Made for Good Fun
By Darren Montufar
Carrie’s eyes widened in the dim light as she entered Carter’s apartment. The sound of her shoes on the wood floor echoed off the walls, as did her voice. “Oh my, it’s so empty...”
Carter closed the door and motioned Carrie over to where the couch had been. “Come, sit. Let’s not be sad.”
She stopped him and kissed him on the lips, her eyes fluttering, and he received the kiss, his arms at his sides.
“And so dark,” she said.
“I sold the lamps, too,” he said. “Come, sit.” Carter led Carrie to two camping chairs where the couch had been. “Let’s finish the bottle of wine from the other night. Let’s be happy.”
“Are we going to finish it?
“Of course.”
Candles flickered from four wall sconces and along the floor at one wall, illuminating the small apartment. Some light spilled in from the overhead bulb in the kitchen. Carter and Carrie each sat in a camping chair, the chairs’ feet scratching against the wood floor as they settled in. She reached her purse toward the coffee table but paused.
“Your coffee table...” she said, seeing the card table now in its place.
“Sold that, too. Whatever won’t fit in my car.”
Carrie set her purse on the card table, next to the wine bottle and two red plastic cups, but quickly moved it to the floor by her camping chair. She reached into her purse for something as Carter untwisted the cap from the wine bottle.
“Think we should let this breathe a minute?” said Carter.
“I think you should consider this...” Carrie set a folded newspaper on the card table.
Carter leaned in. The paper sat ominously, with some text circled in pen, the bold-lettered heading still visible in the candlelight: PAID TRAINING.
“It says ‘Paid Training,’” Carrie said, humorlessly. “You can still make a living here. They’ll help you get back on your feet.”
“I thought we said we weren’t going to be sad, huh? I thought we were just going to be happy tonight. Didn’t we say that?”
“You said that, not me. And if the conversation’s over, I’m perfectly happy being sad tonight.”
“Good. Then we’re both happy.” Bearing a smile, Carter poured wine into each plastic cup.
“Why do you pretend to be so unsentimental?”
“That’s a thing you would say. Where does it get you, huh? Saying things like that?”
“And that’s a thing you would never say.” She folded her arms.
“Here,” Carter extended one of the plastic cups as a peace offering. “Let’s drink and enjoy tonight and be happy. We still have three days left.”
They tapped their cups together, the liquid gently lapping in their plastic chalices. They each took long drinks.
Carrie wiped her lips with the back of her hand. “You moved here for a reason...so many years ago...are you really moving back just because of another minor setback? Did you accomplish yet what you moved here to accomplish?”
“I’m drinking wine by candlelight with a beautiful woman. You tell me.”
“Ha! Jokes!”
“Who’s joking? That was the most honest thing I’ve said today.”
“I’m the only person you’ve talked to today! Anyway, you have to answer me...we both deserve an answer to that question.”
Carter leaned back in his camping chair and swirled the wine in his cup, luxuriating in its aroma before knocking it back. He grinned then, his eyes closed.
“Mr. Playful,” said Carrie. “Okay.” She drank the rest of her wine and set the cup on the card table. “Let’s play for it,” she said, again hunching down to her purse.
She returned with two quarters, handing one to Carter. “You remember this game from when we went camping? I make and you miss—you stay here, like I feel you’re destined to. You make and I miss—you do whatever you want.”
Carter’s grin widened. He shook his head. “Suit yourself.”
Carrie steadied her hand, then quickly flicked her wrist, bouncing her quarter off the card table and into her cup. She whooped ecstatically.
Carter sat up and set his cup on the table. He twisted the cap back onto the bottle, though plenty of wine remained. He raised his quarter and flicked it off the card table and watched it hit his cup before falling to the floor.
Carrie rose from her camping chair and danced in a circle, singing, “You’re stay-ing! You’re stay-ing!”
Carter removed his hat, scratched his head, then tossed the hat onto the sleeping bag sprawled across an air mattress where his bed had once been.
“Here,” he said, “let’s lie down.”
They moved to the sleeping bag where his bed had been and laid their heads on the pillows there, facing one another.
Carrie continued her celebratory song until he gently held her still and looked into her eyes. She met his gaze with fiery excitement, but seeing none of her own joy reflected, her eyes wilted, and she rolled them away. She kissed him on his forehead and tousled his hair before returning her eyes to his.
“It’s flat where you’re going,” she said. “Didn’t you say you always hated looking out before and seeing nothing on the horizon?”
“I've had my time in the hills here.”
“It doesn’t rain there in the winter. It snows. You'll be pelted with sleet, scraping your windshield every day.” She flattened her hand and moved it across his chest in a wiping motion, saying this.
“I’ve had my fill of rainy days.”
“You can’t mean that. It’s the middle of June. What rain have we had lately? Portland’s in a drought. The first rainy day, you’ll see...you’ll think of me...that time we walked to the park up in the hills. It was sunny, and we were dressed nicely for that party. Right as we got comfy on the bench with our books, rain started hitting the leaves overhead. Before we could even think, it was on us. Do you remember? It was useless running for cover. We were like two kittens dunked in a rain barrel. We laughed so hard. Remember the feeling? You’ll think of that the next time it rains, and you’ll laugh.”
“We’ll see.” Carter brought his arm down to the small of Carrie’s back, but he didn’t pull her any closer. His eyes moved somewhere to the ceiling.
“You can start over here. You’ve done it before...”
“It’s not that sample.”
“You’ll have to start over back there, too.”
“I’ll just pick up there where I left off.”
“He’s still in remission, right?” Her hand sat motionless against Carter’s chest.
“Right. But he’s not getting any younger, and neither are any of us. Besides…” He moved his hand into her hair but kept it still.
“Are you going to sell your candle sconces?”
“Of course not. I wouldn’t sell those.”
“Remember when I found them?”
“Yes, I remember.”
“You love them, don’t you?”
Carter looked at two of the sconces, the candles with their flickering firelight.
“I do.” He began tracing his fingers through her hair.
They remained silent for some time before she spoke, her words thin, as though being slid secretly under a door. “What did you want for yourself here?” Her voice drifted into sleep. “Did you accomplish it?”
He continued tracing his fingers through her hair, his eyes gazing out the open window into the darkness beyond. Somewhere in the night sky, a single-engine plane flew, its distant brrrrrr sound first rising then fading, fading. His fingers stroked her hair until her deep breathing was the only sound, and he could feel her body relax. Resting his chin on her head, he closed his stinging eyes and inhaled the scent of her hair, which was like flowers. On his faintest exhale, the words barely passed his lips: “I did the best I could.”
Carter slowly pulled away and rose from the sleeping bag. He blew out the candles on the sconces and those on the floor, then turned off the light in the kitchen. The apartment was completely dark, and Carrie’s deep, rhythmic breathing continued. He slipped on his shoes, opened the door, and eased it closed behind him.
Outside the apartment building, Carter shoved his hands into his pockets and walked through the quiet streets toward the hill. The night was clear and moonless, the air breezeless. The sky had remained unchanged for many days, apart from the rising and setting of the sun.
He began up the hill, just off the busy shopping district. At times, climbing the winding streets into the hills, he stopped. To admire the many Victorian homes—so different from those where he grew up—was one reason to stop. Noticing a Pacific dogwood or a western redcedar, or some lavender and rosemary—flora he hadn’t known before moving here—were other reasons. Here, he knew where the many songbirds and hummingbirds filled the trees and air in the early morning mist, when, before, he’d never much noticed birds. He stopped, his heart pounding from the climb, and took in the view behind him down the hill.
When Carter reached the park at the hilltop, it was empty and quiet. He walked across it and sat on the bench. He leaned back, extending his arms on either side of the backrest, and inhaled deeply through his nose, trying for the scent that was like flowers during his walk but that he now couldn’t find. He tried to find the scent again and again, but it was lost.
Funny how things go, Carter thought. How one can find more ache in the memory of something than joy in its presence. Carrie would soon be such a thing, in his leaving. Couldn’t she see that would be her saving grace? That the light in him had gone out this time? Now was the future that neither he nor she had feeling for, one that pulled him to a place he was still escaping even as he returned to it because he knew for certain, despite all feeling or wanting, that nothing ever was.
From the bench, Carter could see the entire park, as well as a row of houses across the street. Behind the houses was an overlook of downtown Portland, with a cluster of buildings and a bridge spanning the Willamette River. The scene was bright with lights that seemed to twinkle, though everything was still and peaceful. Beyond his view of the city, Carter envisioned a ridge of the Cascade Mountains in the distant darkness. He closed his eyes tightly, as though doing so would sear the moment into his memory, to be called upon whenever needed.
A calm clarity settled over him, sitting there, along with a soft sinking of the heart with his knowledge that time had run out, that when he returned to his apartment, the sleeping bag alone would be on the air mattress in that dark space with windows open, just as he’d left it. The whir of the ceiling fan, and outside, a car door closing in the cool, dry night. Hollow footfalls up wooden porch steps. The hiss of a braking bus. A garbage truck beeping at dawn. These would be his only companions, pulling to and nudging him from sleep, and when stirred, he’ll think wearily of hope and happiness, resigned to the past, and again close his eyes.
Then there it was: the soft tapping of rain on the leaves overhead. He kept his eyes closed as the smell of rain filled the air. It dripped through the leaves, first onto his shoulders, then his arms and legs, covering him as it came down more urgently. He didn't open his eyes to see, but he could still laugh anyway.
THE END
Author Bio: Darren Montufar lives in Des Moines, Iowa. His short fiction has appeared both in print and online. He enjoys photography, writing, and exploring the great outdoors.