The Color of Home: A Novel (20 page)

“How about we call you Fellini? Yep, that’s a solid name. You’re a Fellini.” As soon as he said Fellini, a wave of emotion swelled. He lay back on the floor and started to sob. What was that? Time passed. No words. The sobbing slowed. Fellini placed one paw on Nick’s chest and licked his face.

“Newfie’s are my favorite dogs!” a young woman exclaimed as she approached Nick. “What’s his name?”

“Fellini.” A few days after Nick adopted Fellini, he began walking him in Riverside Park. Even though he lived on the outskirts of the city, even though Fellini had free run of the property, Nick found walking him in the park soothing. Such a handsome dog. People always stopped to chat. A dose of human interaction each day. Without complications. “He’s a great dog.”

“Hi, I’m Megan. Are you a fan?” She took her right hand out of her pocket, rose up onto the balls of her feet, and half-waved to Nick.

Attractive. A redhead. Freckles. Cinnamon. First pull in a long time. “Nick. I like a lot of his movies, 8
¹
/
₂
in particular.”

“Me too. It looks like I’m headed in the same direction. Do you want to walk together for a bit?”

“Okay.”

“Can I walk him?”

“Sure.” He handed Megan the leash. They circled the park and chatted about Fellini movies, about Newfies, about Great Falls. He was slow, considerate, deliberate. She was beautiful, intelligent, off limits. He wasn’t ready. He’d only scratched the surface of what he’d come to do in Great Falls.

“What brings you to Great Falls?” Megan asked.

“I lost someone close to me.”

She took a step closer to him. “I’m sorry.” She hooked her hand around his arm.

They stopped for a moment as Fellini sniffed a tree as if it held the secret to dog life, as if there was nothing more important than the splotch where the bark was missing.

“Do you mind if I ask who?”

“My girlfriend. She died in an accident.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“Thank you.”

“When did she die?”

“About nine months ago.”

“You seem really sad.”

“Digging out.” He really had been digging out. Fellini, a rescue dog, a lifesaver, a girl magnet. There was still time to leverage Fellini’s magnetism, but not with Megan. She reminded him of a cross between Rachel and Sassa. Forward like Rachel, but refined like Sassa. It was as if she was channeling them, as if they were sending him a message.

“How do you spend your days out here?”

“Pretty low key. I walk the dog. I work on my music.”

“You’re a musician?”

“I dabble. And you?”

“I’m a student at Montana State. Computer Science. Want to get a cup of coffee?” Megan asked.

He smiled. “Thanks. I think I’ll pass. I’m not ready.”

“You sure? I could help.”

She had such an effortless smile, like she’d figured it all out or hadn’t started yet. “No doubt. But I need to do this myself.”

“Raincheck?”

“Raincheck.”

He stilled. He widened his stance and his whole body warmed from his feet up. He reached his hand out, said good-bye to Megan, continued on his way. The Megans of the world. Temporary relief in the past. No more. He’d come to Great Falls craving something much more permanent.

“I still have a lot of sadness, even after a year in Great Falls,” Nick said. He stroked Fellini’s back as the dog sprawled next to him on the living room floor.

Fellini wagged his tail.

Nick’s talks with Fellini had blossomed into monologues. The Fellini Monologues. On his father. Rachel. Sassa. Politics. Work. On life. They went on for months, allowed him to touch something pure, below the loss line, buried under faded scars, faux wisdom, death. “I’m still not through the sadness. Rachel died a year ago, and I’ve been grieving. But I’m missing something. The sadness seems wider, more fundamental now.”

Fellini followed Nick’s face as if he understood every word Nick uttered. Nick reached over to the end table and handed Fellini his bone. The dog stood the bone straight up between his two front paws and diligently proceeded to eat the rawhide end knot.

“How do you go in any further without getting lost? I’m afraid I’ll never come out.”

Fellini barked, growled, dropped his bone, sprang up, and darted toward the front door.

Probably an animal. Nick flipped on the outside light as they both made their way out onto the porch. What the?

A young girl, maybe seven years old, capered in the front yard. She had long blonde hair decorated with blue ribbons. She stood no more than four feet tall. Lanky for her age. A white dress. White ankle socks. White Nike sneakers.

Fellini loped out to the girl and pranced around her. As they played, Fellini’s black coat and the girl’s white dress melded. Grace. Even in the dark. A moment later, she plopped down on the ground. Fellini crouched next to her, hind legs straight, tail wagging, and offered his paw.

“Hi, doggy. You look like a big bear.”

“Hi, honey. Are you lost? Do you need help?”

“No. I’m playing. I like your dog. What’s his name?”

“Fellini. What’s your name?”

“Evangeline. What’s yours?”

“Nick. Can I call your parents?”

“I live over there.” She pointed toward dense woods to the north of the cabin.

“I don’t think there’s a house over there.”

“What’s a house?”

“You know, like this cabin I live in here.”

“You don’t live in a cabin.”

“Sure I do, honey. I live right here with my dog Fellini.”

“You live in between.”

“I don’t understand, Evangeline. I’d better call your parents.” Nick hurried into the cabin, located and switched on his cell phone, hurried back to the porch. “What’s your number?”

“You know, you have to go through the sadness to get to the big blue sky. That’s why you’re here, silly, eating apple pie.”

“Why don’t you come onto the porch and I’ll call your parents?”

“Then you’ll get out of the middle.”

“The middle of what, honey?”

“Bye, bye, Nick.”

Evangeline skipped off. Nick hesitated, went after her, lost her in the darkness and woods. Back on the porch moments later, he called the police.

Two officers showed up at the cabin within twenty minutes. They asked Nick some general questions, then searched the property for clues. No sign of Evangeline. Before the police arrived, they’d checked with all of the local towns to see if there had been any reports of a missing girl fitting Evangeline’s description. None. The officers, skeptical, formal, recorded Nick’s statement, encouraged him to stay close to the cabin, committed to call him if there was any news.

As the night wore on, Nick, shaken, lay in bed. Was Evangeline okay? Eventually, he sprang out of bed and went to the kitchen to make beet-carrot- apple juice. Two large glasses later, he wandered into the living room and built a fire, topped it off with a bundle of sage. He lay on the floor. Fellini curled up in a semi-circle next to him. The room took on the sage as he drifted back to what Evangeline had blathered about being in between. What the fuck? He dozed off without an answer.

On the one-year anniversary of Rachel’s death, Nick listened to a sketch recording of a partial song tentatively titled “Love.” Before she died, the two of them had started writing the song, a Beatlesque tune with a lot of harmony in the chorus. They’d planned to complete it when they returned from their visit with Sassa in Portland. Was he ready?

Rachel had written a catchy chorus consisting of a single line, “There is love, love here,” repeated four times with four-part harmony layered over the main vocals. She came up with the idea for the song one night while deep in conversation with Nick about the lack of positive love songs in contemporary music.

“No good love songs these days, Dobbie,” she said.

“I need a new nickname.”

“Too late. Dobbie for life.”

“‘Love Song’ by the Cure.”

“I’ll give you that one.”

“‘I Will Follow You Into the Dark’ by Death Cab for Cutie.”

“I wouldn’t want you to,” she said.

“Really. Why?”

“We all need to live our lives.”

Unlike their other collaborations, “Love” started with the title and, from there, they built the song in pieces. They dedicated the session to the chorus hook, writing it over and over with minor variations, until they found one that drove the song. They finished the chorus, complete with gorgeous, intricate harmonies, only hours before they travelled to Portland. Before they left, unexpectedly, Rachel had launched into a killer rendition of a song they both loved, “Look at Miss Ohio.” She’d done good.

Nick pulled out Rachel’s guitar. Miss Ohio. He smiled. He mapped out a structure for “Love,” chorus/verse/verse/chorus/bridge/verse/chorus. Rachel’s chorus. He clicked record on his laptop and strummed verse chords that complemented the chorus they’d written. He jotted down phrases in his notebook. Love was just an evening prayer / . . . / Words they penetrate me.

Frequent distractions sprinkled across the day slowed his progress. Juice making. Fellini walking. Mailbox checking. Working out. Multiple showers. He caught himself procrastinating, thought he should do better, replaced
should
with can. At the end of the day, he still hadn’t come up with an idea. What would have Rachel done? He replayed their session conversation. No new hints. How could he finish without her?

He flung a dozen or so guitar picks on the floor one at a time, like he was skimming flat rocks on water. When he ran out, he drove into town for dinner.

Nick had his favorite spots in Great Falls, and that night, he headed for Lucca’s. When he’d first dined at the restaurant months earlier, he’d christened Lucca’s as a sister restaurant to Pellegrino’s, the restaurant where Sassa worked during her Michigan days. Had Sassa guided him there? Rachel? Probably not. He stepped inside. At least ten types of freshly made antipasti—olives, fish, meat, cheese, mushrooms, and zucchini—were on display on a large table in the lobby. Black and white photos of Italians at work, at cafés, walking the city streets, and farming in Tuscany lined the walls. Someone he didn’t recognize showed him to a candlelit table adorned with a white linen tablecloth and a single place setting. Would he ever see Sassa again?

Debbie approached him. She had long brown hair, her second strongest feature after her laugh. Close in age to Nick, her body, with more than enough curves, would have been considered perfect in the fifties. She was wearing a silk vest with spiraling neon-colored serpentines over a white button-down shirt. Her black tie, shaped into a perfect Windsor knot, toned down the serpents. He’d come to view her as his only real friend in Great Falls and went out of his way to ask for her when he visited the restaurant.

“Nice outfit.”

“It would look better if I were twenty pounds lighter.”

“Not possible to look better.”

The corners of her lips turned upward for a split second. “How are you? The usual tonight?”

“I’m well. I started working on a song today. Yeah, the usual would be great, with some iced tea. Also, some antipasto from the window. Mix it up.” Although all of their entrees looked delicious, he only ordered a couple of items on the menu whenever he visited the restaurant. Linguini with a white clam sauce. Broccoli saltati with extra garlic.

Later, Debbie returned with his meal. “I’m glad you’re writing again. What’s the song called?”

“‘Love.’ I wrote the chorus with Rachel before she died.”

“Wow. You’re ready to finish?”

“I think so. It’s been a year and I had this strange thing happen to me one night, which nudged me.”

“Fate?”

“I don’t know.”

Nick described Evangeline and recounted what happened, including what she jabbered before she ran off. He still couldn’t make any sense of it. “Do you know any young girls who fit Evangeline’s description?”

Debbie shook her head. “Though a lot of campers pass through this time of year.”

“What do you think she meant?”

“I don’t know. You know how kids are. They say all kinds of things that don’t necessarily mean a thing.”

“You may be right, but I must admit her little rhyme has stuck with me.”

“Pay attention then. I’ll be back in a few.” She scurried off to serve her other customers.

Nice walk. In another life. Why had the rhyme stuck with him? What was she trying to say? He slowly picked out extra dark pieces of garlic from his broccoli dish, like they were all the nourishment he would ever need. He hardly touched the rest of his food.

“Food okay?” Debbie asked.

“Not too hungry.”

“How about some lemon ice? We made it fresh this morning. Good and tart, just how you like it.”

“Okay.” Since grade school, his favorite dessert. Outside of New Jersey, Lucca’s had the best lemon ice he’d tasted. Ice reminded him of summertime on the boardwalk with his mom and dad. He smiled.

A few moments later, Debbie returned with an extra large dish of lemon ice. “I couldn’t get what the little girl said to you out of my head. Maybe there is something in the rhyme.”

“Like what?”

“Well, maybe you’re in between Rachel and Sassa?”

Debbie had learned his story. Pieced it together over months of short conversations. How generous. He didn’t know much about her. Had he been that self-absorbed? From grief? For how long? He had to do better; she deserved it. “Yeah, I thought about that too, but I had clearly committed to Rachel by then, so I don’t know.”

“But Rachel is dead now and Sassa isn’t.”

“I’m not following you.”

“Maybe she didn’t mean that you’re in between the two of them. Maybe she meant to warn you that, eventually, you need to stop grieving and choose life over death.”

“Who are you?”

“That’ll be $100, please.”

Images of his father surfaced. Planting tomatoes in their yard. Crabbing on the Jersey shore with chicken wings. Strolling on the Seaside Heights Boardwalk. He’d shared the Rachel and Sassa story with Debbie, but he’d never mentioned anything about his father. He was shaky. Why his father instead of Rachel?