CATHEDRAL - Patrick Sean Lee (best books for 8th graders txt) š
- Author: Patrick Sean Lee
Book online Ā«CATHEDRAL - Patrick Sean Lee (best books for 8th graders txt) šĀ». Author Patrick Sean Lee
Gloria scowls and begins to fish through the white plastic containers one by one in search of healthy flowers. Annie follows me out into the shop work area, then into my small office.
āCoffee?ā I ask, going directly to the desk loaded with paperwork, wholesale bills, notes. The framed photograph of Brad and me standing at the end of the pier in the sunset greets me. I turn it down on its face.
āYeah, I made a pot just before you got here. Iāll get us a cup. You want to call the mart, or should I?ā
āNo, Iāll do it. Just hurry back with some caffeine. Iāve been drug free for a week now. I need a fix.ā
She starts for the door as I cross around the desk and roll the chair out, then she stops and turns, as if sheās forgotten to tell me something important. She asks in a concerned voice, āYou okay? You seemā¦different. Everything alright with you and Brad?ā
I look across the desk at the down-turned photo, then up at her as I sit. āNo, actually. I called it quits with him night before last when I got home.ā
Annieās jaw drops and she returns to the front of the desk, places her hands onto its edge and bends forward to stare at me. Iām not sure if sheās angry, or merely shocked beyond belief. She thought Brad was Mr. Perfection, just the thing I needed. She was like my best friend in high school, amazed and delighted that Iād captured the heart of the football teamās captain back then. And now?
āWhy? Jesus, Is, what happened? You two were so right for one another,ā she finally blurts out.
āI donāt know, Annie. Itās been a long time coming. Months and months.ā Iām struggling to give her answers that I donāt really even have myself. I move the miniature vase from its spot to the right atop a few papers on my desk, the Inhabited Vase fashioned by an artist back east. Its colors are liquid, alive, encased in blown glass. Brad gave it to me. Everything I look at seems to have a connection to the man I just stuck a knife into. I feel a little nauseous, a little ashamed.
āThatās why you cut your vacation short. To come back andā¦what did he say?ā
āHe took it better than I expected.ā I stop. I donāt want to go over it again, not in my mind, not out loud, not at all. āHey, go get that coffee, huh? I need a cup. Iāll call the mart. Go! Weāll talk about it later.ā
She peers down at me with a look of consternation on her face for a long second, then pushes herself upright and walks out of my office. I try to get connected to the mess at hand, thumb through the stack of receipts that have accumulated since last week. I locate the one for the order of white daisiesāten bunches, along with twenty bunches of assorted colors of carnations, miniature roses, snapdragons, leather fern, plumosa, camellia leafā¦an entire page. I glance down the list quickly, then begin to lift the phone to punch in the number of the mart. The phone rings at the same instant I lift the receiver, and I say hello.
āIs, itās Brad.ā He sounds deflated and waits for a response. I donāt want to say anything to him. Why did I think he wouldnāt call? I guess I didnāt, for some reason, but here he is.
āYes?ā
āLook, Iām sorryā¦I mean I know Iām probably bothering you, butā¦I donāt know. I thought about what you said all day yesterday, and all night. It doesnāt make senseā¦ā He hesitates, giving me the opportunity to continue for him.
āIt doesnāt make sense, but itās finished. Iām so sorryā¦it is. I just canāt do it anymore. Please, letās leave it at that. Please. I told you I donāt know all the reasons myself. It just dried up inside me. Us,ā I tell him in a conciliatory, soft voice. If I didnāt believe heād fully accept it yesterday, Iām positive he wonāt accept it today. I feel his anguish, but I canāt help him. Heāll have to get through this by himself somehow. I flash on the grieving process. Shock. Denial. Anger. Finally, acceptance and peace.
As I wait for his response, Annie appears in the doorway with two steaming cups of coffee in either hand. She takes one look at me with my hand over the receiver, making a shhsh-ing face at her, and stops dead a foot inside the office. On the line, Brad is silent. Iām trying to concentrate on what he looks like on the other end after what I just said, but all my mind can focus in on is Annie standing like a statue, her brow and eyes coiled into a huge question mark. I press my hand a little tighter over the receiver, say in a low voice, āWhoās watching the front?ā
Annie takes the cue, walks to the desk and sets the cup in front of me, then with one final look of āwhatās up?ā, turns and leaves me to deal with the broken heart on the other end of the line.
āBrad, Iāve got to goā¦ā
āWait! Isabella, I just need to know. I need reasons. I need hopeā¦please.ā His voice is plaintive. I know this is all going to take months, not weeks, of excruciating pain on his part. I wish I could help, but that is the point. I canāt, and thereās no sense offering him the crutch of further communication. Itās over.
āNo, Brad. Iā¦just accept it. Iāmā¦sorry.ā That word again. Inadequate. I hang up and quickly punch in the number for the mart. I have a business to run, and I have to stay busy or Iām afraid Iāll cave in to the instincts bouncing around in my head. The coffee tastes wonderful, unlike the taste in my mind. A woman with a very practiced, musical voice answers. I tell her who I need to speak to, and after a minute or two on hold I get connected. Iām angry sounding as I explain the situation to the guy. He agrees to do whatever is necessary to correct the problem, blah, blah, blah. I thank him and hang up. One fire extinguished. I lean back in my chair and look around the small room. My degree from Stanford, class of 1988, directly across from my desk. Why did I hang it there? The reason escapes me. On either side simple framed photographs of Daddy and Mother standing outside our home with its two-story portico, white clapboard siding, deep blue front door, three tiers of brick steps leading up to the long porch. Mother had turned to look at Daddy at the very moment the shutter snapped, I think because heād made a silly comment about something. I canāt recall, now, nearly a quarter of a century later. They were madly happy in those days. Meā¦I was madly in love with Chris, and finding out what having sex was all about. I took the picture the morning after the shocking thrill of the first time. I wonder as I stare at the photo where Chris finally wound up in life? We were good lovers, I think, but I really canāt be sure. It was so, so long ago, and the memories of those times are covered over with a cloudy film, as if the mental pictures have begun to turn gray and fade into dozens of other images.
The Petals and Bows filing cabinet is in the corner; beside it is a simple coat tree with an umbrella stand, gleaming chrome that I found at L. A. Furniture a month after signing the first lease six years ago. A chair next to that, four feet from the left corner of my desk, sitting catty-corner. To my right on the wall above the three foot-tall bookcase filled with supplier catalogues, design manuals and such, are more photographs; Snaps of elaborate weddings Gloria, Annie and I created, a picture of Caroline and Sammy from a few years back. More photos of Brad and me at various placesāall with him smiling and looking down at me. I wonder if I should remove them now, or wait? But why wait? I stand and head for them as Annie returns.
The store phone rings and Annie pokes her head back out the door. āGlo, can you handle the calls for a minute? Weāre tied up in here.ā
Gloria shoots right back. āNo! How the hell am I suppose toā¦ā
āPlease. I forgot to say please. Just give us a minute, hon. And watch the front, too, would yaā?ā
I can hear Gloria mutter something foul, and then the ring is cut off when she picks up the phone in the back room. āPetals and Bows. Can I help you?ā I think sheās not happy this morning. Even on a dead day like today she doesnāt do well schmoozing with customers, even when her mood is pink with happiness.
Annie shrugs, comes in, and then closes the door.
āNow, what happened Is? Fill me in why you dumped the perfect man.ā She grabs the chair from the corner, turns it backward in front of the desk, sits down, and plops her arms crossed over the back. I sit again and wish it were a week, or a month, or a year from now. I donāt like any of this because it reminds me of looking at a deep cut in my skin, or a burn. I have to close my eyes the minute I dare to peek at it.
For some reason I think of āSaving Isabelleā, of all things; of Matthew alone at the lodge with Michael and Frank, and poor, poor Sylvia. Poor Matthew. I remind myself as I imagine his face, his eyes and lips, the look he gave me when I told him I was going home. He had absolutely nothing to do with me leaving Brad. He didnāt. He didnāt. I canāt even mention him to Annie. Sheād add two and two and come up with six.
I look over at my best friend. āTime, thatās what happened. Time wears down mountains.ā
She frowns. Her golden-skinned face is gorgeous. Large sienna eyes, over-the-top lashes, and full lips that Iād die for. Thatās the main reason I hired herāsheād knock every male customer straight to their knees, and imagining their wife or lover as her, theyād buy the house. That and we were the best of wild, young friends for ten years. Seriously, I remind myself, when it gets right down to it, Glo canāt match her when it comes to design work. Well, that.
She shakes her head now.
āNo, thatās no answer. What changed? Are youā¦seeing someone else, maybe? Tell me. He was so good to you. His kids? His car? The shape of his nose? What?ā
āAnnie. I canāt put my finger on any one particular thing. Yes, his kidsāI donāt want to be a mother, though I like them both terrifically. Theyāre great kids. He was good to me, way too good, I suppose. Jesus, Annie, he gave me a gold locket for my birthday when I got home! A golden heart-shaped locket with a diamond in the centerāand a strange, familiar inscription inside! Yes, I know he lovedāloves me more than anyone Iāve ever met. He was all over me emotionally, too all over me. Too everything for too long. Maybe I was just suffocating in his love, I donāt know. I changed, thatās all.ā I picked up the order for flowers lying on the desk, began to roll it up into a doobie cylinder, then let it uncurl again.
āSoooā¦you canāt let it simmer? Think it over? Figure out what he really means to you deep down inside and try to rearrange some of your life? Isabella, youāre thirty-six. Youāre beautiful, God
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