3. Clarry

CLARRY

For a few precious moments I was back in the jungle with my dream lover Captain Raven, having just escaped the rocket assault on Zorkin's fortress. Of course, I was well aware that River had never made it as far up the ranks in the real-life Marines, and of course I myself had never once entertained the idea of joining the armed forces as Private Pinkerton. But where was the harm in a little role-playing if it all happened behind the curtains of my imagination.

The dream seemed to pick up where it had left off before Bea woke me up with her snapping fingers.

Captain Raven and I were about to kiss.

I reached for his face, my hands cupping his powerful jawline as he said, "Kiss me, Private Pinkerton. That's an order."

"Yes sir," I whispered back, pulling his face down to mine. "But please, call me Clarry. When we're this close, I'm no longer Private Pinkerton. I'm Clarry. I'll always be your Clarry."

I pursed my lips.

I closed my eyes.

I heard his voice, sweet and sultry, saying my name over and over again. "Clarry. Clarry. "

Our lips were so close I could almost taste him. "Yes, my love?"

"Clarry, can you hear me?"

"Yes, my love."

"Clarry, I think you need to wake up."

"I couldn't be more awake than I am right now. I couldn't feel more alive."

But suddenly, as though registering the words I'd just spoken, my conscious mind gave my unconscious mind a little elbow nudge. Desire and yearning flipped into panic and utter embarrassment as I reeled myself out of the dream like a trout on a fishing line, my eyes opening wide as I realized where I was…

What I had just said…

And who I had just said it to!

"Oh jelly beans! River!" I blurted, my face a mere inch away from his. "What's going on?"

"Well, let's see," he replied calmly. "First you tried to kill me with a jar of Gummy Bears… then you fainted… and then I'm pretty sure you were about to kiss me."

"I what!? Oh fudge!" I looked around to find I was lying on the floor of my ice cream workshop, my head in River's lap. Mortified, I tried to pull away from him, at first squirming like a turtle on its back before I managed to roll gracelessly across the floor and drag myself to my feet. Perhaps I had moved to fast, because as soon as I was up my head started spinning again.

River jumped to his feet, quickly steadying me. "Hey, Clarry. Slow down. Take it easy. You fainted. You need to calm down and take a seat." He grabbed a nearby chair and eased me down into it. "Just breathe. Take a few long, slow breaths for me."

I tried to calm down.

He placed his large, strong hand on my shoulder, giving me a squeeze to let me know that he was there for me, that I would be safe under his watch. But his touch simply made my head swirl faster than an ice cream mixer. "Is it just me or is the whole room spinning?"

"It's just you." He squatted in front of me, this time placing his other hand on my knee. He held me firmly in his grip. "Deep breaths. I've got you."

My mind slipped back in time. I remembered the day in junior high when Roxanne Maxwell pushed me off my bike and called me "Piggy Pinkerton." I grazed my knee so bad I bawled. River erupted at her and called her a no-good bully, before pulling off his T-shirt and cleaning my bleeding, gravel-dirty knee with it, saying to me, "I've got you."

Yes, he had me then, too.

I remembered the time I slept over at his place for his twelfth birthday. I was so excited that I ate way too much cake and threw up all night.

He had me then, too.

I remembered the time I twisted my ankle on the rocks under the old mill, and River carried me in his arms all the way to Doc Morgan's.

Yeah, he had me then, too.

I felt like River had spent most of his life telling me, "I've got you."

The thought of it calmed my racing heart.

Slowly the room stopped spinning.

Slowly I began to breathe normally again, even with one of his hands on my shoulder and the other on my knee. Although his touch had almost caused me to have a coronary, at the same time, I never wanted him to let go.

When he finally did take his hands away, he did it with a reassuring smile. "You okay? Jesus, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to scare you like that."

"Scare me? I darn nearly peed my pants. What the fudge are you doing here? "

He laughed through that big handsome grin of his. "I came to see you, you doofus. Although I was expecting a friendlier hello than being attacked with a jar of Gummy Bears."

"You scared the willikers out of me! You're not supposed to sneak up on people like that."

He shrugged an apology. "Sorry. Although in my defense, I did spend six years in the Marines as a sharpshooter. I guess sneaking up on people is second nature now."

"How did you even get in here?"

River held up his key. "You gave me this years ago, remember? So I could come visit anytime and let myself in, you know, in case you were elbow deep in peanut brittle."

I totally remembered. How could I forget? It was a couple of years before he joined the Marines. We were seventeen or so, and I wanted him to be able to walk into my world anytime he wanted, almost like we were a married couple, and he would stroll in and call, "Hi Honey, I'm home," with a box of chocolates in one hand and a bouquet of flowers in the other.

At that moment, I spotted something pink out of the corner of my eye.

I looked and saw—"Flowers. You brought me flowers?"

"Oh shoot, I forgot all about those." River scooped down and picked them up, then awkwardly held the bouquet out for me to take. "I hope it doesn't seem weird or anything. Me bringing you flowers and all. I just thought it would be a nice gesture."

My heart soared. "They're beautiful."

"It's nothing romantic or anything. I mean, I know you know it's not meant to be romantic, right?"

My heart sank. "Um, yeah. Sure. Of course I know that."

I watched as a petal dropped from the bouquet and plunged to its death.

River shrugged. "Is pink too much? I should have gone for yellow. Maggie and Aunt Bea said you'd want pink, and of course I know it's your favorite color. But is it too much? "

"It's not too much at all. I can put them on the counter out front and they'll match the décor of the parlor perfectly."

"Great idea. I should get some water for them."

River knew to rummage around on a bottom shelf of the pantry where he found an old mason jar that would make a perfect vase. He filled it with water and placed the flowers in the jar. "Nice," he commented, admiring his handiwork even if his arrangement did look a little slapdash.

"Good job," I told him, quickly piecing my heart back together, telling myself to be grateful for the little pleasures. He had just bought me flowers after all, even if his intentions were… how did he put it…?

Nothing romantic or anything.

Yes, I picked the sharp splintery pieces of my heart off the floor, smiled and changed the subject. "So, I heard you got a job at Mike's. That's awesome."

"He's such a great guy. And the timing was perfect, what with Bud and Maggie quitting the mechanic shop to open up Bud's Blooms ."

"I didn't know you could fix cars."

"I tinkered with a few jeeps and trucks in the desert. I guess I know my way around an engine enough to get things up and running again. Speaking of which, I should probably head home and get ready for work. I start at ten. I just wanted to stop by and say hi."

"I'm glad you did."

He set the flowers down and began backing awkwardly away.

Then suddenly he stepped forward, as though he wanted to hug me.

My heart took flight again.

I opened my arms… but as I did so, River extended one hand for a handshake.

"Oh," I muttered self-consciously.

I moved my hand into a handshake position… just when he th ought I was going in for a hug, so he opened his arms wide to embrace me.

I ditched the handshake idea and went for a hug again.

He ditched the hug idea and went for a handshake.

It was embarrassing, it was confusing, and it had gone too far for either of us to pull out now. And so, in a bumbling half-hug, half-handshake maneuver, River and I clumsily gave each other a hug-shake.

When it was done, we both quickly stepped back from each other.

"Say, we should catch up properly sometime. Like, you know, a proper—"

"Yes. Absolutely," I cut him off. "I'd like that."

He smiled. "Okay, that'd be great. Maybe you might wanna swing by Mike's sometime and we can figure something out?" He said it like a question.

I answered it like a question. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." He agreed with his usual confidence.

"Sounds good," I said, trying to act as confident as him.

He gave a little wave, then turned and left the parlor.

From out back, I could see through to the front of the store. I watched as he passed by.

I watched as he glanced back over his shoulder.

My heart jumped at the thought that he might turn back and give me one last wave.

But he didn't.

I couldn't concentrate at all on my work.

I added macadamias to my Nutty Crunch Fudge Cluster when I knew all too well it should have been walnuts. I mixed caramel into my Choca-Mocha Marvel instead of coffee and chocolate. And the only disaster in my Raspberry Rocky Road Avalanche was the fact that I forgot to add any milk or cream at all, resulting in a gluggy sludge that poured out of the mixer like it was nobody's business.

"Oh, for cripes sake, Clarry! What's wrong with you?"

I'm not sure why I felt the need to ask myself that question. I knew all too well what was wrong. My heart was pining for River. I was worried about our botched attempt at a reunion earlier that day; that we hadn't come even close to connecting with each other the way we used to. I was terrified that our friendship, our bond, had grown frail and rusty in the years he'd been away. I was excited at the thought of catching up with him later that day at Mike's, hoping that maybe we could make up for this morning's awkwardness, and yet at the same time part of me was petrified to see him again, in case it only became more apparent that the spark between us was in fact gone.

"Oh, stop it!" I told myself. "You're overthinking things. Again."

I was right.

Dumping my mixing bowl in the sink, I decided I needed to do the only thing in the whole wide world that would calm my fretting mind—I needed to see a movie at the Ritz.

I closed up the parlor and hung a sign in the window that read, Gone Berry-Picking . Then, with a quart of Banana Buttermilk Mudslide and a quart of Hopscotch Hazelnut Heaven stashed in my little cooler bag, and a spoon tucked into the back pocket of my jeans, I headed for the old theater house in Mulligan's Mill.

Aside from the ice cream parlor, the Ritz was my temple of worship, the shrine of my dreams, a lighthouse in the dark. My grandparents introduced me to the movie theater before I even started school. Those were the golden years of the Ritz, when the plush velvet seats felt like a throne and the silver screen seemed to stretch as far as the horizon. We watched everything that played there, from Gramma's beloved musicals to Grampa's favorite westerns. For as long as anyone could remember, the Ritz had been owned by retired matinee idol Mavis Morningstar, who owned a collection of movie reels that rivaled that of the Academy of Motion Pictures. Dressed in one of her many ball gowns and dripping with diamonds, Mavis would introduce each movie from a small stage in front of the red curtains that concealed the screen, often regaling the audience with a personal anecdote about the film's eccentric director or an off-the-cuff remark about the leading man's secret love life.

She was a true entertainer.

A born performer.

The Mill's very own movie star.

But even movie stars grow old, just like the Ritz itself.

Over the years the silver screen lost its sheen as it began to tear and fray. Moths began to feast on the velvet seats. The floorboards creaked and some had rotted through altogether. By the time my grandparents died, the Ritz looked more like a derelict building from a city ghetto than the palace of moving pictures that it once was.

And yet, as the audience faded away, there was one lonely guy whose best friend had joined the Marines, and as such, he continued to live life vicariously through the heroes on the big screen.

Yes, good old Mavis kept the curtains opening and the reels turning, just for me.

Almost every day I'd turn up with my ice cream and buy a ticket from an immaculately adorned Mavis as she sat inside her little box office booth.

After purchasing my ticket, I'd meet Mavis again, this time at the theater foyer where she'd tear my ticket in two and hand me the stub .

Telling me to watch my step and mind the holes in the floor, she'd shine a torch toward the middle seat where I always sat, before making her way slowly down the rickety stairs to the front stage where she would recount a tale from yesteryear's Tinseltown as though she was performing to a full house. After that, the lights would dim, the curtains would part and the magic of the movies would fill my world with wonder, if only for an hour or so.

But that day as I walked up to the box office, I was surprised to see no sign of Mavis in the ticket booth.

At first my heart dropped. I didn't know how old Mavis was exactly—nobody did for sure—but it was fair to say that her curtains were ready to close at any moment. I was about to pull out my phone and dial Sheriff Garrett's number when I heard something inside the theater foyer.

Conversation.

People talking.

Was there somebody other than me here?

I stepped into the foyer, and there by the door to the auditorium was Mavis talking to an older gentleman.

No, not just talking… she was laughing with him.

No, not just laughing… she was flirting with him.

I gasped so audibly that the pair actually stopped their conversation and turned to see me.

"Clarence, darling," called Mavis. "Come and meet my gentleman friend."

Gentleman friend?

I fought back feelings of annoyance, trying not to listen to the voice in my head that asked, Who is this guy? How dare he? Mavis is my friend, the Ritz is my place, this is my temple of worship.

Warily I approached, eyeing Mavis's friend up and down. He was kinda bony, with a scruffy gray beard and a sorry excuse for a dinner jacket as though he was trying to dress to impress Mavis. His trousers were too short, he wasn't even wearing socks, and I couldn't help but notice the whiff of whacky tobacky on him, even from where I stood.

"Come, my darling boy," Mavis said, beckoning me to them and seeing my stride slow the closer I got. "Dwight won't bite. Will you Dwight?"

Instantly Dwight snapped at the air jokingly, although his over-the-top enthusiasm was completely undone when his false teeth flew out of his mouth and landed on the floor at my feet.

I thought Mavis was going to shriek in horror, as was I.

But instead, she and Dwight laughed even harder before he bent down and scooped up his dentures, wiping them on his jacket sleeve before slipping them back into his mouth.

I stared, horrified, as Mavis gently slapped his lapel in hysterics.

"Oh Dwight, you're such a card!"

"Anything to hear that angelic laugh, my Goddess of Happiness."

"Goddess of Happiness?" I heard myself ask incredulously, unable to stop myself.

Mavis nodded. "That was one of my very first movies. I played the title character, much to Louis B. Mayer's chagrin. He wanted Jean Harlow for the lead, but I put my foot down… right on top of his big toe. He walked with a limp for a week."

"And you walked the red carpet at the Oscars," added Dwight with doe eyes. "I remember reading about it in the papers. Unfortunately, it took almost a month to get them delivered to the mines in those days, so it was old news by the time it got to me."

"It's old news now," chuckled Mavis.

Dwight delicately took her by the hand and kissed the back of it as Mavis blushed. "My darling Goddess, you could never be old news. You could never be anything but timeless."

I stared at Dwight, then at Mavis, then back to Dwight. "I'm sorry. What's going on here?"

"Oh Clarence, forgive me. Let me formally introduce the two of you. Clarence Pinkerton, meet Dynamite Dwight. Dynamite Dwight, meet Clarence Pinkerton."

I blinked. "I'm sorry, did you say ‘Dynamite Dwight'?"

"Indeed, you heard right," said Dwight. He shook my hand and suddenly I felt like a cartoon character trying to use a jackhammer. "Pleasure to meet you, Clarence."

"Please, call me Clarry. And please, would you mind letting go of my hand?"

He hacked out a laugh and gave me one firm, final jackhammer jiggle before releasing me. "So, tell me, son. How do you know the beautiful Mavis Morningstar?"

It seemed like a trick question. My response was cautious. "She owns the Ritz."

Mavis backed me up. "Clarence has been coming here since he was knee high to a grasshopper. Back in the day, the auditorium was filled with filmgoers. Now it's just Clarence. He comes almost every day. Brings his own ice cream and all."

I realized my treats would start melting in my cooler bag soon. "Speaking of which, I should probably go in and get settled before the movie starts. What's playing today, Mavis?"

"Oh Clarence, I know you said you were feeling romantic and wanted to see Ghost or Pretty Woman today, but I asked Dwight if he had any special requests since it's his first visit to the Ritz."

Disappointment and concern battled it out in my head to see which should be the dominant emotion at that point. "So, what are we seeing?"

" Thirteen Bridges from Brussels to Berlin ," Dwight beamed.

"I've never heard of it."

"It's a classic," he told me in no uncertain terms. "One of the finest war movies ever made. Lots of bridges being blown up. Thirteen, in fact. I just love watching things blow up, don't you?"

"Not really. Is that why they call you Dynamite Dwight?"

"Oh hell no. I get that name from being great in the sack." Dwight bellowed with laughter again and winked at Mavis .

I stood back in case he launched his teeth again.

Mavis went rosy-faced and giggled like a schoolgirl. "Oh, stop it, you handsome devil, you. Ignore him, Clarence. Dwight got his name from working in the mines. He's obsessed with things that go off with a bang."

"Now who's being devilish?" he asked Mavis playfully.

I could almost feel the ice cream in my cooler bag begin to curdle. "I think I'll take my seat now." I suddenly realized—"Oh wait, I haven't bought a ticket yet."

Mavis waved her hand at me, clearly in a good mood. "Don't you worry about it, sweetie. This one's on the house."

I walked around them—giving Dwight and his whacky tobacky aroma plenty of clearance—and made my way to my seat in the very middle of the auditorium.

I pulled the spoon out of my back pocket and the tubs of ice cream from my cooler bag, then took my seat and decided that trying to forget Dwight's sexual innuendos was a job best handled by Banana Buttermilk Mudslide. I dipped the spoon into the creamy chocky-yellow treat, ready to relish the first scoop which was always the most delicious, when I saw Dwight swagger his way into the auditorium.

I knew all too well that the Ritz could hold four hundred and sixty-two patrons at full capacity.

That left Dwight with four hundred and fifty-eight seats to choose from, once you excluded seats L12, N16 and Q7, which had been eaten through to the springs by a particularly hungry rat with a penchant for foam padding.

As I watched him amble up the stairs toward my row, I muttered to myself, "Keep moving. Keep moving. Go all the way up the back."

He turned into my row.

"Are you serious?" I mumbled to myself in annoyance. "All right. That's near enough. Stop right there. Stop right there."

He kept walking along my row .

Edging closer.

Closer still.

Until he stepped right up to the seat next to me and joked, "Excuse me, sir. Is this seat taken?"

I wanted to scream, Are you serious? You've got an entire theater of empty seats to choose from and you need to sit right next to me?!

But I didn't.

Instead, I gave a polite, albeit unconvincing smile. "Be my guest."

"Why thank you," he replied dramatically.

He took off his jacket, sat down, schnoozled his back into the seat, shuffled this way, crossed his legs that way, then finally decided he was comfortable.

I tried to lean away from him, being as subtle as I possibly could, but he noticed.

"Don't be shy, son. I don't smell, unless you're averse to the scent of mothballs." He raised one arm and sniffed. "Forest pine. Nice. Go ahead, have a whiff."

"No, thank you." I filled my mouth with another scoop of ice cream, hoping it would deter any further conversation.

His gaze fell to the tub of chocky-yellow goodness in my hands, and he licked his lips. "Say, that looks mighty nice. What flavor is that?'

"Banana Buttermilk Mudslide," I managed through a creamy gulp.

"There was a mudslide in the mines once. Three men were trapped for seven weeks. Came out as a throuple. Mother Earth moves in mysterious ways." He glanced again at my ice cream. "So, is it any good?"

"I suppose so."

"Mind if I try some?"

Seriously?

"Um… I only have one spoon."

Dwight shrugged. "I don't mind if you don't mind. "

"I kinda do."

"Why?"

"Because ten minutes ago your teeth were on the floor. Among other reasons."

"Fair point."

Thankfully, our conversation was interrupted by Mavis taking to the stage. "My dear, adoring movie lovers, welcome to another masterpiece of the silver screen. Today's movie, Thirteen Bridges from Brussels to Berlin , is considered one of the most celebrated motion pictures to ever capture one of England's most important wartime offensives. It wasn't without its fair share of critics however, most of whom pointed out that the film wrongly depicts Portugal as a key location en route from Belgium to Germany… when in fact it lies some one thousand five hundred miles to the southwest. If only my dear friend and acclaimed director Willard Montgomery hadn't started each morning with a gin and tonic, he might have noticed such a geographical slight. Nevertheless, Thirteen Bridges from Brussels to Berlin still managed to sweep the Oscars and has even been attributed as the inspiration for such modern classics as Apocalypse Now, Platoon and Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan … and before you ask me whether my dear friend Ricardo Montalban's pecs were real, my lips are sealed. What happens in Ricardo's trailer stays in Ricardo's trailer. Now, without further ado, I present to you Thirteen Bridges from Brussels to Berlin."

As Mavis left the stage, Dwight and I applauded while he leaned in close and said, "What I wouldn't give to have been Ricardo Montalban back in the day."

The comment finally piqued my curiosity enough to ask, "How did you and Mavis even meet? I've never heard her mention you before. I've never even seen you around town."

"That's because I don't live here in Mulligan's Mill. I've got a cabin upriver just past Bear Claw Rock. As to how Mavis and I met, well, just like Cleopatra , it was a long time in the making. Maybe I'll tell you about it someday. "

As the lights dimmed and the red curtains rolled open, I said to Dwight, "You really like her, don't you."

He sighed like the Goddess of Happiness herself had him under her spell. "She's the only person I've ever dreamed of loving."

I couldn't help but sigh as I scooped up another spoonful of Banana Buttermilk Mudslide. "I kinda know how that feels."

A pang of guilt tugged at me as I sat there eating my ice cream while he had nothing.

Against my better judgment I reached into my cooler bag and handed him the other quart I'd brought with me. "Here, have this."

A look of delight spread across Dwight's face, like a kid who'd never known the joy of opening a Christmas present before. "Really? For me? What is it?"

"Hopscotch Hazelnut Heaven. But we're not sharing my spoon."

"That's okay. I'll just let it warm in my hands and drink it once it's melted."

"That sounds disgusting."

"You'd prefer me to eat it off my fingers and slurp it down that way?"

"I guess not."

He began warming the tub, twirling it in his hands as though he was making fire for the first time. "Thank you, my young friend."

"We're not friends."

"Yes, we are. You just haven't realized it yet."

Suddenly the movie exploded to life with the detonation of what I could only imagine was the first bridge on the way from Brussels to Berlin.

Over the next two hours, I watched one bridge after another blown to kingdom come, even a particularly pretty Portuguese bridge that was promptly turned into a pile of rubble with several well-placed sticks of TNT.

Yet as each bridge collapsed into one of thirteen European rivers, there was still only one thing on my mind—

My River.