. Finally, Forrest said, "Well, when does all the junk food arrive?"

Porter looked at his wrist watch, "Any minute now. Charlotte offered to run and pick it up. She said I deserved delivery after taking care of the kids on my own last week."

"She's been on the road a lot lately, huh?"

"This is how it is every election season. It's prime-time for journalists. She'll be gone some this coming week, as well."

"Does that mean what I think it means?"

"It does if you're thinking the kids will be at the basketball game on Thursday."

Forrest grinned. "I'll get the office betting pool going on whether Billy or Luke will be the first to run onto the court."

The entire office took great enjoyment in how active and clever and downright mischievous Porter's kids were. Because of how much time Charlotte was out of town, the kids were frequently in Hart Building, wreaking havoc. Consequently, they had become the English Department's own mascots.

Porter said, "My money is on Anna. She started to crawl this week."

"That seems too soon." Time had never moved so quickly to Forrest as it had since Porter and Charlotte started a family. Counting time through the lens of how much Billy had grown or Luke was talking or Anna had changed made it seem infinitely faster.

Forrest said, "This whole year is flying by. I can't believe basketball games are starting up."

"Yes, and Lucy strategically does an early-season game so more people will notice we're there. We should change her title to PR director."

"Always making sure we're not forgotten so our funding isn't forgotten."

"Yes, I'm afraid us old, dusty professors forget to think of such things."

Just as the words came out of Porter's mouth, Charlotte drove up with the food. Everyone went into the house to eat and watch the game in the family room that was connected to the kitchen. The boys chased each other around the island, while Porter and Charlotte took turns rescuing Anna from various poor choices.

Stating the obvious, Forrest said, "She's a climber, I see."

Charlotte picked Anna up to point her in the opposite direction from where she had been heading. Her crawling motions never even paused as she was lifted. Charlotte said, "Yes. And do you know how many bookshelves are in the home of an English professor and journalist?"

Although it was counter-intuitive, Forrest never felt more relaxed than he did on the evenings he spent in Porter's house watching games or movies with the closed captions on because no one could hear over the children's racket. At 38, he doubted family life was in his future, but he was content to be Uncle Forrest to Porter's children.

After the game ended, Charlotte and Porter put the kids to bed while Forrest cleaned up the food and dishes from their, in Porter's words, "junk food extravaganza." A half-hour later, Porter came down.

"Well, that is two boys, a baby, and one wife asleep. Poor Charlotte is exhausted from all of the traveling. Thanks for cleaning up, man."

"No problem. Thanks for having me."

"Of course. You know you're always welcome." Porter grabbed a beer and sat down on one of the stools at the kitchen island. Forrest was leaning against the opposite cabinets, finishing the Sun Drop he had opened earlier in the evening. Porter said, "So, Forrest, when I was jogging the other night, I couldn't help but notice you were standing awfully close to Lucy. And she didn't seem to mind. Would you like to talk about that?"

Forrest was momentarily shocked by the question, but he recovered quickly enough. “Just a trick of the lighting, Porter.”

Porter swallowed a gulp of beer and - with no fanfare - said, “Bullshit.”

“I’m serious, Porter. I can see how it might have looked like something. In my recently-broken-up, addled mind, I was even tricked for a moment. But upon further reflection, I can see clearly that it was nothing. The rest of the week, we were fine.”

“Bullshit.” Porter was being quite the conversationalist this evening.

Forrest’s hands ran roughly through his hair. “What do you want from me, Porter? What am I supposed to say?”

Porter held the beer bottle tightly with both hands. “I want you to be honest with yourself, Forrest. What made you look at Lucy the way you looked at Lucy? It may have been a while since I was single, and seeing as how I almost always have spit-up somewhere on my person, I’m probably not the first person who comes to mind when you think of romance. But I’m not blind. I know what I saw. So I ask again, what made you look at Lucy that way?”

Forrest rested his elbows on the counter and his forehead on the palms of his hands. Was Porter right? Was Forrest deluding himself? The possibility was too unsettling, so Forrest persisted, "I don't know. Probably just my break-up. You know how weird a break-up can make you act."

"But a break-up with Dr. Bugs? You haven't seemed too bothered by it. Considering I've never had a conversation with her that didn't revolve around entomology, can't say I'm surprised."

"She wasn't that bad."

"Not bad. Just boring. At least to people like us. I'm sure she's a real kick at the Environmental Sciences Department Christmas party."

Forrest couldn't help but laugh as he said, "You're right. I wasn't that upset. It just brought up some weird thoughts about Lucy that caught me off guard. That's all. But now, I've worked through it. I have it under control. And you don't need to worry about her or me. We'll be fine."

Porter's head tilted slightly, an eyebrow cocking. "Forrest, I'm not worried. No wait. Let me reword that. I'm not worried about you and Lucy becoming something more. You two are fantastic together. It's part of what makes our office so wonderful. What I'm worried about is this control you speak of. You can’t control raw attraction, Forrest. And trying to isn’t going to end up in anyone being happier. I worry about you denying yourself - and Lucy - a chance at something more. Especially if there is something there. A spark, or whatever you want to call it."

Forrest picked up a dish from the drying rack and rubbed it with his towel. He didn't know where the dish went, so he set it down and threw the towel onto the counter. "Porter, it just wouldn't be right. That isn’t the nature of our relationship." Forrest spoke with a conviction he did not feel, and odds were, Porter could tell.

Porter said, "She's not your student anymore. You know that, right? We are well beyond ethical concerns."

"It's not that." Forrest didn't enlighten Porter on what was in fact the obstacle. He didn't know himself. He just knew Lucy deserved better, and that he wasn’t the right person for her.

"Okay." Porter held his palms up. "I've said my piece, and I'll drop it. If you're sure, I trust you."

"Thank you."

"So, how about that fourth quarter?"

Yes, football. Forrest was grateful for the subject change. The fact that Porter had seen something between Forrest and Lucy made it much more difficult to pretend there was nothing there. But even with the outsider perspective, there was little clarity in Forrest's thoughts of Lucy. What he did know, though, was that the boundaries he had set were more important than ever. Especially, if he was doomed to feeling attraction to Lucy O’Shields.