Last Known Address. Elizabeth Wrenn
Purdy smiled, but only after seeing that C.C. was laughing, that she had, in fact, taken Shelly’s comment about the baby-talk as a joke. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, as if his feet knew he should be doing any number of a thousand things right now, but his heart was keeping them firmly rooted to a place near the blonde woman, who seemed to be perpetually smiling. He stood behind his chair, holding the coffee pot at the ready, though he’d just refilled everyone’s cup. Except the thin woman’s; she’d hastily put her hands over the top as he’d leaned in. He’d forgotten; she’d had tea.
He knew he was hovering, but he couldn’t just sit back down. It would look idle. The tall redhead, Shelly, was staring at him. She was a little mouthy, but good-humored, and the other one–what was the thin one’s name? He couldn’t remember, but she seemed nice enough. Quiet and…he wasn’t sure what. Heavy-hearted, somehow. But C.C. He even liked her name. C.C. It made him smile.
He cleared his throat, rubbed his hand over his face. He was as tongue-tied and nervous as a teenager around her. There was something really wrong with him. But this wrong felt so much better than the other wrong. And aside from that mortifying shout and duck for cover he’d done when the mug had fallen, he’d felt…what? Hopeful? Even the bell was starting to bother him less.
Shelly was still staring at him, grinning. Oh, she had his number all right. Feeling the heat in his face, he turned and walked back to the bar.
He’d noticed C.C. right off yesterday, as soon as she had climbed out of the tow truck. Laughing. In spite of their car breaking down, in spite of the gloomy rainy day, in spite of being stranded in Tupper, of all places, she was laughing as Mick and the tow truck driver helped her down from the high seat. She looked nothing like his Keppie, who had been tiny and dark-haired and bony. In fact, C.C. was Keppie’s exact opposite. Was that why he was all hibbity-jibbity? He didn’t think he’d ever felt this kind of attraction before. Not that he had all that much experience. His hibbity-jibbities of his youth came mostly from pictures of girls in magazines, which wasn’t the same. Not like this. When he saw her, right away, bam! Like his body got plugged into some big old generator after the power had been off a long time. A long time. He was not a religious man, much to Keppie’s dismay, but he would almost believe that some divine power might’ve had a hand in making that alternator fail when and where it did.
Or maybe it was Keppie herself. He and Kep had always had that ‘first one up’ rule: first one up in the morning brought the other one a cup of coffee. Maybe the first one up to the Great Beyond brought the other one a new spouse. He would like to think that Keppie would do that for him. And what about the dog! Now that was a coincidence! Here’s a little lost dog that needs to go pretty darn close to where these ladies are going…Well, it made you wonder. It just made you wonder.
Purdy glanced around the restaurant. It was empty, except for the ladies. And Mick, of course. He tried to think of some reason to go back over there. He’d just refilled their coffee cups. Everyone had eaten breakfast. He’d cleared the plates, delivered the tickets. But even if he just went back over and sat down, he couldn’t trust himself not to stare at her like a fool. It was better if he stayed here; he could look at her from behind the bar.
He grabbed the towel that he wore draped over his shoulder and threw it hard onto the bar. He turned, his arms folded, and leaned back against the counter. C.C. wasn’t interested in him! How could she be? She didn’t know him. And he didn’t know her. He had never believed in love at first sight. And he knew this wasn’t love. Or was it? How should he know? Was it lust? Much to his amazement, he had gotten…excited just thinking about her last night. But he hadn’t been thinking about having sex with her. He’d just been thinking about hugging her. Just holding her in his arms. When everything in his life had seemed to become so sharp-edged again after Keppie’s death, was it so wrong to wonder what it must feel like to hold a woman like that, so round and soft and full?
He had wanted to ask her out after they’d finished dinner last night, but he’d been too embarrassed by his outburst. He hadn’t understood at first how that had happened. He’d thought the panic attacks were under control again. It must have been because he was nervous. Besides, he hadn’t been able to answer a simple question: how do you ask out a woman who is stranded at your motel with her two friends for just one night? And out to where? They would have had to drive clear to Bennet to find the nearest movie theater. He’d thought about inviting her to stroll with him, just an old-fashioned date, an evening walk through town. But he’d been struck mute as they’d departed, the three of them together too daunting even to approach.
Silence. His old refuge. He was only able to wave good night to all three. Then, when just the redhead came back and asked what time he opened for breakfast, well, of course then he could talk! After he’d locked up the restaurant, he’d walked by their room four times. Back and forth, back and forth, unable to go up and knock. He didn’t know how long he’d just stood there, staring at the crevice of light between the curtains on their window.
He picked up the towel, turned and looked at her again. If only he didn’t feel like this was somehow meant to be. Or at least a chance in a million. Or was it just his age? He remembered old Cort Smith, who’d tracked down and married a girl from his high school just weeks after his wife had died, when Cort was nearly eighty. ‘When you get to be my age, you dasn’t dillydally,’ Cort had told him. Well, Purdy wasn’t nearly Cort’s age. But was sixty-one old enough to stop the world when C.C. had climbed out of that tow truck?
Before yesterday, he’d thought he’d just spend the rest of his life alone. There were no single ladies in Tupper, except Mrs D’Blatt, and she was ninety-something. He would be like her, he thought. Grow old alone, and die alone, right here in Tupper. And truth be told, he hadn’t thought all that much about it, one way or the other. Until yesterday.
Finally, after the fourth pass by their window last night, he’d gone to bed. He’d hardly slept, feeling all night like he had to do or say something before she left. If only he had more time to court her properly. But what did he know about that? He had never even dated Keppie. Not really. He’d just written letters from Nam, in response to hers. Their letters were how they had gotten acquainted. They barely knew each other before he’d shipped out, just sat next to each other at high-school graduation. Mick Purdy and Katherine Purnell. They hadn’t even spoken before, just sat or stood next to each other throughout the school years, each time they were made to line up in alphabetical order. Never given her a second thought. Till that graduation day and she kept staring at him, sitting there in his uniform. Then, as their ragtag high-school orchestra–sounding worse than usual without the seniors–played the graduation exit march, she’d told him she’d like to write to him after he shipped out. He’d said okay.
Always shy by nature, it had actually been easier for him to write those letters than any conversation with her would have been, or ever was after. And the letters, well, he’d only said the things he’d said to her in those because he thought the chances were better than good that he’d be coming home in a body bag. So he’d opened up in those letters, more than he ever could have or would have in person. But he did survive, somehow. Probably because he wasn’t one of the brave ones.
When he got home, there was Keppie, waiting for him, right there on the airstrip at Quad City, her black-gloved fingers laced through the chain-link fence like it was the only thing holding her up. She was plainly dressed in a gray blouse and darker gray skirt, her hair pulled back, her only makeup a face full of both fear and hope.
Marrying her had seemed the thing to do. But they’d made it work okay, over the years. No great sparks or anything, but when the PTSD had taken hold of him, Keppie had stuck with him, held on, gotten him help. He was infinitely grateful to her, for her. But he’d often doubted that what he felt was love, as he was sure she had from time to time. But his doubt was erased seven months ago. Holding her in his arms, there on the floor behind the bar where she’d collapsed, her hands clutching her shoulder,