“We must do this. Just once. My way,” said the driver of the tarnished Subaru. “No, that's not right Luke,” replied Tory as she leaned over to hug him. “There's another way. Let’s get on with it,” she finished, leaving the shelter of the car to stand under a lumpy sky threatening a scrappy ravine of store fronts. A late September squall blew drops across the avenue. Tory’s lips pursed as the moment to savor Luke’s plea heeded to the call of finding refuge. Rainwater slowly poured from the street into storm water planters made of stone cubes, garnished with sedge meadow, like a bourbon julep over ice.
Spiked heels, lifting her ankle boots fastened with rivets and chain into allure, returned Tory to the sidewalks of her Fountain Square days as an unsorry prodigal. She felt bewildered how time changed things; familiar haunts gone. Buried underneath the concrete lie dormant rails of trolley car lines and root tubers of newer pipes and cable streaming nutrients for a bustling season. In spite of the rain, she slowed at a flitter in the planter mud. A muskrat had burrowed a home. Tory watched, then turned away.
“There it is,” brightened Tory abiding a quaint New England style sign's entreaty to enter its coffee shop, then halted, confused to see ample room and not the familiar tight corridor. Her taut neck, offsetting a single round earring, rose as she looked for Chelsea. She spotted Chris, the owner’s ponytailed son, in a far corner, cheerfully grinding free trade blends served strong as a lofty dollop to a crowd weak for caffeine. In the center of the shop, she saw lean Edward the librarian, secure from reproach having inclined to life under few requirements; a product of nature not art. In a wet blink she was a younger self in the yellow bricked branch, just across the road, turning long overdue materials into wide eyed Edward while kids bumbled about the stacks in close orbit to their mother bees browsing the job info center.
Teary eyed, Tory had a bone to pick with Luke, even then, but Edward, tethered at the counter, became the target. “No, I won’t pay today. Can’t. Who are you to ask? You don’t know a thing,” she ranted. Sweet Edward standing like a goat with front hoofs on the check-out counter bleated back, “Dorothy, you’re on a borrowing hold. You’ll get a letter from the main office.” She seethed and fled, too young to find a simple way to say that Luke had taken the books when he moved out - to take up with Chelsea. And that when Luke moved out from Chelsea’s, he left the books there. And so, months later, Chelsea invited a wary Tory over to reclaim the books and find solace in common ground. And comfort did move their hearts, yet amends stayed unpaid to those still rooted in the urban canyons around them and felt as if pokes upon hardened hides. And so these now united souls trailed away from town to far horizons. And some years later, back at the coffee shop, Edward digested granola and fruit unaware of Dorothy’s return.
Beyond Edward's pasture, in a front corner, sat Stacy carefully lifting morsels of crumb cake into her thin lipped mouth as an eager circle of friends waited for sage tidbits. “Dear god, not Stacy,” Tory grimaced. Stacy took over the mantel when Chelsea and Tory split, slightly better than everyone else in the crowd, avidly warding off contenders. The shop space was too vast for Tory to linger. She had to get out. "Where was Chelsea?" and with that, a spark kindled within, and soon Tory was at an after midnight venture with Chelsea forcing open a security door of a long closed pharmacy at East and Lincoln to have a look.
Remains of the pressed tin ceiling and fallen ceiling fans littered the floor as a sensual aroma of rotted beams filled her nostrils. Barely finding room to squeeze behind the soda counter for a look - only to step on the bones, at first not realizing it, then comprehending another smell - of death, and curious to see if they knew the body. They did. It was Luke’s father, a lost artist looking for found objects to assemble, with a sure and swift thrombosis in a lonesome place, bushy weeds now growing up through his chest. The community gathering at the funeral anointed the pair with honor they had not earned. And the odd moment with Luke, who had taken from them, coming forward in despair. This sacrifice brought the three of them back together, but in a new way - Luke drinking, enticing, and always rebuffed.
Dorothy’s dad took her return as a welcomed surrender from too fast a life. Tory though felt a vow to keep fully alive in the haunts that started it. Not like Stacy, trading stories of her better years for kibble from the puppy eyed. Her phone vibrated and Tory glanced at Chelsea’s text: “ur hot.” Tory started to type: “Where r” when a hand rested on her shoulders. Tory spun around and there was Chelsea. “Finally!” she erupted, “and here, too. Quick let’s go.” Too late, Chris came up smiling, “Look at you two. Hope you’re starving. I’ve got wild salmon fresh in from Olympia served over tabouli.” “No, we gotta head out,” started Chelsea. Tory broke her off, “Yes, but sit us with dear Edward.” The pair talked non-stop as Edward grazed away. Edward was accepting when Chris refused to bring his check, unaware that Tory had paid. Once Edward left, Tory spoke about driving with Luke, “He wants to return to the pharmacy - that pharmacy, and lure us in, too. I said we can’t. Can we? We can go to the cemetery instead.” “No Tory, let's take our lumps with Luke,” responded Chelsea, “Can you imagine?” Tory riveted on Chelsea as she texted Luke: “Meet us there at midnight.” They each looked over at Stacy and she looked back in chains.
