Wait For Me Jack Read online

  Addison Jones grew up in California. She is the author of four novels and a collection of short stories, all written under the name of Cynthia Rogerson. Her short stories have been broadcast, anthologised, shortlisted and included in literary magazines. She holds a RLF Fellowship at Dundee University, and supervises for the University of Edinburgh’s creative writing programme.

  Also by Addison Jones (writing as Cynthia Rogerson)

  Upstairs in the Tent

  Love Letters from my Deathbed

  I Love You, Goodbye

  Stepping Out (short stories)

  If I Touched the Earth

  Published in Great Britain by

  Sandstone Press Ltd

  Dochcarty Road

  Dingwall

  Ross-shire

  IV15 9UG

  Scotland.

  www.sandstonepress.com

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form without the express written permission of the publisher.

  Copyright (c) Cynthia Rogerson 2017

  The moral right of Cynthia Rogerson (Addison Jones)to be recognised as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Design and Patent Act, 1988.

  The publisher acknowledges support from Creative Scotland towards publication of this volume.

  ISBN: 978-1-910985-38-0

  ISBNe: 978-1-910985-43-4

  Cover design by Ami Smithson at Cabin

  Ebook Compilation by Iolaire Typography Ltd, Newtonmore

  To anyone who wonders if they married the wrong person

  Contents

  Title Page

  Acknowledgements

  Billie Makes Coffee for Jacko

  Jack Makes Hot Chocolate for Milly

  A Decent Martini

  Jack Is Not Dead

  Killing Ants

  A Date With Lizbeth

  A Spanish Bus

  Meatloaf in Marin

  Glen Miller Died Too

  Cooking With Leftovers

  The Advent of the Big-Nosed Man

  Cleaning the House

  Lemonade on the Deck

  Stepping Out

  If You Come to San Francisco

  Home on the Road

  Billie and Jackie

  Billie Obeys the Book

  Two Women and Three Breasts

  To Begin at the Beginning

  Honeymoon

  Billie Makes Coffee For Jacko

  Afterword

  Acknowledgements

  I am grateful to my parents for too many things to include here. Also: my husband, Peter Whiteley, for his constant encouragement and for the title; my editor, Moira Forsyth, for noticing all the bloopers; my brother and sister, Mike and Carolyn Jones, for their astute input; Clare Atcheson for her wise cracking wisdom.

  I am also indebted to the following people for the time they took to answer my questions, and in some cases, for listening to or reading parts of this manuscript and offering suggestions:

  Ernie Stanton (China Camp)

  Mairi Hedderwick

  Anne Modarressi Tyler

  Maggie Macdonald

  Michel Faber

  Anne Macleod

  Janey Clarke

  Jane Glover (de Young Museum)

  I am especially grateful to my brother’s childhood friend Bob Thawley and his wife, Marion, for pointing out all the places I made huge mistakes in geographical terms. This particular marriage could not have occurred anywhere else, but I have not lived in California for almost forty years.

  ‘It is never easy to make marriage a lovely thing.’

  Dr Marie Stopes 1918

  Billie Makes Coffee for Jacko

  Friday, February 12, 1950 San Francisco

  12:10pm

  The way Billie looks at it, there are two kinds of lives. The kind you’re born and raised to live and the kind you’re not. Which is virtually any other life, anywhere, with anyone. Or no one.

  (She’s typing while she’s thinking. She can type eighty words a minute without looking at the keys.)

  She was raised to live in the valley, somewhere like her hometown of Redding. Like their mother, marry young – a farmer or a brewery man or a trucker. Hang on to him if she could. Eat a million Sunday dinners at her in-laws, have lots of babies, look after her mother as she got older, and sometime later, get fat, play golf and die. Not very terrible, not at all. You could get up in the morning and know pretty much how the day would pan out, and all the years ahead, as clear as a straight valley road. Instead she’s living the other kind of life here in San Francisco. Not safe, not known, and no guarantee about how she’ll end up. A wild, crumbling, twisting cliff track. She can almost see the bridge she’s burned. She can smell it. A thrilling, charred smell.

  Billie’s still typing, meanwhile. She yanks the letter from the typewriter, slips it in the out tray and inserts another piece of paper. Recommences typing. Her cherry red lips press with concentration. Now she’s thinking about her date tonight. Will he be the one? Terry. No, Timmy. Tonight, anything is possible. He very well might be the one, who knows? She enjoys the fact of her own unknown future. Like having a ticket to a foreign country, an exotic place she’s only seen on postcards, sent by people who scribble indecipherable messages. Tragedy? Ecstasy? She’s never had a passport, never even seen one, but she pictures it tucked away in her purse anyway. Poised for departure, her heart aching for the big unknown.

  Jacko leaves the building for lunch. He’s peeked at the cafeteria and decided it’s lousy. Old people, fat and ugly people, and it stinks of cabbage. In fact, now he thinks of it, the whole set up is a little stuffy. The furniture, the clothes, the job itself – call it anything you like, the bottom line is writing stupid lies about stupid products for the benefit of stupid buyers. Nothing and nobody with any taste at all. Not a soul he’d like to drink beer with. Oh sure, it’s good money, but for crying out loud, what’s a man like himself to do? Bury himself in a place like this for years? He’s walking swiftly, feeling lighter with every step he takes away from Perkins Petroleum Products. Maybe he won’t go back.

  Mr Tidmarsh comes round after lunch. Introduces himself to Jacko. Slaps him on the back, asks him how he’s coping.

  ‘Great to have you on board, soldier!’

  Jacko bets he always gives the ex-servicemen the backslap, never the other men.

  Then he says:

  ‘You’ve met Billie, yeah? No?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Billie, come shake hands with Jack MacAlister,’ he shouts across the room to her. ‘Fresh out of college. First day copywriting. The new boy, eh, Jack?’

  Another backslap, followed by an arm punch. Jacko flinches. His dad was Jack; he is not, and never will be, his dad. He is way more than Jack, Goddammit. At least another syllable. But the correction can wait till Monday.

  ‘Find a nice place to eat lunch, Jack?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  And finally, over comes Billie from her desk, and she says, ‘Hey.’

  ‘Hi,’ says Jacko.

  They don’t shake hands. Hardly look at each other. Both look, instead, at Mr Tidmarsh.

  ‘Billie, make Jack a coffee, will you honey?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t want a coffee. Thanks anyway,’ says Jacko.

  ‘I don’t mind,’ says Billie coldly.

  ‘Okay then,’ he says. If she’s not going to even smile, then she can damn well make him a cup of coffee. ‘Black, with sugar.’

  There’s a line at the coffee maker and Mr Tidmarsh is gone when she gets back with Jacko’s coffee.

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Okay.’

  She returns to her desk slowly, with a wriggle in her walk he de
cides is for his benefit. He looks at her the way he looks at almost every girl. Checks her out. Just the right height. Small hands and feet, medium tits, darling legs with sweet knees peeking out when she sits. Interesting eyebrows. He didn’t know eyebrows could be sexy. And hair, swear to God, just like Marilyn Monroe. That same butter yellow, that same way of falling over half her face. Her voice too: little-girl whispery. Then he goes about his business again. Arranges the pencils neatly, the pad with the lists of products. His ashtray, his Zippo lighter. Lights up a Viceroy and goes back to the minuscule photographs of the products in the catalogue. It’s a huge volume with thin pages, like a phone book – as he flicks through he sees artificial legs, toilet seats, shower curtains, hula hoops. Tries to visualise them individually, be interested in them. Think of ways they could sound more enticing. It’s hard because forcing himself to care is exhausting. Caring eventually trickles in, but then, ironically, for the sweet-kneed Billie he pretends it’s old hat. Yawns loudly and stretches between bouts of concentration, and of course, this results in genuine boredom again.

  He’s young and single; there’s a girl with sexy eyebrows on the other side of the room. Caring about petroleum products would be unnatural. He makes a list of questions he needs to ask someone, which soon dwindles into a to-do list, then some sketches of the desk he wants to build this weekend, and finally, in the margin, a doodle of Lizbeth’s breasts. They are anatomically accurate, though based on imagination only. She’d always teased him, then giggled like mad when he started unbuttoning or unzipping. Strangely this never made him fall out of love. Or perhaps, not so strangely. Bared breasts might have killed it. Anyway, Lizbeth is in Paris and it’s over. Though suddenly, now, sitting in his new office, he doesn’t believe it will ever be over. Even if he never sees her again.

  There sits Jacko, feeling a bit old at twenty-four, in a cloud of his own smoke, his mouth dry and his energy wilting. Life is not turning out the way he’d anticipated.

  Billie’s considered and dismissed half a dozen boys she knows, and she’s still typing. Clickety clack, clickety clack. None of them will do for a serious boyfriend, much less a husband. How about that new boy, Jack MacAlister? Cocky, that’s for sure. Actually, he reminds her a little of James Dean. Dangerous, even though he looks about twelve. Had she smelled beer? Bit daring, drinking at lunch on the first day of work. And no real smile for her. Just a smug look that said: Oh yeah, I know. You want me.

  Not likely, thinks Billie Mae Molinelli. She’s never had to chase a boy, there’s always been a line of them just waiting for a chance with her. But he has nice eyes, blue and smart, and the cutest cowlicks. One on the crown of his head and one just above his forehead. (Not dark with cheap oil, thank goodness. Oily hair is what valley boys have.) She can’t remember why, but Billie has always had a soft spot for boys with unruly hair. And is Jack’s V-neck cashmere? It looks so soft hanging over the back of his chair, and as yellow as…well, as the Butterfinger sitting inside her bag right now. Gee whiz, she’s hungry.

  The rest of the afternoon passes, with Billie typing and Jacko scribbling. Suddenly, it’s five o’clock.

  ‘Okay?’ Mr Tidmarsh asks Jacko, on his way out. ‘See you Monday?’

  ‘Yup. Monday.’

  Jacko pulls on his V-neck. He’s never seen the point in keeping good clothes for special occasions. His dad did that, and see where it got him. A life in slob clothes, and a brand-new suit for the coffin. Billie finishes her typing. Loops her sweater around her shoulders, puts on some lipstick. Squints at herself in her compact, as if she’s alone.

  ‘Bye,’ she says nonchalantly to Jacko, and sails past his desk.

  ‘Bye.’ He clicks his new briefcase shut carefully, as if there’s something important inside, and follows her down the stairs to the street into the February sun. A wall of light and cool air. She stands on the sidewalk outside, putting a cigarette in her mouth. Without saying anything, as if they’ve known each other for years, Jacko pulls out his Zippo and flicks it under her cigarette. She smiles her thanks, and inhales. They are almost the same height, so their faces are near. They don’t look at each other. She begins to walk away, giving him a little wave. He lights his own cigarette, heads in the other direction, then quickly swivels and follows her. He has to walk fast. When he is a little ahead, he turns to face her and walking backwards, says, ‘Hey, what you doing for dinner? You like Chinese?’

  Billie doesn’t stop walking, just half smiles, pityingly. He’s spunky, have to give him that. Poor guy. Dumped last week, she bets. He reads her look, almost says: Hey, just kidding. Instead says:

  ‘Could have a few drinks first. It’s early. We could go to North Beach. Vesuvio. There’s always some good music on Friday nights. Some great sax player’s been there every Friday this month.’

  ‘Oh, no thanks. I’m meeting someone.’

  Something alerts him to something unpleasantly familiar. What is it? Her vowels? Her way of walking, slightly flat-footed? But she’s wearing very classy shoes, and she’s not wearing her hair in bangs. He notices things like this. No, she’s not a bit like the farm girls he grew up with in Sonoma. There is nothing wrong with this girl.

  ‘You got a date?’

  ‘Yeah!’ She laughs a little. Of course a date!

  So he smiles crookedly, hoping his smile hints at a wealth of untold jokes. Jokes she’ll never hear now, the stupid girl. He boldly gives her the once over and says:

  ‘Well, have fun then!’

  He turns on his heels and leaves her in his wake. Strides down Market Street. The sun is glinting off the sidewalk, even the bubble gum glows. The whole place is exploding in light. Billie’s hair, glinting gold. Goddammit! If he were in private, he would hit himself hard. Damn, damn, damn. Nothing like starting a weekend by making a fool of himself. He takes a deep breath and expels the humiliation. He’s Jacko MacAlister, Goddammit. No girl is going to ruin his Friday night.

  Billie, meanwhile, strides along a few more seconds, oblivious to everything but the loveliness of the evening, the prospect of her date later, the compliment of that new boy asking her out. Then she glances up to see him about to disappear round the corner of Pine Street, into the shadow of the Bank of America building. Lean, neat, an easy athletic gait, arms swinging like a man undefeated. Into the shadows he goes, and his shoulders are half gone, and his torso and legs too. A beat of a second more, and he will not be visible.

  ‘Hey!’ she shouts, but he is too far to hear.

  Then she begins to run because something inside is lurching towards him, as if the sight of him is something she cannot live without. No idea why, or what she’ll say to him if she catches him. And when she opens her mouth to shout to him again, he turns around with a look of pure smart-ass delight.

  Sixty-Three Years Later

  Jack Makes Hot Chocolate for Milly

  Tuesday July 31, 2014, San Miguel, Marin County

  8:34am

  Jack MacAlister sat at the table taking pills. Statins, of course, for his cholesterol. And blahblahblah for his blahblahblah. So many pills he had to concentrate and order his throat to swallow, not regurgitate.

  ‘Jack!’

  Jack kept swallowing pills, squinting at labels.

  ‘Jack! Jack!’

  ‘What? What is it?’ he growled. He’d been in a bad mood for so long, he couldn’t remember not wanting to strangle his wife. And he did love her, he did, damn it. Not that he often told her straight-faced. Here she came now, he could hear, he could even feel the vibrations of her clanking mechanical progress down the hall. The sight of her oppressed him for all sorts of reasons. She was not a pretty sight, with those continence things poking out of the top of her pyjama bottoms, and the stink of urine and today – yes, a whiff of shit. Her hair (no longer butter yellow – when had she stopped dying it?) was scraped into a ponytail tied with a rubber band. Her breasts were clearly visible when she leant over, because the top button popped off long ago and neither of them cared enough to
find someone to sew it back on. There they swung, sad empty sacks.

  ‘Have you let the dogs out, Jack? I haven’t seen King since breakfast, and you know Jaspy could be anywhere.’

  Her voice was cranky too. Her husband was so lazy, so selfish. He didn’t care about anyone but himself. Mister I’m-all-right-Jack! Look at him, just sitting there in his boxers and T-shirt, having breakfast while the dogs were God knows where. You could see his balls, for pity’s sake! Disgusting old man.

  ‘The dogs are dead,’ said Jack with some satisfaction.

  ‘Oh!’ said Milly, remembering with a thump. ‘Darn it!’

  ‘The dogs died ages ago. Darling.’ And then, as if to punish her: ‘Jaspy was hit by a car and dragged half a block. King was put to sleep. Cancer.’

  ‘Oh dear.’

  ‘Well. They were old.’ He felt guilt at her stricken face. Also, weirdly, genuine grief. Weird, because he’d hated the damn dogs. Hair everywhere, middle of the night barking, and a cloud of dog stink every time he opened the car door. The dogs had always been hers, not his. A series of drooling parasites dating back to the time Milly had been Billie; his terrible crime had somehow entitled her to dogs. Hell! But he felt momentarily close to tears, remembering the dogs and the way they used to act so glad to see him every time he came in the front door, even if he’d just been to the garage. And, oh no, here came actual tears, washing down his cheeks. The doctor had warned him to expect mood swings and tearfulness. Strokes make you cry like a baby. Though he’d never credited his own crying babies with a genuine reason to cry, now he wondered.

  ‘Oh dear, dear, dear,’ fussed Milly. ‘I knew the dogs were dead!’ Then, frowning: ‘Are you crying again? Silly boy. Cut it out, Jack,’ she said softly, as she moved noisily to the kitchen.