(6)
—Originally publshed in The Roanoke Review, Fall 1996
Continued from page (5)
“A parting, a farewell,” Sissy said. “Sam and I loved them so
much we made them our theme music, the We-of-Us national anthem. Odd thing is that, close as we are, Sam
and I rarely touch. We never walk hand in hand. Once we went to a party in North Beach. We were trying
to pretend we were lovers, and we were necking on the sofa, but we got the giggles and couldn’t
keep it up.”
“Jamey loves the Four Last Songs,” Grace told Sam. “Their
rings have quotes etched in them.”
Sam put down his fork. “What part?”
“Mine has ‘Need and Joy,’” Clarissa said, avoiding his
eyes. “His has ‘Hand in Hand.’”
The blood rushed to Sam’s face.
“It was Jamey’s idea, Sam,” Clarissa said. “I played
the songs for him. He’s always thought of them as being a thing between him and me. What could I
say? He wanted it.” She resumed eating in silence.
He waited for Clarissa to raise her head and look at him.
Grace cleared her throat. “Life has a funny way of presenting you with
unexpected twists.” She hunched her shoulders, rested her hand on his forearm, and grinned.
“I had a little surprise about five years ago. The employment office at the university sent over
a new boy to work in the garden. He was Sam Armstrong, a gangly freshman with big, sad, green eyes and
an oversized black top coat from a back-street thrift shop. He was scared to death of me.”
Sam squirmed.
Grace smiled. “You’ve come a long, hard way, and you’ve done
it by yourself.” She sat back, beamed, and raised her glass. “A toast to Sam. Full-time
student, part-time gardener, waiter, gas station attendant, bar tender, and I don’t know what all.
And now a Bachelor of Arts in Journalism.”
She reminded him of Joan Crawford. He restrained himself. “I’m a
full-time infantry soldier.”
“Someday I’ll read you when you’re a foreign correspondent.”
“I couldn’t have done it without you guys.”
“No, Sam,” Grace said. “People have to do for themselves. You
made it on your own. And look at you now. Let me tell you, I’d be proud if you were my son.”
Clarissa continued eating with downcast eyes. Neither Sam nor Grace looked at
her.
TOM'S TALES