15 - Not Great

Grabbing a towel from his wardrobe assistant as he walked off stage, Jon swiped it over his face and made tracks for the dressing room.  Nothing new had come through about Delaney before he went into pre-show lockdown, leaving him in limbo for the duration of the show.   With that lurking in the back of his mind, there weren’t any surprises pulled from the catalog tonight, and it made for a vanilla setlist that had him feeling like a slacker. 

His performance couldn’t be faulted, though.  He gave it as much gusto as ever, working the crowd to deliver a fancy French vanilla instead of a plain vanilla show.  It wasn’t until they hit the encore, when he started strumming “Memory”, that he had to make himself focus and not power through the last few numbers so he could check messages.

“Hey.”  Matt’s voice filled the dressing room just as Jon snatched up his phone from the coffee table.  “You gonna tell me what’s going on?”

“In a minute.” 

Taking it as a step up from the series of flat rejections that same question had garnered between soundcheck and showtime, his brother copped a squat on the sofa to wait.  Uncaring as to where and how long the big man passed the time, Jon tapped the screen to find two waiting messages. 

[7:45PM]DOROTHEA: Call when you can.  Not urgent.

[10:30PM]PETRA: She’s not great but ok.  I’ll tell you more tomorrow.  Good night.

Both were frustratingly vague and provided none of the details he wanted, but on a more positive note, he at least now knew that Delaney was “ok”.  In the grand scheme of things, that was more important than appeasing his morbid curiosity, and he dropped the phone back to the table with a quiet grunt to reach for his collar.     

“Delaney was in some kind of accident today,” he concisely spilled the news while ripping off the sweaty stage shirt and wiping his chest with it.  “She delivered flowers to Dorothea, said she knew me, and ended up unconscious with no ID somewhere.  Dorothea calls me to get her name and then I got in touch with Petra, who sent a text during the show saying Delaney’s not great but okay.  That’s all I got.” 

“Damn,” was Matt’s profound assessment as the damp shirt went flying into the laundry bag.  “That’s… bad.”

“It ain’t good.”

“And… a little fucked up, if you know what I mean.”  The slow words came as Jon toed off his sneakers and kicked them aside.

“No.  I don’t.”

“Well, come on…  It was screwy enough that you went to the place Delaney delivers flowers for to get some for your wife.”

“She owns the business.”  Why it was important to make that distinction, he didn’t know, but it came automatically and without thought.

“Whatever.  Delaney and Dorothea together blows past screwy to fuckin’ awkward, man.”

Looking up from the sock he was peeling off, Jon said bluntly, “I’m not fucking the girl, nor have I had my hand in her pants or my dick down her throat.  The only awkwardness is in your head.”

“But you want to.”

He unbuckled his belt with the sharp snap of one wrist, drawing it through the loops to toss it in the wardrobe case.  “I’m glad you’re now the goddamn authority on what I want.  You gonna start ordering meals for me, too?  Picking out my motherfucking clothes?”

“That didn’t sound like a ‘no’, bro.”

Nailing his brother with a watered-down stink-eye, Jon strode toward the shower without comment.  Men were pigs.  That was a fact, and as such, every one of them considered fucking every woman they met – even if it was a vague, passing notion.  The fact that his uncontrolled psyche came up with one or two very specific thoughts about fucking Delaney was irrelevant.

And none of anybody else’s goddamn business.

Half an hour later, showered and wearing street clothes, Jon closed himself into the back of a nondescript sedan.  The quiet solitude between the arena and the Toronto airport provided him with the best opportunity to return Dorothea’s call, and the streetlamps created shadow and light through the tinted window as he waited for her to answer.

“Hi,” she greeted after the second ring.  “How was the show?”

Since she hadn’t asked him to call after a show yet this tour, he was operating under the presumption that tonight’s request had something to do with Delaney.  Dorothea didn’t give a shit about the actual show, so he kept it short.  “Was okay.  What’s up?”

There was a rustling of linens that instantly conjured the image of her tugging the blankets to her waist and settling into the pillows as whatever book she was reading found its way to the nightstand.  It was a scene he’d walked in on a thousand times, and it came as easily to mind as his kids’ faces.

“How’d you meet the florist?”

Okay.  He’d expected to talk about her, but he hadn’t expected it to start with an inquisition, even if it came across as nothing more than casual interest.  Jon had nothing to hide, however, so he crossed his legs and settled back into the leather seat to give her the short story.  

“She delivered some roses and stuff to me the other day at the Garden.   They were nice, so Jake and I went to her shop for your flowers, which I guess you got.  You like ‘em?”

“Oh, they’re stunning.  No question.”

“Good.  Jake spent a long time picking ‘em out.”

“I heard.”

He assumed that meant his teenage son had milked the flowers for all they were worth.  It wasn’t hard to visualize Jake earnestly telling his mom the personal agony and attention required to get just the right bouquet.  With the kid’s tendency to exaggerate, he’d probably likened it to carrying body parts off a battlefield under a hail of gunfire. 

“So… You gonna tell me about Delaney?  Her sister sent me a message that she’s okay, but that’s all I know.  What happened?”

“You already know she delivered the flowers,” his wife recited.  “Which was a little strange in and of itself.  I’ve never known anybody to get past the doorman downstairs, but when I opened the apartment door to go run an errand, there she was with her delivery about to ring the bell.”

Tucking the phone between his ear and shoulder, Jon cracked open a bottle of water and smiled at the thought of Delaney charming her way into his apartment building like she had the aisle of Madison Square Garden.  Her powers of persuasion must be more effective on the common man than hard-asses like Matt and Stan.

“She passed the flowers over to me with a smile and apologized for being intrusive, saying she’d like to talk to me about my kids.  So here I am thinking she’s some whack job while she goes on with something  about it being too easy to focus on our children’s imperfections rather than the strides they are making toward adulthood.  This woman wanted to make sure I understood how much time and effort Jake spent collaborating with her on those flowers.”

So, it was Delaney making Jake look good and not Jake. 

“After that, she mentioned meeting Jesse at a wine event and sang his praises.   I was a little stunned so I don’t remember it all, but in the end, she basically told me I was a success at one of life’s hardest jobs and that the boys would make any mother proud.   Then she wished me a happy Mother’s Day and was gone.”

The ghost of a smile floated over Jon’s mouth as the blackened scenery continued to fly by.  “That was nice.”

“It was extremely nice,” Dorothea corrected.  “So nice that I wondered if you were sleeping with her.”

“What the fuck?” he choked out, putting the water bottle aside to wipe a hand over the droplets he’d sprayed on himself.  “No, I’m not sleeping with her!  Jesus.  I told you I’d respect our marriage until the papers were filed.”

Her soft snort of laughter held no humor.  “You told me a lot of things.” 

Jon sighed and pushed a damp palm down his thigh, denim scraping against skin with an audible rasp.  This was a recurring theme since the fateful day that had effectively ended his marriage.  He’d spent two months after “the event” talking until he was blue in the face, trying to explain it all away.  It had taken that full time before his stubborn ass finally accepted that some things couldn’t be undone or swept away with an apology. 

He’d gone past the point of no return, and it was only because Dorothea was a fucking saint – and loved their kids – that they remained friendly.  Even at that, she couldn’t resist throwing a bitter barb out every so often, and that was okay.  Jon considered it her due and accepted the jabs without retaliation.  The only defense he ever offered was to change the subject. 

“You gonna get to the part where you play guardian angel?”

This time, the spurt of laughter was more genuine and there was no heat behind her declaration of, “You smart-ass fucker.”

“Hey,” he countered with a smile that he made certain she could hear.  “I call ‘em like I see ‘em.  So get on with it before I get to the airport.”

“Fine,” Dorothea agreed passively, and picked back up with the retelling of events.  “When I finally made it downstairs a few minutes later, she was lying on the sidewalk.  A bike messenger was going nuts, telling everybody around that it wasn’t his fault; she walked out of the building without looking and there wasn’t anything he could do to keep from hitting her.   It probably wouldn’t have been that big of a deal, but it wasn’t a straight fall to the ground.  Her head connected with one of the ornamental lamp posts, and she was unconscious by the time she hit the ground.”

“Jesus.”

“I stayed with her until the paramedics arrived, and when they couldn’t find identification on her, I called you.  The woman had just gone out of her way to tell me I was an amazing mother and how good my kids are, Jon.  How in the hell was I supposed to let her go to the hospital alone, not knowing when or if she’d wake up or a family member would come?  I couldn’t do it.  I just couldn’t.”

“That’s because you’re a saint,” he teased gently.  “I keep tellin’ you that shit.”

A woman who stayed married to a guy who had fucked things up more than once deserved the title of saint.  Especially when he finally committed the unpardonable sin and she let him set the timetable for her freedom.  There weren’t many people in the world like Dorothea.

“Too bad I don’t believe a damn word you say anymore.”

And that’s your own fault.

“I’ve never lied when it comes to you,” he countered quietly.  “You’re one in a million.”

“Stop.”

“I’m not kissing your ass, just telling the truth.” 

“Anyway…” She always kept things friendly but refused to accept his kindness.  “That’s the deal.  Delaney woke up briefly in the ambulance but hadn’t come to again by the time I left her with the sister.  I figured I’d call the hospital tomorrow for an update.”

Releasing a slow breath, he noted that the airport signage was becoming more frequent.  Maybe with this off his mind, he could catch a nap in the hour it took to get back to New York.  Then again, he still had to figure out what Petra’s definition of “not great” was.

“I figure I’ll swing by there and check on her tomorrow.  Come with me, if you want.”

The pause in conversation was long enough to become uncomfortable by the time she noncommittally offered, “We’ll see.”