by John Cariani
And Lendall got less nervous.
Because her face looked like it liked what she was looking at.
But, as Gayle made sense of what was happening, she realized that what she was holding in her hand—wasn’t what she had come over to get. “But—wait—all the love I gave you—where is it?”
“It’s right there, Gayle,” said Lendall, pointing to the ring.
“But—”
“It’s right there.”
“But—” Gayle looked at the small ring and wondered how it could possibly have contained all the love she had given Lendall. “How could it all be … in here?”
“I don’t know. But it’s all in there. I mean, that’s not where it’s always been. I’ve been keepin’ some of it in the attic, and I had to put some in the shed, ‘cause you’ve given me so much of the stuff over the years.” And he wasn’t going to say how many years they had been together, because he didn’t want to make her feel bad for making him wait so long for her. But then he decided that maybe he did want to make her feel a little bad about how long she had made him wait for her, and added, “It’s been eleven years, you know.”
“I know,” conceded Gayle, quite aware of how long she had made Lendall wait.
“Yeah. Anyway—when you asked me what I thought about us gettin’ married a couple of weeks ago, well, there was more of it than ever comin’ in, and so I asked my dad if he had any suggestions what to do with it all, and he said, ‘You get her a ring yet?’ and I said, ‘No,’ and he said, ‘Get her one. It’s time. When there’s that much of that stuff comin’ in, that’s about the only place you can put it.’”
Lendall looked at the ring and added, “He said it’d all fit.” And then Lendall looked at Gayle and said, “And he was right.” Lendall looked at the ring again and said, “That thing is a lot bigger than it looks.”
“Yeah.” Gayle nodded, supposing that was true.
And then she and Lendall stared at the small, simple, perfect ring.
“So there it is,” said Lendall, still looking at the ring. “All the love you gave me. Just … not in the same form as when you gave it.” Lendall looked at Gayle, who was looking at the ring. And then he asked, “You still want it back?”
“I do.”
“Well then, take it.”
Gayle started to take the ring out of the small maroon velvet box—but stopped. And looked at the huge pile of garbage bags that were full of all the love that Lendall had given her and asked, “Can I keep all this?”
“It’s yours,” laughed Lendall, happy that Gayle wanted to keep it.
“Thank you.” And Gayle looked at all the love Lendall had given her. There seemed to be even more of it than when she looked at it seconds ago. And she wondered how she could have ever thought that Lendall didn’t love her.
And then Gayle took the ring out of the box. And admired it.
And then neither she nor Lendall quite knew what to do.
Because they had almost broken up. And now Gayle had an engagement ring. Which Lendall realized wasn’t on Gayle’s finger yet. So he did something very traditional. Or—since Lendall and Gayle weren’t very traditional—maybe it was actually quite radical: he got down on one knee, held out his left hand, and motioned for Gayle to place the ring in it. Which she did.
And then he took the ring and held it between his thumb and index finger.
And then he took Gayle’s left hand and held it in his.
And he put the ring on her ring finger.
And said, “Gayle Pulcifer: Will you marry me?”
And Gayle said, “Yes,” through a few tears.
And then Lendall helped his one and only up onto her feet.
And then he hugged her. And said, “I’m sorry,” while he did.
Gayle broke from the hug and looked into Lendall’s eyes. “For what?”
“For getting so quiet.”
“Oh. Yeah. Well…”
“It’s just—when you asked me what I thought about us getting married a couple weeks ago … well, you surprised me. And I just needed to figure some things out. And take care of a few things.”
The main thing Lendall needed to figure out was whether or not he still wanted to get married. He had long since given up on marrying the love of his life. So when Gayle asked him what he thought about getting married the Saturday before last, he was completely taken aback, and it took him a second to figure out what he thought about it—but only a second, because he had been wanting to marry Gayle pretty much since the day he had met her on a snowmobile excursion to Quebec City almost eleven years ago.
And once he had figured out what he thought about them getting married, he realized that he needed to take care of a few things—like meet up with Gayle’s dad and ask for his blessing. And call Gayle’s mom (she lived in Connecticut) and ask for her blessing.
And then he needed to get her a ring.
And then he needed to decide when he was going to give it to her.
But he didn’t tell Gayle what all he had needed to figure out or what all he had needed to take care of after he proposed to her on the night when all the extraordinary things did or didn’t happen. He could tell her all that another time. So instead he said, “And you know that I get quiet when I need to figure things out and when I have things I need to take care of.”
“I know,” said Gayle. “Just … maybe you could try being a little less quiet. In the future. So I know what’s goin’ on.”
“Maybe I could,” admitted Lendall. And then he hugged Gayle again. Maybe to complete his apology.
And Gayle looked at the ring on her finger. And then pulled away from Lendall and hung her head in shame and said, “You know, you didn’t have to get me a ring. That’s not what I was asking—”
“Yeah, I did.” Lendall got up on his feet again. “’Cause you wanna get married.” Lendall took Gayle around the waist and pulled her close. “And so do I. Always have.”
And they smiled into each other’s eyes and started swaying to some music that only they could hear.
And then Gayle collapsed a little into Lendall’s chest and said, “I’m so sorry. About tonight. It’s just that—Sandrine and Martin haven’t even been together for a year and they’re already gettin’ married.” Gayle scowled at herself, because she hated that she had let Sandrine make her doubt her relationship with Lendall. “And, you know,” she continued, “it’s our anniversary comin’ up…” Lendall was well aware of this and almost told Gayle that he was planning on proposing then—but then decided not to tell her that just then, because it didn’t seem like that would help anything. “And,” added Gayle, “I think all that stuff made me wonder what’s goin’ on with us. And—I don’t have to wonder what’s goin’ on with us. I know what’s goin’ on with us. And I like it, what’s goin’ on with us. Always have.”
“I’m glad. Me, too.” Lendall pulled Gayle close. And gave her a kiss.
And they both felt that strange lightness grow inside them.
And they looked into each other’s eyes and started swaying again because the music that only they could hear was playing again.
And all the love that Lendall had given Gayle was all around them—and taking up even more room than ever on the porch.
And all the love that Gayle had given Lendall was in the ring on her finger.
Gayle held up her hand so she could see the diamond sparkle in the porch light.
As she did so, she thought she might have caught a glimpse of the northern lights in the sky out over the Norsworthys’ potato fields across the Road to Somewhere/Nowhere.
And she had. Because they had started dancing around in the sky when she opened the small maroon velvet box and saw the ring.
Gayle was disappointed she had only caught a glimpse of the northern lights.
And was then disappointed in herself for doubting something as undoubtable as Lendall’s love.
And then she realized that she and Lendall had to go to Sandrine’s weddi
ng tomorrow—and Clair Gudreau’s funeral.
And she wondered what she was going to say when everyone asked about her ring.
Because they’d see it.
And they’d ask Gayle to tell the story of how they got engaged.
And Gayle decided that she was going to have to make up a story.
Because there was no way she was going to tell the story of what had actually happened.
Because she would look like the biggest jerk in the world if she told people what had actually happened.
* * *
And—anyway—who would believe her if she told them?
8
As Ginette passed Lendall Tardy’s house, she thought about how happy Lendall and Gayle seemed.
And how they had been together forever.
And then she thought about how she felt like she and Pete were going to be together forever after they had confessed their love for one another on the bench at Skyview Park.
But now—they weren’t together at all.
They were far away from each other. And getting farther away with every step Ginette took.
Although—according to Pete and his theory on what it means to be close—every step Ginette took was bringing her closer to Pete.
But it was also bringing her closer to home, which was another few minutes’ walk down the Road to Nowhere.
And she was looking forward to being home. And going to bed.
She was tired.
Telling someone you love them for the first time takes a lot out of you.
Having them tell you that they love you back—for the first time—takes more out of you.
But having them say that you aren’t close to them at all—when you’re sitting right next to them—after confessions of love have been made—takes just about everything that’s left out of you.
* * *
It was 8:20 when Ginette passed Echo Lake Park, a wooded expanse that linked up with the North Maine Woods and the Allagash Wilderness and separated the two westernmost potato fields of Norsworthy’s Potato Farm. Nestled among the evergreen forest was the park’s main attraction, Echo Lake, one of Maine’s six thousand lakes and ponds. Echo Lake’s waters were fed by Echo Lake Brook, which was linked to a chain of streams and lakes and rivers that were home to landlocked Atlantic salmon, Arctic char, and the largest population of native brook trout in the United States.
Ginette had spent a lot of time at Echo Lake, swimming and fishing and kayaking and canoeing in the summer, and skating in the winter.
Marci and Phil Pelkey used to spend a lot of time at Echo Lake, too, swimming and fishing and kayaking and canoeing and skating. But life and its complications and responsibilities—like work and family obligations—had made it more difficult for them to find the time to go swimming, fishing, kayaking, canoeing, or skating—or do much of anything for fun—anymore.
But on the night when all the extraordinary things did or didn’t happen, Marci had managed to get Phil to go skating at Echo Lake. For fun. Like they used to. And Phil didn’t really want to go, because it was going to be more work than it was worth, he said, to clear the ice of all the snow that had fallen earlier in the day. So he asked his wife if she wanted to go to the Snowmobile Club up in Eagle Lake for a nice dinner instead of going skating.
And Marci said no, that she wanted to go skating—and that their son, Jason, and his buddies had cleared a hockey rink–size patch of ice on the lake and had been playing hockey there all afternoon. So there would be no snow to clear.
Besides, it’d be romantic, she said. Because they’d probably have the whole lake to themselves, because Country Swing was going on at the Rec Center.
And Phil said that, if she really wanted to go, then they should go.
And Marci said she really wanted to go.
So Phil grabbed a hockey duffel and loaded it up with their skates and a couple of flashlights and a couple of towels and some blankets and some extra winter clothing, and Marci loaded up a large L.L.Bean tote with a thermos of hot chocolate and a couple of Coleman lanterns and a box of wooden matches, and they hopped into Phil’s GMC Sierra and headed west on the Road to Nowhere to Echo Lake so they could go skating.
As Phil drove, Marci talked about how maybe they needed to get Jason a math tutor. Geometry was killing him.
And then she talked about how she couldn’t believe Missy would be heading off to college next fall. And said that people at school were telling her she had a really good a shot at getting into Bowdoin—and that that was pretty exciting.
And then she asked if maybe they could have Lendall Tardy come by and give them a quote for the kitchen. Marci wanted to knock down the wall between the dining room and the kitchen and get new cupboards.
And Phil wondered if maybe they could wait and see if Missy got into a fancy college like Bowdoin before they committed to remodeling their kitchen.
And Marci said that, now that she was working again, they’d be able to handle both the college and remodeling expenses.
And Phil shrugged and said, “We’ll see,” and seemed irked.
And Marci asked him if he was okay.
And he said he had a lot on his mind.
And neither of them said anything else as they came into down-township Almost.
They passed Skyview Park.
And the old Gallagher Potato Farm.
And St. Mary’s Church.
And Ma Dudley’s Boardinghouse.
And the Moose Paddy.
And the Rec Center.
And at a little after eight, they arrived at Echo Lake.
They turned left onto Echo Lake Road, which wended through the woods for about a quarter of a mile and then deposited them in the parking area—which was, as Marci had predicted, deserted.
Phil parked the Sierra and cut the engine and they got out of the truck. He grabbed the hockey duffel from the backseat and pulled one of the flashlights out of it, while Marci grabbed her tote bag. Phil’s flashlight guided them down to the picnic tables—which had been dragged up to the edge of the frozen lake so skaters would have somewhere to sit while they changed into their skates.
Marci dropped her tote bag on the middle picnic table and removed the Coleman lanterns from it and placed them on the table. Then she primed them and got the box of wooden matches from her bag, struck one, and lit the lanterns’ mantles, which began to glow white hot.
Phil clicked off his flashlight now that the lanterns had been lit and placed it on the picnic table.
Then Marci and Phil sat down on the picnic table bench, and Phil pulled their skates out of his hockey duffel.
Phil took off his Red Wings and slid his old black CCM hockey skates on and laced them up.
And Marci kicked off her new black waterproof slip-on faux-suede winter shoes that Phil’s mom had gotten her from L.L.Bean for Christmas, and she slid her old white figure skates on and laced them up. When she was ready to skate, she hopped up and said, “Come on!” And she grabbed one of the Coleman lanterns and skated to the center of the rink that had been created by Jason and his hockey buddies earlier in the day, and set the lantern down so the makeshift ice rink was illuminated.
“I’m comin’,” said Phil. He finished tying his skates and watched his wife of twenty-three years hit the ice. He had forgotten what a good skater she was. She had grown up in Presque Isle, where they have an indoor ice rink called the Forum, and she had taken figure skating lessons there when she was younger.
As Phil watched Marci, he felt like he still loved her.
“What are you doin’?” called Marci. She could make out his silhouette against the light from the lantern on the picnic table—and it wasn’t moving. “Come on!”
Phil got up and joined Marci on the ice.
And they skated for a while. And Marci started singing an old rock song about being on the edge of seventeen that they always used to hear at the Forum in Presque Isle when she’d take Phil to Public Skate when they were in high school. The song
reminded Phil of better times. Or of times when he felt like he was better. Or something. So he started singing along.
And he and Marci almost had fun. But not quite. Maybe because Phil felt like Marci was trying to force the fun. Which was what she always seemed to be doing lately.
And that irritated him.
And then Marci tried to get Phil to dance with her. And that irritated him some more, and he abruptly shrugged his wife off and skated off by himself.
And Marci watched Phil skate off. And sighed defeatedly. Because Phil was irritated with her. And had been for a while. Which seemed fair, actually, because she had been irritated with him for a while, too.
But on the night when all the extraordinary things did or didn’t happen, she wanted to see if maybe they could become a little less irritated with each other.
And she gently called to her husband and asked him if he was okay and said that he seemed on edge.
And Phil apologized and said he was on edge. Because work had been a lot lately. There was a lot going on—and wrong—at Aroostook Pellets, the wood pellet plant in Masardis that Phil owned and ran. The company was still rebuilding from a fire last summer that had destroyed one of the storage silos. And oil prices were low—cheaper than pellets, currently. So wood pellets weren’t as popular a fuel source as they had been, so sales were down. Way down. And Phil was starting to worry that the business he had built was going to fail.
“Well, try to just … you know, be here now,” said Marci gently. “And let that all go for a little while. So we can have some fun.”
“Yeah.”
And then Phil apologized for thinking about work so much lately.
And then he apologized for being late for their date—he had gotten hung up at work, as usual. And Marci told him not to worry about it and said that she understood and then skated away from him, because she really didn’t understand. But now wasn’t the time to let him know that she didn’t understand. And she wondered if there would ever be a right time to say that she didn’t understand. Because there was so much she didn’t understand lately.
Phil watched Marci skate away. And really wanted to smoke a cigarette. But he didn’t have any cigarettes, because Marci had made him quit.