If I Lose Her (11 page)

 It was a
warm, autumn afternoon when I picked Jo up to go with me down to the Taste of
Colorado in Civic Center Park, a festival thrown each year with music and
food-vendors from all over the state. It was also our one-year anniversary, and
I asked Jo to wear the Oxford-blue dress she wore on our first date. I had
spent weeks putting the evening together, and she had no idea what we were
doing, other than taking some photos of the event. 

 “I got some
really great news this afternoon,” she said as we drove from her house
downtown.

 “Yeah,
what’s that?”

 “I won a
scholarship to study at Oxford this summer!”

 “Oxford?
Really? I didn’t know you were applying to Oxford.”

 “Well, I
don’t have any plans to get my degree at Oxford, but mom and I have been
applying to any scholarships we could find, and this was on the list so we
figured, why not? I don’t think either of us thought that I’d actually get it.”

 “How long
would you be gone?”

 “Three
months,” she replied looking unsure how I would respond. “Is that okay?”

 
There
goes another summer together
.

 “I turned to
her and smiled. Of course it is. You don’t have to ask me that. So, what’s
involved? Are you getting to take classes or what?”

 “Yeah, the
scholarship gets me into a three-month scholar-in-residence program, and pays
for food, housing and tuition to some basic courses. And, it looks like I can
get credit for the classes towards my degree. I think it’s meant to show people
what Oxford’s like who wouldn’t normally apply. One of the criteria for the
application was that I lived outside the UK.”

 “Could it
open the door for you to go full-time?”

 “Maybe, but
I don’t know how I’d possibly pay for that. I mean it’s not just tuition I
would have to pay for. There’s also living expenses and food and travel back
and forth to the states. I don’t really see that in the cards. But how great is
it that I get to go for the summer?”

 
Not very.

 
“That’s
awesome.”

 “Maybe you
can come with me!”

 I chuckled
at this.

 “How would I
pay for that? The flight alone is probably eight-hundred-bucks. But, it sounds
like a great opportunity for you. When would you leave?”

 “I don’t
know. I don’t have the details yet. I just got the acceptance letter in the
mail this morning.”

 
Stay
positive Alex, this is big news for her.

 
I
took her hand and kissed it.

 “I am really
happy for you.”

 I was happy
for her. I just knew that I was going to miss her. I was looking forward to
finally getting to spend the summer with her, but I couldn’t blame her for
wanting to go to England– to Oxford. I’d kill to go to Oxford if I
had the opportunity, but no one was offering me the opportunity.

 We parked
the car three blocks from Civic Center Park; far enough away that I knew Jo
wouldn’t be able to see the car from the park.

 The leaves
on the trees were already beginning to turn for the season, and I could hear a
live jazz band and smell a mix of fry batter and butter from where we were.

 She’s
going to hate me for this.

 “So, for our
one year anniversary I thought you could get anything you wanted to eat at the
festival and we could listen to one of the bands,” I told her reaching into my
pocket, pulling out a rolled up twenty-dollar bill and handing it to her. Then
I reached down and fiddled with the dials on my camera, trying hard to look
nonchalant about what I just said.

 From the
corner of my eye I could see her looking at the twenty and feeling something
between confusion and disappointment.

 “Okay? I
thought maybe… we could go out to dinner somewhere?”

 “Are you
kidding? The food here is great. There are chefs from all over Colorado. I
don’t think you’ll find better food than this.”

 Then I took
the twenty from her, handed it to the guy behind the concession stand at the
festival entrance and handed back to her twenty-dollars worth of food tickets.

 Next to the
concessionaire was a cotton candy machine, surrounded by kids, that was a
twisting spiral of color. I readied my camera and started taking pictures.
Click.           When I had my shot,
I turned to her again. She was forcing a half-smile but looked clearly
disappointed.

 “It will be
great, trust me,” I said then I kissed her cheek.

 Over the
next hour we wove our way through the rows of food vendors, and I filled my
pocket-full of new memory cards with all the shots I could possibly think of.

 You had your
standard carnival fare like cotton candy, corn dogs, turkey legs and
hamburgers. Then you had an entire section of tents frying everything from
cheese to ice cream and chicken wings to snickers bars. I even photographed one
little boy eating a fried pickle almost the size of his face. Click click.

 
Then
we walked up to a stand selling kebabs of strawberries and banana pieces
drizzled in white and dark chocolate.

 “Oh, I’m
getting one of those,” Jo said starting to walk up to the vendor.

 “NO! uh,
don’t you think those are too pricey? They’re like six-bucks.”

 “You said I
could get anything I wanted,” she said scrunching her nose at me.

 “I know, I’m
just saying they’re kinda pricey that’s all. Let’s go get some regular food
first and we can come back.”

 “Oh,
alright. But, I am definitely coming back for a berry kebab.” 

 We kept
walking and passed rows of beer and wine vendors, vegetable and fruit growers, salad
makers and pita stuffers while another section of tents held restaurants
selling plates of food from their restaurant menus. The smells of spices and
sugar were making my mouth actually water, and every time I turned around Jo
had another cup of lemonade, cob of corn or chicken sandwich that she was
nibbling on. I stole bites from her when I could, but she was still a little
annoyed that this was the best I could do for our one-year anniversary.

 One stand
that really caught my attention had come all the way from Belgium to sell
gourmet waffles topped with fruits, creams, chocolates and cheese.

 I walked up
to the counter as a man with a thick-grey handlebar mustache poured batter onto
a hot waffle iron. The smell of waffle batter and melted chocolate was so thick
I could almost taste it in the air. I could also hear the batter pop and sizzle
as he poured more onto the hot iron. I put my camera to my eye and pushed the
shutter release. Click click click.

 “Would you
like a sample?” He asked me.

 “Yeah, I’d
love one.” 

 He handed me
a plate with a torn corner of a warm waffle dipped in chocolate. I took the
plate, thanked him and took a bite.
SO good.
Then I turned and handed
the rest to Jo, who had also been watching with great interest.

 She put the
piece in her mouth, as a drop of chocolate fell across her chin.

 “You
dribbled a little bit,” I said reaching over and smearing it across her lip.
She laughed.

 “It looks
like you had a little something also,” she replied wiping some of the chocolate
on her fingers across my lips.

 “Oh really?”

 Then we
kissed and licked the chocolate off of each other’s lips.

 Jo decided
that they were too good to pass up so she spent some of her food tickets on
chocolate covered waffles, and I looked at my watch.
It’s almost time.

 We were
visiting some more vendors when we both heard a thick Jamaican accent calling
out above the crowd. “Shea budda, shea budda. Get ya real shea budda.”

 We walked
over and saw a crowd of people surrounding a black man wearing brightly colored
clothes with dreadlocks hanging down past his waist. He was scooping what
looked like piles of butter out of a large wooden rind into plastic tubs and
weighing them.

 “Shea budda.
Get ya shea budda, one hunded pacent. Aint nuttin like it no way.”

 I looked at
my watch. Then I held up my camera and took a photo.

 “Pua shea
budda, one hunded pacent. Come an try now,” he said scooping a glob onto his
face an rubbing it in. Then he held the pot of the yellow butter out to the
crowd.

 “Come an try
now. Pua shea budda, one hunded pacent.”    

 “You should
try some,” I told Jo nudging her forward. She looked at me and shook her head,
then stepped forward. As she did I watched her take some butter and rub it on
her hands, and I slowly stepped back and disappeared into the crowd. She lifted
her hand and smelled it. I quickly changed the lens on my camera to my longest
telephoto and looked through it to see her turn back to me. I was gone.

 “Alex?” I
could see her ask as she went back to where she had last seen me and started
looking around. Just then a little boy walked up and handed her an envelope; ‘
Trust
Me’
was written on the front. She tore it open and pulled out a photograph
I had taken of her, in her Oxford-blue dress the night of our first date. The
one I shot through the gallery window of her laughing and talking to people
about her artwork.

 Jo smiled
and looked around. Then she turned the photo over. On the back was written:

My dearest Jolene

Please trust and follow me

As I show you

A small handful of clues…

Clue #1

What is oh so sweet but just “too pricey”?

 It only took
her a few seconds to realize what I was talking about. Then she turned and made
her way back to the berry kebab stand.

 “I have this
clue,” she said holding up the photo to the woman in the tent.

 The lady
smiled, handed Jo a berry kebab drizzled in chocolate and revealed another
photo from behind the counter. Jo bit into a strawberry and looked at the photo
of me with a strawberry in my mouth and my lips dripping with chocolate.

 I kept
watching her through the long lens on my camera and snapped another photo of
her as she flipped it over and read the back.

Clue #2

On the corner you will see, those that blossom like the
spring.

 I watched
her think and try to figure out what that meant. Then she read it again.

 She started
looking around and walked out of the festival to the edge of the park. Nothing.

 Again she
read the clue. Then she bit off the last piece of fruit and walked down the
road. I followed her.

 
This is
what stalking someone feels like
, I thought to myself and laughed.

 She got to
the street corner and looked around. Over on the next street corner was an
elderly man at a flower stand.

 
Say hi to
Joe, Jo,
I thought as she walked toward him.

 She held up
the photos like a pair of playing cards.

 “Hello, this
might sound weird but…”

 “Are you
Jolene?” He asked.

 “Yes.”

 “Then these
are for you my dear,” he said reaching behind his stool and handing her a large
bouquet of red roses.

 I watched
her close her eyes, burry her nose and take a long smell.

 “This is for
you as well,” and he handed her another photo.

 “Thank you,”
she said taking the small picture. This one was of me holding out a bushel of
roses as though I were handing them to her myself.

 She smiled
and touched my face. Then she looked up and I ducked behind a car.

 
I hope
she didn’t see me.

 
Slowly
I stood up far enough to look at her through the car’s windows.

 She turned
the photo over and read the back.

Clue #3

Don’t think it that Obscura to find a photo here-a.

 I knew when
I wrote it that she wouldn’t even have to think about this one, because Camera
Obscura gallery, where she worked last summer, was only a couple hundred yards
down the street from Civic Center Park.

 She took off
with a quick pace, tapping the photos on her fingers. I wanted to follow her
and watch her find all the clues, but I had to go and finish getting ready. It
wasn’t until later that night that she told me how she walked down the street and
saw a photo taped to the large flowerpot sitting out front of the gallery.

 She pulled
the photo off and looked at it of me leaning the pot over and pointing into it
with a goofy, clownish look on my face. She looked into the pot and saw a small
corner of plastic poking out of the dark brown dirt. She pulled on the plastic,
and out came a small zip lock baggie with a tiny remote control inside. 

 ‘Press Play’
was written on a small piece of tape on the handle.

 She pressed
play, but nothing happened.

 She pressed
it again, and nothing happened.

 She looked
around and pointed it off in different directions and pressed play again and
again, but nothing happened, so she flipped the photo over and read the next
clue.

Clue #4

I liked your photos

the first time I saw them.

You should come to the place

 where you first sold them.

 She told me
how it took her a few minutes to figure this one out because she had sold one
or two to friends of her family, but figured that couldn’t be what I was
talking about. It wasn’t until she read the line again about the first time I
saw them that she realized I meant her first gallery showing.

 
It
took her about ten minutes to walk to Dumo on Santa Fe Blvd, and when she
arrived, the gallery looked closed. She walked up to the door and tried it. It
opened.