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She
smiles, and with curiosity in her eyes, she
says, “Let me see if I’ve got this right.
You abandon your table in this crowded
restaurant and fall down in the street in order
to watch me up close? What kind of
reporter are you? Do you do this
often? Do you get paid for this kind
of behavior?”
“I
work for The Life Changer Magazine and
write human interest stories about all kinds of
people.”
“Do
you like cobalt blue? What was it
about me that attracted your attention?”
“You
were talking to a man in a brown suit and made a
gesture like this.” I hold up my
right hand to her, fist closed with only my
pinkie extended.
She
laughs. “I was joking with Walter.
That’s one of the little games we play with
each other.”
She
mimics my gesture back to me.
“That’s a message from those who don’t
care enough to send the very best.”
Her
joyous laughter breaks the tension I am feeling.
I let go of my coffee cup, sit back, and breathe
deeply.
My
initial fascination is turning to genuine
appreciation for her charm and sensitivity.
Her refreshing mannerisms are those of a woman
who is used to being with people.
She is casual, warm, and confident.
Her voice is clear and distinct. I
detect no accent of any kind. My job
is to talk to people, to take charge of any
situation; yet, in less than five minutes, I
find myself completely taken in by Jazzbell.
I
notice that on the third finger of each hand
she’s wearing an unusual ring. The
rings appear to match each other.
They offer no clue to her relationship to
Walter, so I ask, “Is Walter your
husband?”
“Heavens!
no.”
“Father?”
“No.”
“Lover?”
“My,
you’re full of questions. The
answer is no, again.”
“OK,
I’m striking out. If I may be bold
enough to ask, “Who, pray tell, is Walter?”
“Yes,
you may ask, and then I get to choose whether or
not to answer.”
“That
sounds quite fair,” I say. “So,
who is Walter?”
As
I look intently at her, I feel my heart beating
faster than normal. She sits
silently for an extended moment and matches my
eye contact. Her eyes pierce mine
with a look like that of a naughty child who is
about to engage in a forbidden behavior.
She starts to speak, but stops. Then
with a smile the look shifts, and she answers my
question in a perfectly normal adult manner.
“Walter
Watkins is a long-time family friend.
He and my dad were in the Navy together.
I’ve known him since I was a young child."
Again
her eyes and her facial expression change.
This time, Jazzbell gets that look on her face
which I will later find to be a heart breaker.
She continues, “Walter is like a beloved uncle
to me. He has been my teacher and
mentor for years. I do love him
dearly.”
Saying
nothing, I just look at her, speechless.
The noise and bustle of the street
and the restaurant seem to flood in like waves
washing away my sand castle. Having no
idea what to make of all this, I just sit there.
Jazzbell
notices my condition. She sits up
straight, leans toward me, and smiles with a
sparkle in her eye, and says, “Walter
introduced me to Bartleby.”
Suddenly,
I’m talking to a different woman.
The heartbreaker look is gone and I’m being
swept away in another wave. This
wave sinks my ship. I think to myself,
“So she is married -- Bartleby is her husband."
Sensing
my confusion she says, “Melville’s
Bartleby. Herman Melville, the
author of Moby-Dick.”
Instantly,
the light flashes, and my boat is afloat again.
I blurt out, “Bartleby, the Scrivener, the
character in one of Melville’s short
stories.”
“You
got it.”
“I’ve
got it that Bartleby has played an important
role in your life, but there are still some
pieces missing.”
Jazzbell
pauses. She sits back.
She looks up and out into the sky to her left.
She holds an expression as though she thought
she had heard someone calling her from a
distance but wasn’t quite sure.
She takes a deep breath and is about to speak to
me when Giorgio arrives at our table with a
clean and empty coffee cup in one hand, a coffee
pot in the other, and a menu tucked comfortably
under his left arm.
“Stoney,
you’re back so soon.”
“Yes,
I just went out to dance in the street.”
“I
saw your maneuver and admire your agility.”
I’m
embarrassed again and hide behind a glib
comment. “All in a day’s work,
thank you. Jazzbell, I’d like you
to meet Giorgio. Giorgio, this is Jazzbell.”
“It
is a pleasure to meet you, ma'am.
Stoney’s friends are always welcome here.”
“Thank
you.” She smiles and focuses her
eyes on Giorgio’s as though there were no one
else in the world. “I feel honored
to be your guest.” Giorgio, being
used to greeting people, returns her eye
contact.
“As
the owner and the amazing master of the kitchen
here, Giorgio makes an omelet that is all but
out of this world.” My words break
their eye contact. “He is also a
personal friend and advisor.”
Giorgio
glances at me and smiles. He places
the cup on the table and returns his focus to Jazzbell’s eyes. He removes the
menu from under his arm and moves the coffee pot
slightly toward the cup. “Miss Jazzbell,
would you like coffee?”
“No,
thank you. I’m not a coffee
drinker.” She leans slightly
toward Giorgio. She reaches out,
lightly touches his wrist, and says,
“As long as I have been elevated to the status
of Stoney’s friend, please drop the Miss and
the Ma’am. Just call me
‘Jazzbell’.”
Giorgio
turns to me and says, “Stoney, where did
you meet such a charming lady?”
“I
. . .”
With
a laugh and a gesture toward the street, Jazzbell
cuts me off. “Out there dancing,” she
says.
“Were
I younger, I, too, would dance in the street to
meet you, Jazzbell.” He places the
menu on the table in front of her and turns to
me. “Are you ready for your omelet
now, Stoney?”
As
I nod, Jazzbell picks up the menu, and without
looking at it hands it back to Giorgio saying,
“I’ll have whatever he’s having.”
“A
wise choice. Would you care for tea
or some other beverage?”
“Yes,
herbal tea, please. Any flavor.”
“It
has been a pleasure meeting you, Jazzbell.”
Giorgio turns, heading for the kitchen.
In less than three steps, he is exchanging
pleasantries with another customer.
End
of Chapter Two --- Close Encounters of the Best Kind
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