by John Muncie
“So what if they are?” she said. “They’re just sketches. He’s from the City and wants to learn to draw nature. I told him he could hang around here. Is that a crime?”
“Just sketches, huh?” Darryl said. “Then I guess you won’t mind this.”
The pale shapes lunged back and forth along the wall. Alyssa could hear the sound of paper being ripped off thumbtacks and torn to pieces.
“Stop it, stop it!” she yelled. “That’s someone’s work!”
“I thought you said they were just sketches,” he said and ripped up another.
“Fuck you!” Alyssa said. “Fuck you!”
She started toward the bedroom stairs but Darryl chased after her. He grabbed for her arm and caught her wrist, digging his fingers into her.
“Don’t you walk out of this room.” His voice was low and strangled; the words came spitting out as if they’d been squeezed through a tube. She’d never heard him talk to her, or anyone, this way. They stood at the head of the stairs for a moment, facing each other, both paralyzed by the intensity of his tone.
Then he said, “You’ve been walking out of this relationship for years.”
Alyssa jerked her arm away. “Oh really? Is that how you see it? You know I wasn’t the first one out the door. Even before everything happened you were so cold and remote I’d have been better off alone.”
“Better off alone? You think so? Okay then, you can kiss your Limespring buddies good-bye. My grandmother’s money bought this farm, remember? It’s not yours. You have zero claim to it. If you don’t believe me, talk to the lawyer who told me so. And you know damn well this place would sell in a heartbeat to any one of those developers who’ve been sniffing around.”
Alyssa stared at him, mouth open. “You talked to a lawyer?”
“You bet your ass I did. You go, the farm goes.”
CHAPTER 23
Alyssa lay on her side, legs and arms tucked into her chest, listening to Darryl move around the room gathering his things to take back to Washington. He was trying to be quiet; she was pretending to be asleep.
Carrying his shoes in his hands, he walked down the stairs. He didn’t stop in the kitchen for his usual morning cup of coffee. Instead, she heard the front door close and, a moment later, his car door open. She listened as the sound of tires crunching against the gravel grew fainter and fainter until all she heard was the mooing of a cow. Still she lay there, eyes closed.
She tried to replay the recent good scenes in her life: phone calls from Roz, the Follies, riding the horses, evening walks down Limespring Hollow Road, dinners with the Limeys, mornings with Tug. But last night’s fight with Darryl kept intruding.
Usually she could push away the bad; she’d been doing it for years. It was like Lamaze breathing, a fancy form of distraction. Except Lamaze only worked to a point. No matter how hard you breathed or how focused you stayed, the transition phase of labor came bearing down and nothing could distract you from the pain of an eight-pound baby squeezing through a ten-centimeter tunnel.
And now she was beyond distraction. She kept seeing white shapes lunging demonically back and forth against a dark wall. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t turn off the sound of tearing paper and of Darryl’s voice, strangled in anger.
She exhaled heavily and opened her eyes. Why did Darryl ask if she’d been sleeping with Tug? He’d never paid any attention before to what she did at Limespring or whom she did it with. Why now?
She swung her legs over to the side of the bed and sat up. The answers were obvious, because she’d been so obvious.
For the last few weeks, she’d been acting like a teenager on her first date. Two days ago, she’d spent twenty-five minutes getting dressed before Tug came over. She’d tried on a pile of T-shirts before finally settling on a turquoise one that made her eyes look bluer. A week before she had splurged on a $17 jar of “Youth Revitalizing Crème” she’d found at the CVS in Warrenton. It was sitting on the bathroom sink, next to the $2.69 tube of Lubriderm she normally smeared on her face at night. On her way out of the store, she’d walked through the hair care aisle, and actually considered buying a home highlighting kit.
Then came the curtain call.
Of course Darryl had noticed something. He wasn’t blind.
Alyssa got up and walked toward the balcony. What an idiot she’d been. Somehow, she’d gotten so swept up by Limespring and the Follies and Tug, she’d forgotten she had a husband. Even worse: a husband in the audience.
The cheeky morning sun and the shimmering green hayfields didn’t brighten her dark mood. “Shit!” She slapped her hand so hard against the screen door that it slammed open against the siding. She stepped outside and leaned over the railing. The air was damp and felt cool to her skin.
Okay, so Tug and I held hands, Alyssa thought, but that’s no reason to end up in divorce court. And, yes, I’ve imagined a kiss or two. But thinking about adultery doesn’t make me an adulteress. People imagine lots of things. Even Jimmy Carter, the Nobel Peace laureate, committed adultery in his mind.
She closed her eyes and turned her face to the sun. In the red darkness behind her eyelids, she couldn’t stop her favorite Tug fantasy from playing out. It always took place in his studio; always on a hot summer night. They’ve just come back from a walk. He tells her he wants to draw her, with her face flushed and the glow of sweat on her arms. He turns to get his sketch paper. She lets her dress fall to the floor. He turns around, she’s standing there, naked. He doesn’t say anything. He picks up his pad and begins to draw. She can feel his eyes tracing her, caressing the lines of her body. She listens to the scratch of the pencil against the paper. She hears Tug place the pad on the floor and walk to her. The next thing she feels are his lips on hers.
Her eyes popped open. “Enough,” she said aloud and waved her hand across her face, like a windshield wiper erasing her thoughts.
She propped herself against the railing. It’s just a fantasy, she rationalized, a fantasy, no big deal. The only thing I’m really guilty of is bad taste. “Her face flushed; the glow of sweat on her arms.” If the cliché police patrolled daydreams, I’d be in jail. Thinking about Tug doesn’t make me unfaithful. Hell, Darryl probably commits mental adultery every time he sees a Victoria’s Secret catalog.
But then she pictured herself on stage with Tug as Darryl watched. She knew exactly the hollow look Darryl’s eyes got when he was hurt. He didn’t deserve deceit. He wasn’t a bad man. They’d turned out to be a bad match. Neither of them could help the other when they had needed it the most. Even the best of couples would have had a difficult time. She and Darryl just didn’t have the foundation to make it through.
Alyssa walked to the bathroom and ran a stinging hot shower. As the needles sprayed against her body, she tried to sort out her feelings. By the time the water ran cold, the only thing she knew for sure was that she’d managed to turn her skin a bright red.
She started her morning chores of mucking stalls, washing out water buckets, and feeding horses, but she couldn’t focus. Finally, she let the horses out into the pasture, promised them she’d feed them later, and walked down the road to Limespring.
CHAPTER 24
“Busy?” Alyssa stood on the narrow porch of cabin 7 trying to sound nonchalant.
“Not particularly,” said Abbi, on the other side of the screen door, trying to sound as if she hadn’t just woken up. “Come on in.” She was wearing a purple chenille bathrobe and the distracted look of a writer before the day’s first cup of coffee.
“Sorry, I know it’s early,” said Alyssa as she stepped inside. “But I wanted to catch you before you went to your studio.”
The cabin was just big enough to fit a twin bed, dresser, nightstand, and a frayed green corduroy club chair. Its original walk-in closet had been remodeled into a compact bathroom. In the corner opposite the chair was a tower of books and notebooks.
Abbi motioned Alyssa to the club chair and sat against a heap of pillows by
the head of the unmade bed. “Something wrong?”
“You could say that,” said Alyssa. “Darryl and I had a fight last night and we didn’t leave it on the best of terms. I just wanted to talk it through. You know, figure out how to fix things. You mind?”
“Of course not. What are friends for?” Abbi said with a sympathetic tone that covered up her confusion. In all the years they’d known each other, they’d had only one conversation about Alyssa’s marriage, and she’d been drunk. Abbi had seen Alyssa and Darryl squabble before, but this one must have been a doozy. What else would bring her here this early? Then something clicked in the uncaffeinated fog of her brain.
“Oh,” she said. “Does this have something to do with Tug?”
Alyssa winced. “Ouch. That obvious, huh?”
“To everyone but you,” Abbi said. “I was trying to be subtle last week when we went riding. I should’ve just come right out and said it. He talks about you all the time and you’re, you’re . . . what was the word Nattie used to describe you? Oh yeah, ‘carbonated.’ You’re carbonated when he’s around. And you’ll be happy to know it’s driving Charisse crazy. Not that he’s noticed. I wouldn’t be surprised if he lights incense under that sketch of you.”
Alyssa stopped twirling the green threads on the corduroy chair. “What sketch of me? He’s just been drawing farm things.”
“Then I guess you’re just one of his favorite farm things. You didn’t really think he was showing up every day just for the sake of art, did you?”
“Well, I’ve been teaching him about horses. He—”
“Oh please,” Abbi said, interrupting her. “It’s me you’re talking to. Come on, Liss, I’m on your side. And Tug’s. He’s a great guy. Or I guess we already covered that on our trail ride.”
Alyssa continued to twirl the frayed cords. “Okay, so it’s not only about drawing. But we’re just friends. Besides, he’s only here for the summer and I’m married, what else could it be? If anything, I’m a diversion for him. And with Roz not being here I am kind of lonely, I admit it.”
Abbi got up, walked over to the chair, and put her hand on top of Alyssa’s fingers. “I don’t think it’s just that you’re lonely. Or that you’re just a summer diversion.”
Alyssa hadn’t expected this. She’d wanted the flippant, sarcastic Abbi, the Abbi who couldn’t say, “How’s the weather?” without an ironic twist. She’d wanted the Abbi who would arch her eyebrows, wave her hands, and tell her not to take any of Tug’s attentions seriously. But instead she got an Abbi of care and gentle concern. It was almost as disarming as Darryl’s rage.
“Abbi, you’re making this worse. I was counting on you to be the voice of reality.”
“I am. You just don’t like that reality.”
“Well the reality is I’m married.”
“So you’re married,” said Abbi. “That doesn’t mean you’re happy; that doesn’t mean you have to stay married.”
Alyssa shook her head. “It’s not that simple.”
“How about something to drink? I’ve got a coffeemaker here and a couple of mugs.”
Alyssa nodded and Abbi began puttering around with a little coffee machine on top of her dresser. “You’re right,” she said over her shoulder. “Nothing’s ever simple. If it were, Shakespeare wouldn’t have had anything to write about, now would he?”
Alyssa tried to laugh, but it came out like a sigh.
“So let’s talk about the complications. You’re married. That’s a fairly large complication. But not insurmountable. It’s not like you and Darryl are happy together. Or even mildly comfortable. Every time I see him he looks peeved.”
“That’s because he doesn’t like Limespring fellows.”
That brought out the arched-eyebrow Abbi. “Oh? So you mean he’s not like that when we’re not around?”
“All right, we have some problems. And it is true, everything I do irritates him—but it’s also vice versa . . .”
“Now, there’s a really good reason to stay together—mutual irritation. That’s ridiculous. What else could possibly be keeping you two together besides inertia?”
For the next few minutes, Alyssa went down her list of reasons, starting with Roz and ending with Darryl. She invoked loyalty, commitment, perseverance, and was about to add responsibility when Abbi waved her hands like a traffic cop trying to stop a runaway truck.
“Liss, stop,” Abbi said. “Roz is eighteen. She’s old enough to deal with her parents splitting up. The rest is just crap. You told me last year Darryl wouldn’t even notice if you never went back to Washington. What’s this really about? What the hell happened last night, anyway?”
This was more like the Abbi that Alyssa had expected. Someone to cut through the emotion and force her to focus. She told Abbi about the fight, how Darryl accused her of sleeping with Tug, how he ripped up Tug’s drawings and then threatened to sell the farm.
“He’s actually talked to a lawyer, can you believe it?” Alyssa said. “Talk about betrayal. He consulted a fucking lawyer . . .”
“Why does this surprise you?” Abbi said. “He’s hurt. He’s lashing back. And—I’ve never said this to you before—he’s an asshole. What’d you expect him to do? Write you a nice note and ask you to stop making googley eyes with Tug? So he sells the farm, big deal. It’s just dirt. There’s a lot of that in the world.”
Alyssa got up and walked to door. “It’s not just dirt.”
“Okay, so it’s dirt and a lot of great art. But you can take that with you. Your farm is spectacular, no question about it. But Lissy, you made it that way, the spectacular part comes from you. You created it, you can re-create it, anywhere. You can’t keep putting your life on hold for fifty acres. Things couldn’t be any more rotten in Denmark. Darryl’s talking to a lawyer, for Christ sakes! It’s time to do something. Maybe Tug’s your happy ending.”
Alyssa turned back to her and said, “Happy endings are in fairy tales.”
Abbi stifled the urge to shake her and say, “How could you have a happy ending married to that jerk?” But she figured calling Darryl an asshole was enough for one morning. Instead, she poured out a cup of coffee and handed it to Alyssa. “So, what are you going to do?”
“I don’t know. But I do know I’m not losing my farm. I just can’t lose the farm.” She slapped her hips with her open palms at each one of the last six words.
The gesture caught Abbi by surprise. This was not the Alyssa she thought she knew. That Alyssa was in control, even of her own theatricality.
“What am I going to do?” Alyssa repeated. “The only thing I can do. Make it work with Darryl. And you can’t say anything to Tug about this conversation. Nothing. You can’t even tell him I was here, promise?”
Abbi nodded. “Of course I won’t say anything. But that doesn’t mean I agree with you. That doesn’t mean I don’t think you’re making a big mistake. I don’t want to sound like a Pollyanna, but you and Tug belong together.”
“No we don’t,” Alyssa said. “I’m married. I’m a grown woman. I’m forty-three years old, I can control whatever this thing with Tug is. I can control my feelings. I am not a teenager. Besides Tug and I want different things, he’s . . . Forget it, everything about it’s hopeless.”
Before Abbi could pounce on the word “hopeless,” Alyssa walked over and hugged her. “Thanks for putting up with me and my babbling. I’ve got to feed the horses and I’m sure you’ve got plenty of work yourself.”
The screen door slapped shut and Abbi watched Alyssa stride off down the pathway, a woman full of purpose and resolve. A woman playing a part.
CHAPTER 25
Two days after the Follies, the morning was overcast and smelled of early summer, an astringent tang of decayed leaves and new green. Limespring had presented Tug with a whole spectrum of new odors: the wooden siding of his cabin baking in the afternoon heat, pines, moss, wild mint that grew by a slow eddy of the creek. Almost everything about the countryside was new to him. It
wasn’t a simple patchwork of fields and woods. There were vast interlocking systems he’d never thought about before.
Wildflowers grew along wire fences, red foxes ran past black cows, low clouds left tree-topped hills dripping in fog, tractors disked under thistles and dug up rocks. The countryside unfolded like a fractalscape. The closer he looked, the more complex it became. It was probably all the sketching that had brought him this happy intimacy with nature. Whatever the reason, the area around Limespring now seemed teeming with as much wonder and change as Bleecker Street.
He walked down Limespring Hollow Road chewing on the slender stem of a weed, wondering about the people who can tell how long winter will be by the flight of geese or see a good harvest coming in the coat of a fuzzy caterpillar. He wished he could tell his own future that well.
Tug turned onto the dirt road to Finally Farm. He spotted the yellow house tucked between the hills. Had the sun suddenly peeked out from behind the clouds? Okay, maybe it wasn’t all about nature and complexity. He pictured Scheherazade falling from the sky into his arms and onto his chest.
No one answered his knock at the farmhouse door so he walked to the barn. Alyssa’s blue pickup was parked outside and she was standing on the bed, dumping hay bales off the end. She wore red cowboy boots, jeans splotched with green paint, and a faded yellow T-shirt with printing on the back. Her face was flushed; her hair flounced around her head as she struggled with the bales. She looked like a centerfold in a cowgirl magazine. The morning was definitely brightening.
“Shhhhhhit!” she grunted as a bale went flying to the ground.
“Hey, Scheherazade,” Tug said, walking to the pickup. “Don’t princesses get a break from this kind of work?”
“Oh, hi, Tug,” she said. “I’m back to being a farmhand today.”
“Need some help, my lady?” he asked.
“Nope,” she answered matter-of-factly. “I’m fine. You go on.”
Her brusqueness took him aback. “I was hoping to explore the big hill behind the house,” he said, his smile fading. “You said you might show me the trail to the top.”