Fortune and Men’s Eyes
By
Byron Edgington
Della stopped outside Mammon’s Pawn Shop on Superior with a jerk, causing Jim to lurch backward. “Whoa,” he said. “What did you see this time?” Regaining his balance, he joined his spouse of six months at the plate glass window, where she leaned over, the glass frosting with the proximity of her breath. Cabs, trucks, cars and scurrying shoppers hustled by, another frigid December day in downtown Cleveland.
“Jim, look at that bracelet. It’s so, so…”
“Expensive. Della, my only love, you’ll always be a dreamer.”
“Can’t we at least go in and see it?”
Those pleading eyes were what attracted her to him, after all, those big, puppy-brown eyes that peered right inside, melting his skeptical heart. A pang of desire swept Jim Greavey, a complicated mix of anger and yearning: for a job lost and a dissimulating supervisor, for a turn in his fortunes that he never anticipated…and at the desire Della raised in him with those big, brown eyes. James Greavey would buy her the damn store… if only he could.
“Please, Jim? I know we can’t afford it now, but it doesn’t mean we can’t look.”
“I suppose, Della. I hate to see you disappointed, though.”
“Life’s about memories, Jim, not things. We should throw away things. Memories are important. And they’re free, if we’re brave enough to make good ones.”
“A dreamer,” he said, bending toward her. “So why do you want the bracelet?”
“Can’t we just look at it? Please? I want to remember this day with you, when we have each other, and our health, and opportunity and good friends…”
“Here’s a memory for you.” Jim kissed Della’s salty-sweet mouth, her lips lingering on his, those big brown eyes closing at the last moment. Busy shoppers swerved around them, cabbies honking, feet shuffling on the cold sidewalk. “Five minutes,” Jim said, when he came up for air.
“Promise.” Della skipped into the store and turned left toward the front window. The bracelet’s silver filigree wore three charms: a unicorn with a miniscule emerald eye, two tiny baby booties and a miniature violin. Della peered over the divider into the window’s casement. Behind her, at the counter, the clerk punched in numbers on an ancient cash register. The lone customer shuffled out. Then Della heard footsteps.
“Morning, folks,” the man said. “Show you something?”
Jim stepped between the man and his curious wife. “Uh, we’re just…”
“Window shopping.” Della smiled. “I promise, Jim.”
When she fixed him with those eyes, his chest ached. He forced a laugh at her response. “Yes sir. Just looking.”
“Take your time. Most of those items just came in. I’ve had several people look at that bracelet, not sure why. Something magic about it, I guess. Or maybe they come in to get out of the cold.” The man strolled back behind his counter and cleared the register with a ching.
Della’s fingers found Jim’s sleeve, and she nestled against him. “There’s no price tag,” she whispered, with a quick glance at the proprietor.
Jim pulled her closer. “If you have to ask…”
Della’s head fell against his shoulder. “I suppose.” She touched the unicorn, the little violin. Then she fingered the booties. She didn’t have the heart to spoil Jim’s day. Memories are indeed crucial, she knew, so make good ones. What the doctor had told her yesterday…well, Jim had enough on his plate right then, he didn’t need to hear yet. The booties on the bracelet made her heart ache. So tiny; so perfect. They’d keep trying, she knew that much. Jim would give her anything, if he could.
“Ready?” Jim touched her back.
“Sure, let’s go.”
Hand in hand they left the pawnshop and started for home.
Winter came and went. Another one…and another. Della had been to the pawnshop enough that old Mister Pendergast greeted her by name. Then, one afternoon in March, just before their fifth anniversary, she stopped at the shop window and the bracelet was gone. She made her way home and cheered herself up by making Jim his favorite dinner, eggplant Parmesan. She’d serve that and the chardonnay they’d discovered at the winery near Ashtabula, the night four months ago at the B&B where they’d made love in front of the fire, trying, trying. Months had gone by, and nothing. Jim had been disappointed, and so was she, but they were young and they had each other. Seeing the bracelet gone, Della had almost been relieved. No more booties to remind me, she thought.
Then Jim called from downtown. He’d been interviewed to get his job back, he said. “I’ve never seen you act this way,” he said, as he came in the back door that night. “You’re like a kid in a candy store.”
“I’m just so happy for you. You’ll turn Marks and Sons around, I know you will. They should have hired you back a year ago.”
“We’ll see, Della. It’s just an offer. You’ve always been my biggest cheerleader.”
“Always will be.”
“Always be a dreamer.” He pulled her close.
It was June, and time for their annual ritual, a ferry trip to nowhere from the marina downtown. Jim stood in line next to Della, tickets in hand. “Here comes the ferry, see the smoke?”
Della stood on tippy-toe and peeked over the railing. The white boat with its signature blue stripe chugged toward them, passengers lining its rails as it eased toward the public dock and slowed. The engine reversed, and a freshet of water churned at the aft end. Men tossed ropes, tied them off, tightened them on pylons. A fellow leapt from the bow of the fifty-foot ferry and retrieved a wheeled ramp. He lifted one end, positioned the loading device on the boat, dropped it with a bang and secured it. Shortly, passengers streamed off, crowding the ramp, angling toward the parking lot and their waiting cars.
“Won’t be long now,” Jim said, squeezing Della’s arm. A gentle June breeze blew across the 55th Street Marina. Sunday afternoon. Five years since he and Della had wed, five years that saw their fortunes rise with his promotion, and then crash around them when he was summarily dismissed two years into the marriage. They’d met on this same ferry. At the time, he’d been seeing Lauren, the girl who’d championed him for the job at Marks & Sons. Jim should have seen the writing on the wall when Lauren was fired, and the Orton file, his biggest customer, was given to that Kalborn character, the fresh-faced intern who just happened to be Mister Marks’ nephew.
“James Greavey, this is so romantic. The perfect fifth-anniversary present. Thank you so much.” She turned and kissed him.
“Better than your bracelet?”
She smiled, and exposed the silver bauble dripping from her left wrist. “Wonderful surprise, you sneak. But yes, even better than this,” she said. “Things aren’t as important as memories. And we’ll remember this day forever.”
“Always a dreamer.” He snickered at her. “You’ll have the bracelet forever, too, you know.”
Della looked at him with those puppy-brown eyes. “Forever’s a long time.” She played with the tiny charms: the unicorn with its crystalline green eye almost too small to see; the miniature booties with their promise once again dashed and gone; and the tiny violin, just like the one she’d managed to buy from the pawn shop on Superior, dimes and dollars for almost two years. “A very long time.”
“What’s that, dear one?” Jim had been studying the crew as they went through the launch ritual. Ropes sailed onto the deck; the portable ramp clanked ashore; men leapt over open water, three feet across onto the departing ferry.
“Just thinking out loud,” Della said. “You never play your violin anymore. Do you still know the theme from Titanic?”
“I suppose. Why?”
“Just wondered. We make memories other places than here,” she said, tapping her head.
“Muscle memory.” He smiled at her. “It’s how musicians operate, how we play a piece, by practicing it over and over until it’s a matter of muscle memory. Doesn’t sound very romantic, or very accomplished, does it?”
“Like love, in many ways,” Della said. “Often the easier it appears, the more durable, and the more convincing it is. Will you play it for me when we get home?”
“Um…yes, I mean...” Jim forced a laugh. “The old muscle doesn’t work quite like it used to, but we’ll see.” The ferry’s shrill whistle shrieked, and the engine rumbled, its vibrations tickling their feet. The ferry slid away from the dock and they were on their way.
James Greavey had always had a nagging sense of inferiority about his ability, and that suspicion gnawed at him for all his thirty-six years. Despite excellent grades through school, altar boy at St. Mathias in Chagrin Falls, Eagle Scout at seventeen, then three palms afterward. Valedictorian at Central Catholic High, and a full ride to Case Western, majoring in business. None of it seemed to be enough. The dogged pursuit of something better, something beyond all the awards, conferrals and credentials pulled at him, a relentless urge to do more, have more, climb higher… He’d struggled for years with the belief that nothing he did, no client’s satisfaction, no friend’s loyalty, no outward affirmation was quite good enough to bring him real comfort, true satisfaction in his bones.
Della had been the only one who’d ever given him that, the only person who’d ever been able to show him the contented, happy man hiding inside himself. And even her gentle touch and calm, unconditional regard, as affirming as it was, flickered for only an instant, vanquished by his self-doubt.
“Jim, what is it? Tell me.” She snuggled against him as the ferry plowed past the jetty and cut to starboard into the open water of Lake Erie.
“Five years,” he said. “Why can’t I just enjoy the memories, Della?” He eased her away from him. “Why can’t I let go of the doubts, the sense that whatever I do will never be enough?”
“Oh, Jim, you’re such a good man, you don’t have to…”
“No, let me finish this.” He took her hands in his and warmed her fingers in the chill lake breeze. “I’m tired, Della. Tired of the constant pushing, climbing, prodding, always needing more, better, higher. It’s exhausting. I need something a lot more important than a job, or money, or security…”
“Muscle memory,” she whispered.
“What do you mean?”
“It’s not just musicians, or pilots or bricklayers, we all do it. We just dive in, follow each other, go out into the world and plod along, going around in circles.”
“That is what it feels like,” he said. “Like follow the leader, just set the alarm, get up, eat our bacon and eggs, go off to work, come home, eat our roast beef and lima beans, go to bed and do it again, just like…”
“Charms on a bracelet.” Della rotated the silver chain, fingering each of the baubles one at a time.
Jim turned toward the rail. “So, how do we stop doing that?” The lake wind caught his hair as the Cleveland skyline faded into the distance: Terminal Tower, municipal stadium, The Standard Building. “How in the world do I..?”
“Memories last longer than things.”
“I wish I could believe that, Della.”
“Recite it for me? Please?”
He knew instantly what she meant. Call it another kind of muscle memory, the easy communication between lovers, across a room—across a continent. He launched into the poetry, perfectly at ease with its iambic pentameter, the elegant Shakespearean verse flowing out of his mouth. “When in disgrace with fortune and men’s eyes…”
Della’s grin spread as slow as melting butter. Her eyes misted, and her head cocked sideways, as she watched him say the words that had always come so easily to him, words he’d memorized just for her.
“…and trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries, and look upon myself and curse my fate…”
Della fell into him, the breeze mussing her hair.
He kissed the top of her head and went on. “Wishing me like to one more rich with hope…featured like him…like him with friends possessed…”
She looked up, kissed his cheek and smiled as the last two lines of the sonnet thrilled her, warming her heart as they always did.
He stared into those big brown eyes and finished. “For thy sweet love remembered such wealth brings…that then I scorn to change my state with kings.”
“Thank you.” She stepped away, walking toward the steps to the top of the ferry, the observation deck. “Come with me.”
“We’ll be speeding up soon. Della?”
“Come with me.”
Jim did as he was told. He followed Della, as she scaled the narrow steel ladder to the windy deck fifteen feet off the water. Heavy deck chairs ringed the rails, their canvas linings flapping in the wind. Smoke from the ferry’s stack swirled around them, stinging their eyes. Straight down, grey-green lake water whipped into white froth behind the boat, the roiled wake spewing out, marking their path back to shore.
Della slipped out of her windbreaker and handed it to him. “Hold onto this.”
“What are you doing?”
“You’ll see. It’s all about memories, Jim.” She gripped the rail, leaning out over the burbling wake. “….and making good ones.”
“Della, I hope you…be careful, that bracelet’s pretty loose.”
“Remember the wedding, Jim? Little Robert junior in his miniature tux? The organist forgot her music? How Janet almost toppled the cake? And the look she gave you when you asked how much she’d had to drink?”
“Thought she was gonna kill me…”
“And that little lizard in our cabana on Cozumel?”
“We let him watch.”
“Lot to watch that night, as I remember.” Della grinned at him, her eyes watery in the wind. “Remember when we wandered into the pawn shop on Superior. And our B&B near Ashtabula? Our first fight, over that silly burn mark on the kitchen counter? Remember what I said the night you came home, when Bruce Marks let you go? That it doesn’t matter to me what you do, that we can throw it all away and I’ll still be happy?”
“It really is the memories, isn’t it, Della?”
She bit her lip. “Yes, it is. If we’re brave enough to make good ones.” She studied him, those puppy-brown eyes burning into his soul. James Greavey could no more hide himself from Della than he could throw himself into Lake Erie. She took his hands in hers, just as she had on that day five years ago when she gave all of herself to him and fixed him with those big brown eyes. “How much did you get for it?”
“Enough.”
“There was no price tag…”
“If you have to ask.”
“But you loved that violin.”
“Fortune and men’s eyes.”
Della slipped the bracelet off. She held it out, its tiny charms twisting in the wind, the unicorn’s gemlike eye glinting in the light, the little booties dangling, the tiny violin hanging by a thread. She curled the bauble in her palm, and then she dropped it into the churning water.
