Tracks That Lead to Joy

By Dennis Ford

Sometimes the lives we lead don’t fit our natures.

Ross Rowen, heir to a pharmaceutical fortune, deserts the velvet life of wealth and haute culture to live in poverty among blue-collar laborers. Shannon Flavin deserts a troubled family to take her place in the great Manhattan. They meet in the diner where Shannon waitresses and instantly fall in love.

When Ross accosts a Vietnam War protestor, they travel to Shannon’s home in Blue Water, New Jersey. Life in the backwater resort clashes with Ross’s quixotic temperament. They return to Manhattan, but life in a Midtown mansion doesn’t match Shannon’s guileless disposition. She doesn’t belong in the gilded society Ross saunters through. She doesn’t belong among Ross’s intellectual friends. She returns alone to Blue Water.

The broken tracks on the beach at Blue Water lead to reconciliation and the novel’s fundamental insight—it is not possible to cure a life. Misfits in the greater life of the world, they fit into one another’s life, perfectly. Shannon rescued Ross from a debauched life in New York. Ross follows her to Blue Water and learns what love requires. In the novel’s tumultuous close, Ross risks death to save the love of his life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Oct 22, 2020
• ISBN: 9781663211316

Dennis Ford

Dennis Ford is the author of nineteen books, including the recent novels Tracks That Lead To Joy and World Without End. He lives on the Jersey Shore, where he walks the beaches and thinks about ghosts.

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Copyright © 2020 Dennis Ford.

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ISBN: 978-1-6632-1132-3 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-6632-1130-9 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-6632-1131-6 (e)

iUniverse rev. date:  10/21/2020

Contents

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The Great Manhattan

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Blue Water

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

The Lives of Strangers

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty One

Chapter Twenty Two

Chapter Twenty Three

Chapter Twenty Four

Chapter Twenty Five

Chapter Twenty Six

Chapter Twenty Seven

Chapter Twenty Eight

Chapter Twenty Nine

What Love Requires

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty One

Chapter Thirty Two

Chapter Thirty Three

Chapter Thirty Four

Chapter Thirty Five

Chapter Thirty Six

Chapter Thirty Seven

Chapter Thirty Eight

Chapter Thirty Nine

Chapter Forty

For my family

The Great Manhattan

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Chapter One

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It had to be biological. There was no other explanation for what happened to Ross Rowen when he walked into the Americana Diner at the corner of Bleecker and Broadway at 4:00 AM on a Sunday morning.

He stood over six feet, with brown-blond hair and green eyes and a round and muscular face that everyone took as Slavic but was decidedly Celtic. His father’s family was from the Lancashire farmlands in England and his mother’s people hailed from the townland of Murrisk on Clew Bay in the County Mayo at the foot of the treeless mountain where Patrick defeated the forces of evil.

He was a prince of the city welcome in every dance hall and key club in the borough of Manhattan. He partied from Harlem to Houston St. He never had to wait on line or tip a doorman to gain entry. As if he were a celebrity, he was ushered in ahead of the crowds who dutifully waited their turns on the sidewalks. His reputation as a playboy was common knowledge among the happening people in a metropolis that never stopped partying. Heir to a vast fortune, he forswore wealth to reside among the have-nots. A scion of privilege, he preferred to associate with people who lived from paycheck to paycheck. He dated a woman whose goal in life was to open a beauty parlor.

His life amid wealth and its Upper West Side trappings had ended—he made the decision to give up the good life of money and social status. His life among the destitute was going to change within the half hour—it was not his decision to make. Nor was it a decision. It was fate met in the beautiful face of a stranger seen through the corneal blur of a night of heavy drinking.

He held the door to the diner so his friends could enter. Vanessa Lunes-Villegas stepped inside. Vanessa was brown skinned—her father was Puerto Rican, her mother was from the South Bronx and a mixed race in ancestry. Vanessa was tall and busty—she was proud of being tall and busty. She always stood erect so her attributes could be seen to their best roundish effect. Her hair was black with blond streaks. After a night on the dance floor, black and blond had become indistinguishable. She wore a sleeveless orange blouse and loose morello-colored slacks. Her high heels were so tall and narrow, it was a wonder that she walked, still less danced.

Mary Ellen Moloney followed Vanessa inside the diner. Mary Ellen was short and slightly overweight. Her hair was brown and curly, her complexion high-colored. The designer frames of her glasses nearly matched her complexion. Her blouse was daytime blue, her slacks were midnight blue. She wore white sneakers that looked on the verge of coming apart. She was a graduate student at Pelham University. When she started taking classes in the biostatistics program, Ross was two years ahead of her. He was now two years behind her.

Gabriel Offit was last to enter. Gabriel was slim, with prematurely receding black hair. He wore a white shirt and beige trousers. His apparel led to arguments earlier in the night. Christ, Gabe, Ross said, you look like a narc. Only Ross’s reputation got them in the club—it was a one-time pass. You have to dress like I do. He wore a red pullover that form fit his chest, Levi Strauss jeans and black boots that zipped on the insides. If you dress like a bookworm, the bouncers will take you for a bumpkin from the outer boroughs and give you the bum’s rush.

The four sat at the table nearest the door. The women sat on one side, the men on the other. Niko, we’re going to sit here, okay? Ross called to the proprietor, who was standing behind the counter at the opposite end of the diner. The table was too small for four people. Their elbows would have to stay at their sides. It’s not like we don’t have our choice of seats, Ross said, moving the ash tray and napkin dispenser to the table next to them.

The cash register was on a counter to the left of the door. A plate with mint candies and a miniature spoon was in front of the register. A jar filled with toothpicks was beside the plate. Across from the register, a poster mounted on a tripod listed the day’s specials. As it was 4:00 AM, there were no specials advertised.

A glass-enclosed dessert stand was behind the tripod. The brightly lit stand revolved slowly, displaying chunks of cheese cake on the top shelf, slices of rum cake and Sacher torte on the middle shelf, and brownie squares and baklava on the bottom shelf.

What’d you think? Gabriel asked. Are those desserts real?

They were edible once, Mary Ellen said. Now they’re petrified and inedible.

They seem to be the same desserts every week, Gabriel observed. We have to be careful what we order. We don’t want to spend the rest of our lives speaking with our hands in front of our mouths to disguise the fact that we’re toothless.

Don’t you people know anything about a diner? Vanessa said. The desserts in the display are for show. When you order, they serve fresh desserts from the kitchen.

We can use the cheese cake as a paperweight, Ross said. The rum cake can serve as a doorstop. The baklava can be a puck in a game of air hockey.

Sssh, Gabriel advised. Niko was staring at them. If we don’t behave, we’re going to get bounced.

Niko was short and swarthy, with a prominent paunch that drooped over the belt of his trousers. His hair was thick and gray. Black-framed glasses concealed both his eyes and the bags that blended with his cheeks. Despite laboring over the stove for half a day, his white shirt was free of stains. He heard what the four said and it amused him. They came in like clockwork every Sunday morning and they cracked the same stale jokes. He was offended at first, but repetition turned the sarcasm into a droll monotony. The same could not be said of their responses. They laughed as if they heard the jokes for the first time. Liquor must have affected their memories.

He saw them as a better class of customer than the kind who wandered in diners at four in the morning. They were loud and rambunctious, including every guest in their conversation, but they were good-looking young people and they spent freely. They made the Americana look crowded at an hour when other diners in the city looked empty. The other guests didn’t care that they acted giddily. The other guests were half asleep or half drunk. They hadn’t the motivation to complain and they weren’t clever enough to join in.

Niko appreciated their business—and he admired them. Unlike the majority of intoxicated people, they talked intelligently. He didn’t throw them out. He let them stay, despite their loud speech. He wouldn’t let other guests carry on like they did. That was to their credit and it was impressive. He especially admired Ross, who he took to be the leader of the group. He intuited that Ross was the kind of person who could get away with things.

Are we going to order? Mary Ellen asked. We always order before the sun comes up.

We better hurry, Gabriel said. It’s summer and the sun comes up early.

I noticed that when we order before the sun comes up, nothing bad happens that day. If we don’t order before the sun comes up, who knows what bad things may happen?

Before we order, I need to visit the latrine, Ross said, standing.

You do know the way to the men’s room? Gabriel asked.

Of course, I know the way. Ross pointed to the left. No, it’s the other way. He followed his finger toward the rear right of the diner.

Don’t forget to come back, Gabriel advised. And don’t forget to tuck yourself in. Did you ladies ever hear about the time when Ross nearly scandalized himself by failing to zip up?

The Americana Diner was strategically located near the entrance of the IND subway line, but it was a small establishment. Four tables were near the entrance. Eight booths ran alongside the outer wall. The seats to the booths were heavily cushioned. The tables were metal and unmovable. There was so little space between the cushions and the tables that adults of average size had difficulty sliding in. Imitation marble panels covered the wall beside each booth. Murals graced each panel. One mural was of the ruins of the Acropolis. Another mural was of the map of Greece. Tourist destinations on the map were out of all proportion to their size on the globe. Another mural was of a mountain. There was no label on the mural. Guests assumed the mountain was Olympus. The remaining murals were generic scenes of the Mediterranean.

Twelve backless stools ran alongside the counter across from the booths. The stools and counter were lower in height than the booths. For tall guests, it was a long descent to the seats. A bulky black stove on the interior of the counter held six gas burners and a long flat grill. Two vertical rotisseries—one for lamb, one for beef—were to the left of the stove. Two electric coffee percolators were to the right of the stove. One of the percolators always held freshly brewed coffee.

Two men sat in one booth. A couple sat in another booth. An elderly man, incongruously dressed in a track suit, sat at the counter. It was impossible to say whether his day was starting or ending. A middle-aged man sat a few stools distant. This man was a delivery driver for a newspaper. His day was ending.

I was telling the ladies about the time you came back from the men’s room with your what-for sticking out, Gabriel said as Ross returned to the table.

What are you talking about? Ross pulled the chair backwards and forwards. As he sat, he took a tipsy jog through memory’s lane. You’re making this up. It never happened.

It’s not a phallacy. You were pretty bam-buzzed that night. You must have forgotten that you have to re-zip after you go. I had to hurry over before you got arrested for indecent exposure. If Niko saw you, he’d slice and dice and your jigglies would be in the tray with the grape leaves.

Don’t keep us hanging, Mary Ellen said. How was the sight?

The sight was fan-testicle. It was mere-raculous.

So it was a case of decent exposure.

All I can tell you is I had to use both halves of the menu to keep the vice squad at bay.

Dream on, everybody, and keep engaging in wish fulfillment. It beats engaging with reality. Ross riffled the laminated menu as if it were a tabletop book. The menu started at page one with breakfast options, continued through six spiral-bound pages of wrapped and unwrapped sandwiches, and concluded with photographs of the house specialties—ripe green olives seated on red pepper carpets, sliced tomatoes dusted with cheese and onions, a lamb gyro the size of a boomerang. Pellets of eggplant dripped on the lamb like purple tallow from a candle.

Niko, where do you cook all this stuff? Gabriel asked. You have a single stove not much larger than the stove in my apartment.

You heard of the Great Cardoza, Niko replied. With the snap of a finger he could pull rabbits from empty derbies and make beautiful women appear out of thin air. Niko is the Great Cardoza of the kitchen. Magnificent dishes appear from nowhere. Multiple orders are filled in moments of culinary wizardry.

The Great Cardoza of the kitchen should conjure up a liquor license, Ross said.

Bah. You people drink too much than to drink in Niko’s diner.

The day shift is for work, Ross responded. The night shift is to get blotto in. Ross closed the menu and placed it on the table. Why do we bother looking? We order the same shit every visit.

That’s because we can’t pronounce half the items on the menu, Gabriel said. I mean how do you pronounce a sauce that starts with the letters t-z-a-t?

You can say ‘tat’ or ‘zat,’ Mary Ellen advised. Or you can say ‘cucumber,’ because that’s mostly what the sauce is."

Ross felt a presence behind him and then a voice, Hello, I’m Shannon and I’ll be your waitress. Can I start you with something to drink?

I’ll start with Remy XO, Ross said, turning. He immediately became tongue tied. It was his standard line. He forgot the follow up, Let me intro-seduce myself.

The face of the waitress was long and lean with thin lips and high cheekbones that served as dermal pedestals to the bluest eyes he had ever seen. Her straight hair was as black as the coffee in the decanter she held. She wore tight white slacks and a tighter white blouse. A folded red apron covered her bottom half.

Angels weren’t singing hosannas, they were making shame that he was drunk. Ordinarily, he liked being drunk. It was a way to intimidate sober people. This night, he felt ashamed. He turned and faced the table, as if chastised. He didn’t know the waitress, he had never seen her before, but he wished she didn’t see him drunk.

We’ll start with coffee, Mary Ellen said. As if on cue, everyone turned their mug right side up.

Shannon bent over the table and poured four cups. She dropped paper thimbles of milk at the center of the table. She stood next to Ross. She was barely an inch distant. Her chest was at eye level. Her pelvis was at shoulder level. Ross was with Vanessa, but he was never shy about looking at women. His logic was simple—if he looked at women, they would look at him. Somehow, this occasion was different. It would be an affront to flirt with Shannon or look at her lasciviously. It was bad enough he was drunk. It was worse to recite inane pickup lines. He stared rigidly forward and never looked to the side.

Actually, we can order, Gabriel said. We order the same dishes every visit. Mary Ellen thinks it’s for luck. I think it’s because we don’t know any better.

Shannon removed a jotter from a pocket in the apron. She held a pencil in her left hand.

Gabriel pointed to Ross. Ross will have scrambled eggs with hash. Hold the toast. He pointed to Vanessa. Vanessa will have eggs Santa Fe style with fries. Unleash the toast. I’ll have blueberry pancakes with maple syrup. He pointed to Mary Ellen. And Mary Ellen will have—I don’t know what Mary Ellen will have.

Scrambled eggs will be fine, Mary Ellen said, with hash browns and rye toast. If you have strawberry jam, that would be great.

Ross flinched as Shannon reached over him to collect the menus.

So, Niko, what happened to Beulah? Gabriel asked. The usual overnight waitress was a short stocky woman with thin gray hair and an irascible disposition. She treated diners less like guests than like inmates. She kept people in line regardless of the hour or the depth of their inebriation and she expected hefty tips for the trouble. If only to stay on her good side, every guest paid fifteen percent for the lack of service.

She fell, Niko said. And her name’s Margaret.

She fell? Gabriel said. Is the sidewalk safe?

I don’t know why I let you in here. You have no respect.

We come in because we’re culinarians and gourmands. Gabriel leaned over the table and whispered, so Niko couldn’t hear, It can’t be because of the atmosphere. At least the replacement waitress is an improvement in the department of looks.

You should show sympathy for Margaret rather than disrespect, Niko said. She broke an ankle. She’ll be out for some time.

I’m sorry to hear that, Gabriel said. I didn’t mean to be glib. I hope she gets well soon.

So, Ross, are you entertaining thoughts about reapplying to Pelham University? Mary Ellen asked. The department’s not the same without you.

Mary Ellen waited, but Ross didn’t answer. He listened to the sounds behind him. He heard Shannon ask, Would you like another round of coffee? He heard her ask, Can I get you anything else? He heard her ask Niko, Do we have strawberry jam? He heard her footsteps as she walked from the counter to the booths and back again. She was faster and lighter on her feet than Margaret. He judged how near or far she was by the sound of her footfalls.

Earth to Planet Rowen, Gabriel said. Are you still in orbit?

Am I what? I’m sorry, my mind was elsewhere.

I was asking if you miss the smell of ditto masters, Mary Ellen said. Do you miss the purple stains on your fingertips? Do you miss the wet feel of unpeelable paper? Do you miss writing call slips in the library with broken pencil points? Do you miss the sound of chalk on blackboards? Do you miss inserting sheets of oilskin in the typewriter? Do you miss the overnight study sessions?

Right. I miss all those things about dear alma mater.

I thought you’d want to keep abreast of things happening on campus.

A breast? Gabriel said. I always took Ross for a two breast kind of guy. A two gor-breast kind of guy.

Vanessa wasn’t insulted, but she pretended she was. You should watch your mouth, she suggested in an indignant tone of voice.

I thought you’d want to keep up with Prof. Lant’s research, Mary Ellen said. He’s the chief statistician on your firm’s wonder drug.

Yeah, like I want anything to do with Charles Lant.

The professor is a lantern lighting up the world with his insights.

I never found him a stimulant. To the contrary, the pabuluminary in the biostatistics department is a death force in academia. There’s dead, deader, deadest—and there’s Prof. Lant. I was never so bored as when I sat through his learned gasifications. If yawns were dollars, I’d be rich.

Richer, you mean, Gabriel said.

If he were with us tonight, he’d say, ‘Overindulgence in alcohol is not stimulative of successful relations.’ He’d add ‘Thus and so,’ which was succedent to every articulation.

I’m not taking your inventory, Mary Ellen said, but you were meant for greater things in this world than donkeywork at Rollins Distribution.

That may be so, but I was not put on this earth to suffer Prof. Lant’s graduate seminars. My first semester at Pelham I nearly suffered a nervous breakdown studying for the final exam in epi-fucking-demiology 100.

What grade did you get? Gabriel asked.

I got a B. Ross waited and added, Minus. But that’s like getting an A in every other course. He didn’t say that his brother Leith routinely earned grades of A in Prof. Lant’s courses.

Well, we miss you and we wish you’d come back, Mary Ellen said. I think what you need is a kick in the gluts to get you started. All it would take is a letter from your father appealing to Lant’s benignity. I can help with the application form.

You’ll be on my side every misstep of the way.

I’m there for you whenever you want to get back in the program.

I appreciate that. I do miss my classmates. I especially miss the TA’s—the letters don’t stand for teaching assistants. Ross raised his left leg, striking his knee on the underside of the table when Vanessa stamped on the top of his foot. Don’t do that. I may need that leg. But, yeah, I miss the student bodies. I don’t miss the professors. As Dante wrote, ‘The road to hell is paved with the skulls of tenured professors.’

It’s priests, not professors Gabriel informed them. ‘The road to hell is paved with the skulls of priests.’

I surely miss the great Prof. Lant going on error rants over the littlest grammatical infraction. I got keelhauled one time for making a typo.

I made one of those once, Mary Ellen said.

What’s a typo and did I ever make one? Gabriel asked.

Who cares about stupid typos? Vanessa said. Here comes breakfast.

Shannon rehearsed their orders as she approached the table. They wouldn’t care, but she didn’t want to make a mistake.

Here you are, she said, setting the plate in front of Vanessa. A Santa Fe omelet with fries and toast. She set the second plate in front of Mary Ellen. Scrambled eggs with hash browns and rye toast. We’re out of strawberry, so I substituted apricot jam. I hope that works.

It’s fine, Mary Ellen said.

Hands, Gabriel said. You have two.

Shannon didn’t know what to say. It was obvious she had two hands.

You need more hands. Or larger hands. Or a rolling cart, like they have in uptown restaurants.

Oh, hands, Shannon said. She pointed to the counter. I’ll be back with the rest of your order.

Gabriel whispered, nodding toward Shannon, Will wonders never begin? There’s a new waitress in town and she has a fine pair of poonts.

I never noticed, Ross said, raising his leg preventively off the floor.

If you don’t like Charles Lant, you can take classes with Nathan Wysocki, Mary Ellen said. She bit open the packet and spread the jam across the toast with a bread knife.

Wysocki? Ross said with a smile. The name always resulted in a joke.

Because he’s stronger than beer, Mary Ellen responded.

Shannon returned with two additional plates. Here you go, she said. Blueberry pancakes with maple syrup. She placed one of the plates in front of Gabriel. And scrambled eggs with hash. Their eyes met for a moment as she leaned over Ross. He looked away quickly, averting his gaze from Shannon to the plate that lowered in front of him. When he saw the portion, he realized he overordered. He always overordered. And he realized that the waitress had a striking suntan.

Let me know if you need anything else, Shannon said.

We’re perfect, thanks, Gabriel said as she walked away. At least, I am. Actually, I’m the antonym of perfect. He cut a slice of pancake and took a bite. "I read a book, The Lives We Lead Before Our Own, that impressed me. The book was about reincarnation and karma." He licked a coating of maple syrup off his lower lip.

So reincarnation is this month’s occult fascination? Ross asked. Last month it was the Kabbalah. The month before that it was the seven holy chakras. The month before that it was theosophy and life on the astral plane. The month before that you were a budding Buddhist. If you keep these loony attunes up, you’ll land on the chopper pad atop Bellevue.

This is no sham-balla. This is the real-balla.

Don’t be so negative, Ross. I’d like to hear about the book.

Thank you, Mary Ellen. The author claims that the events that happen to us in this life are connected to what we did in previous lives. What we do in this life can correct misdeeds committed in former lives. We have a chance to remediate what we failed to do in the past or what we wrongly did.

Why was that woman destined to be a waitress in this life? Ross asked. He didn’t turn to face Shannon.

Maybe being a waitress in this life is a reward for being a good guest in a past life, Vanessa suggested.

Maybe being a waitress in this life is punishment for being a bad guest in a past life, Mary Ellen offered.

We better behave, Vanessa said, or we’ll be waitresses in future lives.

Or, what’s worse, stay guests, Gabriel corrected.

Take me and Vanessa, Ross said. Are we together because I did something right in a past life or because I did something wrong?

I don’t know, Gabriel said, and I’m not going there.

Is Vanessa a reward for what I did previously? Or is she a punishment?

Hey, it works both ways, Vanessa said. You may be a step down for me.

Can I ask a dumb question? Ross said.

There are no dumb questions, Gabriel said. There are only dumb people who ask questions. But shoot away.

So the lives we wear now are not the lives we wore the previous time we were here. When we die, we discard our current selves and leave them like beach robes on the side of the cosmic pool.

That’s one way to put it.

"If I committed a sin in a past life and have no memory of it, how does rectifying the sin benefit me in this life? I can’t undo what’s done. I can’t correct what I’m not aware of. If