“Bobby will. And Ali. Dad . . . I don’t know. Maybe if I tell him we need time together. He’s wanted us to reconcile for years. Yeah. He’d buy that. ”
Joe had read once about a species of frog that lived on the Serengeti Plain in Africa. These frogs, it seemed, laid their eggs on muddy riverbanks in the monsoon season when the earth was black and oozing with moisture. But the wet season turned dry in time, and on the Serengeti a drought could go on and on. The eggs could lay trapped in the arid, hard-packed ground for years. Amazingly, when the rains finally returned, newborn frogs would come bubbling up through the mud and go in search of mates, to begin the cycle of life again.
Impossible, he’d thought at the time, for life to adapt to such conditions.
And yet, he felt a little like that now. The meeting with Diana’s parents had released something in him. Not the guilt, or not all of it, certainly, but their forgiveness, their understanding, had eased his burdens. For the first time since his wife’s death, he could stand straight again. He could believe that there was a way out for him. Not medicine. He could never go through that again, never watch death up close. But something . . .
And there was Meghann. To his disbelief, she’d called. Asked him on a date. His first real date with a woman in more than fifteen years.
He wasn’t sure even how to prepare for it.
She wasn’t like Diana. There was no softness in Meghann. No single moment with her promised anything—least of all another moment. Even when they were at their most intimate, when he was inside of her, she sometimes turned her face away from him.
He knew it would be smart to forget her and the desires she’d rekindled. Smart, but impossible. That would be like expecting those frogs to feel the sweet rainwater and stay hidden in the safety of their riverbank. Thousands of years of evolution had honed certain instincts to the point where they couldn’t be ignored.
Meghann, perhaps even more so than the Roloffs’ forgiveness, had brought Joe back to life. He couldn’t turn away from her now.
It was because of her that he dared—at last—to go to town. On his lunch break, he strode down Main Street, head down, face partially obscured by a baseball cap. He walked past the two old men sitting outside the Loose Screw Hardware Shop, past a woman dragging two small children out of the ice-cream store. He was aware of people pointing at him and whispering. He kept moving.
Finally, he ducked into the old barber shop and climbed up into the empty chair. “I could use a haircut,” he said, not making eye contact with Frank Hill, who’d first cut Joe’s hair for the fourth-grade class photo.
“You sure could. ” Frank finished sweeping the floor, then grabbed a comb and some scissors. After pinning a bib in place, he started combing Joe’s hair. “Head up. ”
Joe slowly lifted his head. Across the room a mirror held his reflection. He saw the imprint of the last few years. Sadness and guilt had left their mark in the lines around his eyes and the silver in his hair. He sat still for the next thirty minutes, his stomach clenched, his hands fisted, waiting for Frank to recognize him.
When it was over and he’d paid Frank for the haircut, he headed for the door. He’d just opened it when Frank said, “You come on back and see me anytime, Joe. You still have friends in this town. ”
That welcome gave Joe the courage to walk down to Swain’s Mercantile, where he bought new clothes. Several old acquaintances smiled at him.
He made it back to the garage by 1:00 and worked for the rest of the day.
“That’s about the tenth time you’ve looked at that clock in the past half an hour,” Smitty said at 4:30. He was at the workbench, putting together a skateboard for his grandson’s birthday.
“I’ve . . . uh . . . got someplace to be,” Joe said.
Smitty reached for a wrench. “No kidding. ”
Joe slammed the truck’s hood down. “I thought maybe I’d leave a couple of minutes early. ”
“Wouldn’t hurt my feelings none. ”
“Thanks. ” Joe looked down at his hands; they were black with grease. He couldn’t see touching Meghann with these hands, though the grease under his fingernails certainly hadn’t bothered her in the past. It was one of the things he liked about her. The women he’d known in his previous life looked down on men like the one he’d become.
“Whatcha got going on—if you don’t mind me asking,” Smitty asked, moving toward him.
“A friend is coming over for dinner. ”
“This friend drive a Porsche?”
“Yeah. ”
Smitty smiled. “Maybe you want to borrow the barbecue. Cut a few flowers from Helga’s garden?”
“I didn’t know how to ask. ”
“Hell, Joe, you just do. Open your mouth and say please. That’s part of being neighbors and coworkers. ”
“Thank you. ”