The Long Wait for Tomorrow Read online

  The pair trotted across the front yard, stepping nimbly from stone to imbedded stone, the uneven path leading up to Patrick’s house. It was evening now. Just the smallest suggestion of daylight smudged the clouds, purple hues preparing for black skies and starlight. Crickets singing in the bushes, even the occasional bat flapping overhead, punching its time card and getting to work.

  Illuminated windows were sent along the house like shrieking eyes.

  A quick squint, and Patrick could see his parents in the kitchen.

  “You always do this,” Kelly casually informed Patrick.

  “Yeah, Kelly, I know.”

  “Nobody else in this neighborhood comes in the front way except you,” Kelly marveled. “Hell, nobody in suburbia comes in through the front door—not what it’s there for.”

  Patrick yanked on the glass storm door, glanced back into the thick twilight.

  Up and down the street similar houses all stared each other down. Two-story, slanted roof, aluminum siding colored an off-white in accordance with standard community code. Lawns rolled out like carpeting, all the way to the curb, engulfing what space should have been left for sidewalks. Driveways stretched all the way back to hungry garages and back-porch doorways.

  Kelly was right.

  Cookie-cutter houses, and everyone made the same cookie-cutter entrances.

  Patrick dug into his pocket, procured his keys, and went in.

  His parents called him into the kitchen.

  All current endeavors ceased as soon as the two of them stepped in. Patrick’s mother, seated at an overused wooden breakfast nook, stacked and filed papers from her office in one fluid motion. She brought her hands up to her mouth, large brown eyes blinking behind ringlets of graying hair. Patrick’s father set down his bottle of Bass Ale and tossed the opener on the counter. His red cheeks, two plum-shaped islands on a round white face, seemed to lift off as a smile turned to a grin, and that grin turned into a laugh….

  “Hey-hey-hey!” he announced, pointing with pride. “Mr. Starting Quarterback!”

  “We just heard yesterday …” Patrick’s mother pushed out from the table, almost knocking her chair onto the brown linoleum. Her voice wavered like notes from a musical saw: “ConGRAtuLAtions!”

  Patrick’s parents descended on Kelly. Rough hugs, pinches, handshakes, and firm, friendly caresses, it was just the cover their real son was looking for.

  “I’m just going to get my stuff,” Patrick said, not expecting an answer.

  All expectations proved correct, and he slipped out of the kitchen, upstairs. His bag was already packed, a red and white duffel lying on the bed. He slung it over his shoulder. Took a look around his room, all the years gone by since childhood without a single adjustment to show for it. A white dresser with a couple of plastic toys, pictures of himself and his parents. A couple of just-for-trying trophies, cheap plastic all painted gold. White wallpaper, multicolored animal shapes floating about in confused positions. Even his bookshelves had remained as always, crammed to capacity with the Hardy Boys, Betsy Byars, C. S. Lewis, R. L. Stine, and Beverly Cleary.

  Even the bunk beds, still waiting for a second body to come home.

  The only thing new under the sun was a poster of Miles Davis at Birdland—half cast in shadows, smoke blurring in a black-and-white backlight. That unique pose, body leaning forward in a slanting stoop, lips lowered to meet the trumpet’s mouthpiece. A foreground table full of empty glasses, and a lone woman, watching, hand pressed close to her neck, because who could ever believe being that close to Miles Davis.

  “And we don’t even play the same instrument,” Patrick murmured, turning to the closet.

  He opened the door, reached in, and pulled out his saxophone case.

  Took another last look around the room that time forgot, a little displeased with himself.

  Patrick took the stairs two at a time, relieved to be on the move. His momentum carried him into the kitchen, where he slid to a stop. No need to stop the presses, his parents were still playing bumper pool with Kelly’s attention. Patrick’s father had opened a fresh beer for Kelly while his mother proudly showed off a framed photograph of their first date together at an OSU pep rally. The three of them had already performed this song and dance a few months before, but there seemed to be no end to the cards up Kelly’s sleeve, always something new worth celebrating.

  “How many freshmen can say the same thing?” Patrick’s father boomed rhetorically. “How many freshmen can say, Oh well, I’m not technically at college yet, but I’m already the starting quarterback for a Big Ten school!”

  “Just got lucky,” Kelly assured them. Perhaps believing it, perhaps not.

  Patrick’s father waved his hand dismissively. “Ah, so the Buckeyes had a little shakedown.”

  “It was you they chose,” Patrick’s mother insisted. “Your talent, so nuts to luck.”

  Patrick’s father looked up from the festivities, tilted the bottle in his son’s direction. “You heard anything yet?”

  “I’m at school when the mail comes,” Patrick replied, brushing his shirt absently.

  “Sometimes they call,” Patrick’s father insisted.

  “They do call, sometimes,” Patrick’s mother echoed, making it law.

  Patrick knew better than to argue. “Nothing yet.”

  His father turned back to Kelly. “You going to take care of our boy next semester?”

  “You bet …” Kelly pretended to take a swig of his beer, nodded to accentuate the point.

  “Jenna’s in the car,” Patrick announced, wrapping his thumb under the bag strap, as though shouldering it for the first time.

  Kelly got the hint, set his beer down. Macheteing his way through continued compliments and congratulations, he made it to Patrick’s side. Said his farewells and began to follow Patrick out of the kitchen.

  “Where are you going, Patrick?” his mother asked.

  Patrick frowned. “Over to Kelly’s for the week. His parents—”

  “I mean, why are you going out the front door?”

  Patrick’s father nodded. “Everyone else goes out the back.”

  Kelly gave Patrick a quiet smirk, pat on the shoulder.

  And in the end, Patrick did as he was told.

  Kelly finished off his patty melt on Texas toast.

  Patrick took his last morsel of burger, dipped it into a blob of Heinz 57, and followed suit.

  “Patrick …”

  His head shot up, a common side effect brought on by the sound of Jenna’s voice.

  From her seat across the booth, Jenna smiled slightly, head tilted to the side. Only halfway through her waffle, a small triangular piece still stuck on her fork, resting on her plate. Jenna was a slow eater, a slave to her good manners. Never talk with your mouth full, don’t focus on your next bite until you’re all done with what came before.

  Chew slowly, and Patrick found himself doing just that, right cheek bulging slightly.

  “You’ve got something,” Jenna told him, finger brushing lightly against her chin.

  Patrick’s eyes widened, and he resumed his chewing, double time. No longer able to relish the last of his mayonnaise-soaked burger, he reached for the napkin dispenser. Pinched a little too tight, came out with twelve or so more napkins than he had intended. Swallowed hard, despite not being done chewing, and haphazardly dragged the napkins across his chin.

  “Thanks, Jenna,” Patrick croaked, taking a few more blind swipes. He felt the partly chewed burger making its way haltingly down his esophagus. He lowered his hands slightly, examined the handiwork. “Christ.”

  Jenna laughed. “I’ll say.”

  Patrick felt himself turn red. “There was, like … onion and half a pickle slice on my chin.”

  “Yeah,” Jenna giggled, picking up her fork.

  “You want a take-out box for that, Patrick?” Kelly offered, prompting Jenna to drop the fork back onto her plate with a loud clatter and throw her head back, laughing. Kelly r
aised his knee, resting his foot on the edge of the seat, arm snaking effortlessly around Jenna’s shoulders.

  Patrick watched Jenna lean into him, resting her head against Kelly’s chest.

  Laughter ebbing, fine brown hair spilling down the front of his shirt.

  They had to be the best-looking couple in that whole joint, no question. Not to say that Waffle House was where supermodels came to hibernate between runway gigs. The majority of regulars, older locals for the most part, would be the first to admit time hadn’t treated them too kindly. Younger clientele might not be ready to admit as much, but their eyes didn’t carry enough interest, anyway. Red and bloodshot, wandering empty stares, either stoned or drunk.

  Newports and Pall Malls burning through all hours of the morning.

  Patrick hurriedly folded the contents of his napkin, tossed it aside.

  Jenna rolled her eyes up at her boyfriend. “I’m going to try and finish my waffle now. That OK with you, Mr. Ohio State?”

  “Go right ahead, Mrs. Ohio State….”

  “Hey now, they still got me wait-listed,” Jenna insisted, picking up her fork. Dipped the waffle piece in some syrup and pointed across the table. “You, Patrick? Anything from the Buckeye State?”

  “Nah, nothing,” Patrick said, quickly reaching for his Sprite.

  “Mmm …” Jenna was obviously planning to say something else, but there was a mouthful of waffle and proper etiquette to navigate past.

  While she chewed, Kelly jumped in: “They accepted me and my SAT. They’ve got to accept you, Pat.”

  “You’re going to be their star quarterback.”

  Kelly thought about it, blue eyes admitting an easy defeat. “Yeah, that’s also true.”

  “Did you check?” Jenna finally swallowed. Reached for her water, left lipstick stains on the straw and tried again. “Did you check the mail today, Patrick?”

  “Parents did.”

  “How about yesterday, did you check yesterday?”

  “Two cheeseburgers!” came the cry from behind the counter. “Double hash browns, smothered, covered, diced, and peppered!”

  Patrick glanced over at the sudden rise in activity and grill-top sizzle. “No. Nothing yesterday.”

  “Quit bothering Patrick,” Kelly told Jenna.

  “I’m not bothering.”

  “You are.”

  “ You just don’t want to think of a game without Patrick in that horn section.”

  “Don’t have to,” Kelly stated. “Patrick’s going to get in.”

  “You know the future all of a sudden?”

  “Yes.”

  “Neat.” Jenna resumed slicing up her waffle.

  Patrick had retreated from the conversation. Turned his head toward the curved floor-to-ceiling windows. There wasn’t a hell of a lot to see out there. Ten p.m. traffic lights along the Scarborough Road overpass, changing their colors more out of principle than anything else. An occasional taxi pulling into the parking lot. Cabdriver raking his fingers through a salt-and-pepper beard, waiting for the witching-hour calls of drunken barflies unable to get home on their own. Gas station across the road, another farther down the way. Shopping outlets mingling with pawnshops, Mexican-owned convenience stores, fast-food marquees dropping low as ninety-nine cents, burger outlets outbidding each other in the race to see whose egg-and-cheese biscuit was the most worthless. Far in the distance, the crimson sign shining high and bright just beyond the railroad tracks-white letters reading BOXXX CAR VIDEO.

  Verona was a town both alive and dead in many ways, but outside wasn’t what concerned Patrick. Simple focus, ignoring the orange streetlights and simply staring at the window. Watching the secret reflections of Kelly and Jenna. Narrowing his sights even further, Patrick locked out all that lay beyond and around Jenna’s face, hair, body. He watched her smile, chew, never let on when she caught herself talking with her mouth full, hand shooting up to cover her mouth, eyes wide, mortified that someone might have noticed. The window was Patrick’s sanctuary, a bunker for nuclear testing. It was a looking-glass world where Patrick could give his eyes the liberty of gazing, even as he saw Jenna look across the table and ask someone a question.

  That someone was Patrick, and reality came complete with two quarters sliding across the table.

  “You want to put on some tunes?” Jenna asked.

  Patrick glanced down at the change resting by his arm, an eagle and founding father awaiting their fate.

  “Pat’s just going to put on the same two songs he always does,” Kelly announced.

  “That’s what I like about Patrick.” Jenna smiled reassuringly across the table.

  Kelly shrugged. “I just don’t see why all the suspense.”

  “I don’t, either,” Jenna informed him. She gave Patrick another smile, head jerking once in the direction of the jukebox. “Another thing I like about Patrick.”

  “Whatever,” Kelly said playfully. “I liked him before you did.”

  “Can’t change history,” Jenna lamented.

  “Or the future,” Kelly added, turning to Patrick. “Go on and play your songs, Patrick. I can dig it.”

  Patrick picked the two quarters up off the table, scooted his way out of the wooden booth.

  Kelly handed him twenty bucks and a yellow slip of paper, grease stain on the top left corner. “And get that for us while you’re up, will you, Pat?”

  Patrick nodded, walked across the black and gray tiles. There wasn’t a soul around, it seemed sometimes, who could make it across that floor without shuffling. Something about the noise, the white fluorescent weight from above. The secret knowledge that it didn’t matter how many times a day they mopped up, or how high the sanitation grade got with every inspection, nobody truly believed that floor was or ever would be truly free from that invisible layer of grit.

  And the jukebox was no exception to an unchanging world. Pale pink and yellow track labels faded by the shine of 24/7 service. No MP3s or Internet connections; and although old-timers might laugh at the thought, the CDs stacked within were Patrick’s old-school. They were the happy constants, the familiar threads woven into the fabric of the security blanket, keeping the world at bay.

  Patrick slipped in his fifty cents.

  One quarter, then another.

  Glanced over to the table, saw Kelly whispering something in Jenna’s ear.

  Patrick shifted his focus, out to the window. Caught Jenna’s reflection.

  Eyes lowered with a demure beauty, unable to stop herself from smiling.

  Patrick absently placed a hand over his abdomen, turning to the jukebox.

  Punched out the numbers from memory, and turned to pay the check.

  Patrick had parked his ass out on the back deck. Sitting on a green iron-crafted chair, legs stretched out, listening to 90.7 FM, a couple of cuts from Lester Bowie and the Brass Fantasy. Behind him, kitchen windows joined forces with outdoor floodlights, cast long shadows on the deck, past the deck. Out into the backyard, where shadows grew thin and disappeared, darkness stretching out into a singularity.

  Patrick tapped his pen against the sheet music in his lap, blank lines awaiting his touch.

  He closed his eyes, searching for it. Listening for the sound of crickets, the only evidence that there even were such things. Listening for their message, feeling his hand move across the page, a slow-motion printer. Filling in notes without thinking, without looking. Rescuing all that was lost in translation.

  The sound of crickets, mercifully commonplace, and Patrick felt his face flush. He opened his eyes, glanced back to the brick façade of Kelly’s house, up to a dimly lit second-story window. No way to tell if they were still going at it, Patrick’s ears had found their sanctuary. Guilt-ridden thoughts, wondering if he’d left the house because the sound of Kelly and Jenna was too much to bear, or if maybe the sound of Jenna’s cries was simply too good not to listen to.

  “You’re a disgusting person,” Patrick muttered, trying to countermand images of Jenn
a’s eyes and lips, both half closed, hair sprawled over Kelly’s pillow.

  That’s right, came the voice of his angels…. Kelly’s pillow.

  Patrick sighed, lulled into a melancholy state. He sank uncomfortably into his chair, craned his neck back, and strained his eyes for some small hint of starlight. Each distant dot originating years before he could witness it, nothing more than what was once upon a time.

  “That one dot,” Patrick murmured, unconsciously transcribing its position along with the others’, “that one dot could be seven years ago. Seven years ago is right now, so we’ve all gone back.”

  “And they say we all come from starlight,” Jenna added, her face now floating over him, eclipsing Patrick’s entire vista. He might have jumped, startled, might have found it in his heart to cry out. But there was too much to like about this one interruption. Jenna’s upside-down face grinning an upside-down smile. Tousled hair reaching down to tickle his face, mascara smudged into tiny raccoon ringlets. The faint understanding that she was wearing one of Kelly’s button-down shirts, still open and revealing a black underwire bra. “So truly, seeing that we all come from starlight, where have we finally gone?”

  Patrick smiled stupidly, a common side effect brought about by the sight of Jenna’s face. “I don’t know.”

  “Good night, Patrick …,” Jenna whispered.

  She darted down the wooden stairs, toward the driveway.

  “You going home?” Patrick called after her.

  “I don’t want my dad to worry….” Jenna turned, hands clenching both sides of the shirt together. Black work pants and bare feet skipping backward. “I’ll see you, Patrick.”

  “Tomorrow!” Patrick managed to call out.

  Jenna waved and disappeared around a corner.

  Patrick looked down to find every line filled with the notes of starlight and Jenna’s voice.

  It wasn’t more than four seconds after her car started up when Kelly stepped out onto the deck. He stood behind Patrick, allowing his shadow to join ranks with the rest for just a second. Not a lot said, and for that one second, the Brass Fantasy continued with their rendition of “I Only Have Eyes for You.”