by Ede Clarke
“Me too. And, thanks for convincing me that even sad people can be good company.”
“Well, I have to tell you that I’ve never had someone turn me down for a dinner invitation because they are too sad. I mean, are you always that honest with people, and people you don’t even know?”
“No. I’m not. Pretty much never. I’ve got a very small, exclusive group that gets to enjoy my sorrow. I usually save it only for them. But, you see,” I waved the waiter away as I had everything I needed, “today I made a promise that had to be kept.”
“Intriguing. Go on,” Don said as he moved a small piece of bread back and forth, zig-zagging across the plate, grabbing the sauce.
“I promised myself I would not return to the house before I was passionate about something positive.”
“That is fairly deep for a vacation beach-side promise, isn’t it?”
“Well, the question that is more important here, I think, is: Are you positive?”
A small smile emerged on his tanned face as he popped the piece of dressed bread into his mouth. Was he smiling for the sauce or for my question? “That is subjective, isn’t it? So you will have to decide and let me know.”
“Oh, you’re Greek? I see,” I looked at him as we shared a piece of chocolate cake with two forks. “That explains the dipping of the bread and the tanned skin and the . . . well, if I may say . . . ”
“The large nose?” he added with a great big laugh that was still gentle and didn’t attract a lot of attention.
“Yes,” I blushed as I had been found out, my thought had been discovered.
“You are correct that these things are Greek. However, we did not eat dessert first, which is usually what us Greeks do on special occasions. And, since it is a special occasion because it is an important day with your positive passion promise and everything, then we really should have begun with the chocolate cake. No?”
“Yes!” I agree with abandon and for the first time in months did not feel guilty for feeling happy.
“Tomorrow night, then, we begin with dessert and a story. You will pick the dessert that we share, and I will pick the story to tell. This way, I will talk more and you can eat more of the dessert. It’s only fair for someone in your position.” He didn’t ask a question, so I didn’t answer. It was just so.
As he was walking me to my car, I did ask, though, “What position, exactly, is it that I’m in as you see it?”
“Oh, you are in the position to begin again,” he said this with such a smile of kindness and youth, that his wrinkles and weathered skin became ripples that extended and reached out to my soul and jumpstarted parts of me that had been dead long before the catastrophic loss of The Five. He put me in my car and watched me drive away. I could see him in my rearview mirror, standing in the parking lot facing me as I went home.
“Just try to have dinner with the man, Patty,” tried Candy over a much-too-long phone call in the middle of a work day. “I really would like to continue this discussion when I’m not at work. How ‘bout you call me tonight at home. Alright?”
“He wants to go out tomorrow night. It would be good to know now so I can tell him today. Just trust me.” After a long pause I agreed to meet Candy’s coworker for dinner the next night after work.
“But he doesn’t pick me up and he doesn’t know my work or home number.”
“Okay.”
“Okay then.”
As I sat across the table from a sharp contract lawyer who worked at Rich’s, I just couldn’t get past that I had no idea if anything he was saying was true. “And during college I realized I didn’t just want to be a lawyer for the money, but I really wanted to serve people and do what my Dad had done. You know, not just go for the buck.”
“Uh, huh. So, you chose contract law in the private sector to serve others,” I said with a dip in my voice just to let him know he wasn’t convincing me.
“Actually I was a public defender for seven years, but my girlfriend was murdered by one of my ex-clients and that was the beginning of my career change. Now I protect people through contracts. I still see it as a service, just probably not something that would get you killed if you became my girlfriend.”
What a story! Was it true? So I began again, “Tell me more about your parents.”
“Patty, you didn’t even say anything about his deceased girlfriend. Not even an, ‘I’m sorry’,” explained Candy.
“Do you believe that story, Candy? I just wasn’t so sure, you know?”
“I told you I’ve known the guy’s brother for seven years. The story is true. What’s with you?”
“He just wasn’t for me, Patty. Too much convincing. Tried to hard. He was hiding something.”
“Patty I’m so glad Madeleine thought of us having lunch. I’ve worked with her husband at the bank for years. I don’t know if she mentioned that or not?”
“Yes, she did. So, how do you find the work there?”
“I like it very much. I used to— ”
“Excuse me, can I get you something to drink?” asked the server.
“Patty, what would you like?”
“I’d like water with lime in it please. Thank you.”
“And you?” the server asked looking at my lunch date.
“I’ll take a Seven Crown. Thanks.” He’s drinking at lunch? Then turning to me he started right back up where he left off, “So, I used to work across the street but the hours were killing me. Suddenly I woke up at 35 and realized I had to make a change if I ever want a family.
“So, do you usually drink at lunch?” I asked him.
Taken aback he replied, “Well, no, not usually. I don’t know I necessarily do anything usually. Why? Is there a problem?”
Over a half a turkey sandwich and soup Mad promised me the guy didn’t have a drinking problem and that Dan would’ve noticed it by now because he’s around the guy all the time.
“But how do you really know, Mad? Huh? How do you know until you’re so close it hurts to get out. The guy had a Seven Crown for lunch. I mean, come on.”
“Is there an actual reason you don’t want to date anymore? A reason would be nice to know.”
“Well, it’s kind of like this: You know, if you could see the end of sin we would see that it always leads to death. Well, if we could see the end of us, then we would see it probably will end in breaking up or getting married. And, if instead of just bobbling along we really think about the end of the line for us, then we’d see we should just break up now.”
“So, we are sin and breaking up or getting married are death? Is that what you’re saying?”
“Hmm. I think that came out wrong.”
“Good. I’m glad you said that,” he sighed with a slight smile.
“I think that we should just think about where this is headed now so we can take care of it now.”
“So, you want to break up later, so we might as well break up now?”
“Probably. I mean, the odds of us getting married are pretty slim, don’t you think?”
“So, you broke up with him because you probably weren’t going to marry him?”
“Yeah.”
“Patty?”
“Come on, Candy, just eat your side of the hot fudge and give me a break, will you?”
“He wasn’t that bad.”
“He wasn’t that bad? That is what you are saying to me about a man you want me to continue dating: ‘He wasn’t that bad'?”
“It wasn’t that much time. You could’ve waited to see if you wanted to marry him. That’s all I’m saying. You could’ve waited to give it that chance.”
“We meet again, but this time with a plan,” Don greets me on the porch of a lakeside restaurant just as the sun is setting. “So, good evening. May I get you something to drink and we can start out here as the sun goes down. Or, are you starving and we should get to the chocolate cake?”
Immediately I was hungry, which I hadn’t been in months. And, again his easy tenderness, possibly hones
ty came through without any doubt. “Let’s start with the cake. I’m starving.”
I followed the server to a table inside with a perfect view of the lake, the setting sun hitting the shale cliffs and the reflection across Lake Erie seeming to reach all the way to the Canadian lights across. As we sat down I started in immediately, “So, what kind of story are we in for this evening?”
“You don’t waste time, do you?” he smiled while placing his napkin on his lap and taking a sip of the newly poured water. “Excuse me, the lady would like some cut lime for her water please. Yes, thank you.” Good memory. I nodded my appreciation as he began his story, “Now, this is the kind of story that takes a while to tell. You might want to understand that in case you aren’t the patient kind. Are you the patient kind?”
“I think it depends on what we are talking about. Work? Not so much. Kids. Absolutely. We have no choice there,” we both laugh at that reality.
“And love?” he asked.
“Well, I just don’t know really. I’ve changed so since the last go around that I just don’t know.”
“You talk as if you’re my age, Patty. But you’re only, what, in your late twenties?”
“Thirties, thank you. And you? Mid-fifties?”
“Early-sixties. We are kind to each other aren’t we?” We both smiled.
“So, the story will take exactly how long to tell? Will I be in my early-sixties when you complete it?”
“Now, I would be dead if that was the case, so that wouldn’t be fair, now would it?”
“Not at all. No.”
“No, so now that the cake is here,” nodding to the server he continues, “let’s begin. Shall we?”
“We shall indeed,” I proclaim as I take a huge bite of just frosting from my side. Was that ever good . . .
“The idea of this story is much more important than the actual events, characters, or setting. The story is about anyone, doing anything, with anyone, anywhere.”
He paused to take a bite of cake so I inserted the obvious question, “Well, that means it’s not really a story. It’s just thoughts that can be attributed to anything. Why bother? I mean, will we care, be invested?”
“I think that is for you to decide on the other side of the story, not the beginning. It’s like when someone is about to tell a joke or a fable and they tell the punch line or the moral at the beginning, then you don’t want to hear the rest of it. But, if you sit and listen to the rest of it, if it’s good, you’ll want to hear it again and again so you can remember it to tell someone else.”
“So, if I like your story you’ll tell me again so I can tell someone else?” I smirk a bit, almost flirting, as I am so enjoying his conversation and rugged face. Has that face been on the deck of a ship his whole life? Possibly.
He ignored my question, probably because he knew I didn’t need an answer, and before he could begin again I ask, “So, what is the idea of the story?”
“Now that is for you to decide at the end, my dear.”
“Of course.” We smile at each other as I slightly turn the chocolate cake plate to get a better angle. “It was a delicious beginning,” I encourage him on not even caring what other food comes next.
“A woman who had always been poor worked at a highway diner and got a spider bite while sleeping one night. When she woke up the next morning she noticed it right away, just above her wrist on her right arm. It was swollen red, hurt and itched, and was very large.” Don paused a moment as our cream of squash soup arrived and the chocolate cake plate left. He asked, “I’m sorry, Patty. I should have asked, are you squeamish?”
“Thank you for asking, but after The Five, pain of others doesn’t stop me.” The soup was indeed creamy, and had layers of flavors: basil, oregano, celery, pepper, and the sweetest of yellow squash. Spoonful after spoonful I fed my stomach as Don fed my imagination and soul.
“She knew her boss would fire her if he saw that spider bite. She couldn’t serve food with a wound like that. She had to keep her job. Without her income her three kids, mother, and great aunt wouldn’t eat. So, although it was the summer and they had only one small fan in the dining room of the diner, she wore a long sleeve shirt to work every day for the next five weeks. The wound got bigger and more painful. One Sunday afternoon she went to the local library and looked up what to do. It said to leave it uncovered as much as possible so air could get to it and heal it. So, she left it uncovered under her shirt for three more weeks. At the end of the two months, the summer was over. Her wound had healed and she could wear a short sleeve shirt if she wanted to. But, she had grown accustomed to wearing the two long sleeve shirts that she owns. Everyone who knows her knows she poor. So, they didn’t think anything of it that she was only wearing the same two shirts all the time to work. In fact, by the end of the two months, she was only wearing those two shirts every day of the week, whether she was at work or not.
“Fall and winter came and went, and spring fell into summer. The summer was hotter than anyone could remember. And, still she wore the two long sleeve shirts. She wasn’t uncomfortable and she didn’t want anything different. One day at work she passed out from the heat. When she woke up soon after she agreed to go home for the rest of the day. At home that afternoon she considered wearing a short sleeve shirt to work the next day in case the long sleeve shirt contributed to her passing out. As the afternoon turned into evening, she went back and forth thinking about what kind of shirt to wear to work that next day. She also still didn’t feel very good and didn’t want to go to work in the first place. So, this made a chore of something that could have been, should have been fun.
“As she was washing the dinner dishes her great aunt came into the kitchen. She asked her great aunt for her opinion, which shirt should she wear the next day to work. Her aunt asked her if this is what she’d been thinking about all day long; which shirt to wear. She told her aunt that yes this is what she had been trying to decide and had spent many hours thinking it through. Her aunt left the kitchen and told her to make her own decision since it is her own life.”
“Well, that’s not very nice,” I tell Don. The server takes our soup bowls and placed grilled perch before each of us. It smells of lemon and dill and the first bite disintegrates on my tongue after exploding with fresh richness.
“Do you always judge characters in stories?” he asks me while taking his first bite too.
“Good, isn’t it?” I ask and get a wonderful smile that tells me he experienced the same delight.
“So, the woman finishes the dishes and sits down at the kitchen table, staying out of the living room where there is more noise from the television and her great aunt and mother talking during commercials. She finds it easier to think with less noise in the kitchen. Alone, for several more hours she continues to debate as to whether to wear the short sleeve or the long sleeve shirt to work the next day. After the evening news was over, her mother comes into the kitchen and sits down across the table from her. She places her hands on top of her daughter’s hands and asks her if she’s alright, if there is anything she can do to help her daughter. She says, 'Yes, please help me decide about which shirt to wear to work tomorrow. I don’t know what to do.' The mother asked her why this was such a difficult decision for her. She replied that it’s probably because she doesn’t want to get fired and if she makes the wrong decision she’s afraid she may be fired. The mother tells her daughter that no decision should be made out of fear because there is no love in fear. She also tells her daughter that she has been asking an unnecessary question because she should have quit her job a long time ago.”
At that, Don stops talking and finishes his perch. I wait and wait for more story and none comes. Finally I say, “So, I guess the end of the story doesn’t come when I’m your age.”
Then as the server clears our plates and refreshes our water, including fresh-cut lime for mine, Don says, “It’s not a story, it’s an idea. So, it will outlive us both.”
With a grin, he po
ps cash on the table before the check even comes. And with an outstretched hand leads me out of my chair, through the front door, out of the parking lot, through the beginning of pampas grass and sand and onto a shallow moonlit beach. We say nothing, I enjoy the sand, cold on my feet which were too warm in the afternoon. My shoes dangle from my left hand, with my right arm in Don’s left, my right hand comfortably resting on his wrist, sometimes fingers stroking his skin. Not a father. Not a lover. Not just a friend. He is home and freedom at once. Nothing to figure out. It just is.
“I will wait here to set sail until you are on my boat. After you go back to Kenfield, how long do you need before you will return?”
Tears come first, jacking the shoulders up and down, and then eventually sobbing with long releases of breath, water, and muscle tension. We walk on the beach, then sit, then walk again, sometimes leaning on driftwood, sometimes me leaning on him. I never ask him what he is leaning on. It doesn’t seem to be an issue. He is immovable, no matter how much I weep, laugh, struggle, surrender.
“At least a week, maybe two,” I finally tell him. I finally speak. Words with Don are meaningful, measured gifts. We don’t speak to fill up time or space or to comfort ourselves. It’s a decision to speak, not a compulsion. “I’ll wait here, but I will come in an instant if you need me.”
Chapter Nine
The end of summer sails by, closer to fall as each corner is turned, each tree is passed, each street is reached that brings me closer to that house—where the pain is now stale. The lightness in me does not match the sadness of the steps that I can’t seem to put my feet on. Will the darkness creep in again through my toes? Will I be tainted; move backward? I put my weight forward on the first step, and the next, and then the door is open. Quiet between walls is so loud. And alone here is never free from thought. The suitcase startles me for its exaggerated thud that fills the void where those voices will never be again. I think of them as pieces of clothing, tasks to do, smells and noises. They cannot be human for me anymore.