by John Cariani
Before the man could answer, the woman was talking again. “Oh, my God, I am so sorry!” She was frowning and smiling alternately. And sometimes laughing even though she felt like she was going to throw up.
He wasn’t there.
Oh, God.
He wasn’t there.
How could this be?
The woman turned away from the man and put her head in her hands. So she didn’t see him pull the main door to his house closed behind him—which he did to keep the heat in and the cold out. And also so that no one inside would come out and wonder what was going on outside.
“Argh, I am so embarrassed!” said the woman in a voice that made her sound a little like a chicken. She turned back to the man and asked—as if she was giving voice to his thoughts—“Who is this woman and what is she doing here, right?”
And she laughed and then suddenly stopped laughing and almost cried, but then collected herself and said in all seriousness, “I’m sorry. I just honestly thought he’d be here. I always thought he’d be here. Always.”
Then she took a few steps back so she could get a better view of the house—so she could make sure she was in the right place. And she was. She knew she was. “This is the house,” she said to herself.
And then she looked at the man and was about to apologize for disturbing him when she had the strangest feeling that he might be able to help her somehow. And she took a step toward him and asked, “Do you know him?”
Before the man could answer, the woman was describing Daniel Harding.
“He’s a big guy. Big, tall guy. Played basketball. All-Maine, center, strong?”
The small man in the bathrobe looked up at the woman. He was silhouetted by the porch light. So she couldn’t see that he had a strange look on his face—like he didn’t understand the question.
“Do you know him?” she asked again.
“Well—”
“Oh, don’t even answer that. That was—blech—I know that’s a horrible question to ask a person who lives in a small town, as if everybody in small towns knows everybody else, argh, can’t believe I asked you that. I don’t live here anymore, but when I did, I hated it when people assumed that I knew everybody in town just because it was small. It was worse than when they’d ask if we had plumbing, ‘way up there?’”
The man laughed a little and nodded upon remembering the joke he and many other Aroostook County residents had endured many times in their lives.
And the woman was happy that she had made him laugh a little. He didn’t seem like the kind of person who laughed much. And the woman was surprised to find herself pitying him for a moment.
“Anyway,” she continued, “I’m sorry I presumed that you’d know him, because you know, people in small towns really don’t know each other any better than people in big towns, you know that? I mean, you know who you know, and you don’t know who you don’t know, just like anywhere else.”
The man had never thought about this, but supposed it was true. And nodded in agreement.
And the woman smiled and nodded back.
And was completely at a loss. Because this reunion was not going as planned. Probably because she had not been reunited with anyone.
And even if it had been the reunion she had hoped for, what was the likelihood that it would have gone as planned? How in the world could she have expected to show up in Almost and pick up with Daniel where she had left off with him?
But—while it was ridiculous of her to have presumed that she could just show up and pick up where she and Daniel had left off, it wasn’t ridiculous for her to have expected to see him.
Because she had made sure he was still there—she had checked public records.
But—he wasn’t there.
And she really needed to see him.
Because she had something very important to tell him.
But now it looked like she wasn’t going to be able to tell him.
And that made her feel like she was going to cry.
But she didn’t cry.
Because she had gotten good at not crying—by forcing herself to smile when she felt like crying.
So she smiled really hard at the man who stood before her so she wouldn’t cry. And said sincerely, “I am so sorry to have bothered you.” And then she bowed her head a bit and turned and grabbed the telescoping handle of her wheelie suitcase and started to go.
The man wanted to stop her. Because he really wanted to know why this woman was at his house. But he couldn’t come up with anything to say to make her stay.
Fortunately, he didn’t have to come up with anything to say. Because the woman had stopped herself and had turned back to the man and said argh in a voice that made her sound like a pirate-chicken. And then, in her own non-pirate-chicken voice, she continued, “I was just so sure…”
The woman didn’t finish the sentence and the man wanted to know what the woman was so sure of and so he asked, “What?”
“Ugh,” she grunted. “I was just so sure he’d be here. When his parents passed away, he kept the house, I heard. He lived here. He stayed here, I thought. He was one of the ones who stayed.” The woman stared at the house and wondered where in the world Daniel was now. And then added, “I didn’t stay. I went away.”
“Most people do,” said the man ruefully. And he was telling the truth. Intelligent, aspiring people like this woman had been encouraged to leave northern Maine. And bring their intelligence and aspirations with them. Which is too bad, because places like northern Maine could use the intelligence and aspirations that the people who went away took with them.
“Yeah,” agreed the woman. “And I guess he went away, too. I never thought he would. I guess I lost track. I wish there was something you could keep people in for when you need ’em, you know?” She opened her purse and pointed inside. “Oh, there he is, perfect!” she said as if she were a Muppet or a cartoon character, hoping he’d think she was being funny and/or understand what she was saying.
But he didn’t. Think she was funny. Or understand what she was saying.
Then she laughed, hoping he’d laugh.
And he didn’t. Because he really didn’t know what she was talking about.
And then it was quiet.
And the northern Maine quiet made the woman realize how much noise there was where she lived.
And how much noise there was in her head.
And she realized that she needed to get back to a place where there was more noise outside her head than there was inside her head. So she grabbed her wheelie suitcase and turned to go.
But something inside her made her stop. It was that lightness again. It made her feel like she needed to be there—with this man. So she slowly turned to him. And looked lost.
“Are you all right?” asked the man.
“Yeah,” lied the woman. “It’s just … cold.”
The man actually thought it was pretty mild for a midwinter night in Almost, Maine. It was nineteen degrees. So he didn’t agree with the woman. But he didn’t tell her so.
“It doesn’t get cold like this where I’m from,” added the woman. And then she smiled. Even though she didn’t feel like smiling.
“Oh,” said the man. He could see the woman’s odd smile, because she was front-lit by the same lamp that was backlighting him. And he didn’t know what to make of that smile. Because it didn’t match her sad eyes.
And then he felt like he should say more—because there was more he could have said. Much more. But he couldn’t bring himself to say it. Because he was too interested in hearing what the woman had to say.
“I’m sorry I’m still here,” said the woman, trying to figure out why she was still there. “It’s just…” She suddenly dropped her shoulders and let her head fall back so her face was open to the sky. “I can’t believe…,” she groaned.
The man wanted to know what the woman couldn’t believe.
But the woman didn’t say what it was that she couldn’t believe.
; So the man asked, “What can’t you believe?”
“I—” The woman struggled to bring herself to say what she was about to say. Because what she was about to say was ridiculous.
And then she finally said it.
Because she felt like the man would understand, for some reason.
“I took a taxi here. From Bangor. To see him.”
The woman looked down and shook her head a little. And kicked at some ice in the driveway. And then laughed at herself. And made that strange argh sound she kept making.
The man just stared at the woman.
And said nothing for a while.
And then finally stated the obvious.
“That’s far.”
“Yeah.”
“That’s a hundred and sixty-three miles.”
“Yeah.” The woman rolled her eyes. “This place is a little farther away from things than I remember.”
And the man wondered why in the world the woman would have done something as extravagant as spend several hundred dollars on a taxi ride.
“Why did you do that?” he asked incredulously.
The woman made that strange argh sound again. And then inhaled deeply. And held her breath for a moment. And then said, “Because I could only fly as close as Bangor, and I couldn’t wait till morning for the next flight to Presque Isle—because I needed to get to him as fast as I could.”
“Why?”
“I … wanted to answer a question he asked me.”
“Oh.” The man was intrigued.
“The last time I saw him, he asked me a very important question, and I didn’t answer it, and that’s just not a very nice thing to do to a person.”
“Well, that’s bein’ a little hard on yourself, don’t you think?”
“He asked me to marry him,” said the woman in a way that let the man know that she didn’t think she was being hard on herself—at all.
The man nodded as he took in this information. And agreed that not answering a marriage proposal is, in fact, not a very nice thing to do to a person. And remarked, “Oh.” And then, just to confirm that he had heard correctly, he asked, “And you…?”
“Didn’t answer him, no.”
The man whistled. It was a whistle that meant, “Wow, how could you have done such a heartless thing?” It was full of judgment.
“Yeah,” conceded the woman, mildly irritated by the tone of the stranger’s whistle. She didn’t need his judgment. She had already judged herself plenty for not having answered the question. And besides, she was there to make her wrong right, so she defended herself: “And that’s why I’m here. To answer him. I mean, I didn’t answer him in the first place because I didn’t have an answer at the time. Because I was going to college—my dream school!—and then, the night before I’m about to go off into the world to do what I hope and dream, he asks me, ‘Will you marry me?’ I mean, come on! I was leaving in the morning. What was I supposed to do?”
The man thought the question was rhetorical. But the woman was looking at him as if she wanted an answer. So he answered her. “I don’t know,” he said with shrug.
“I mean, I told him I’d have to think about it, that I’d think it over overnight and that I’d be back before the sun came up with an answer. And then I left. I left him standing … right there…” The woman pointed to where the man was standing on the small porch. “And … then … I didn’t make it back with an answer. Before the sun came up or … at all.” The woman dropped her head as if in shame. And she saw her shoes and wondered again why she had worn them.
“Well, that sounds like an answer to me,” reasoned the man.
“What?!? No!” The woman looked back up at the man and desperately wanted him to know that her non-answer wasn’t an answer. And she passionately pleaded her case. “That wasn’t my answer! I just went off into the world, and that’s not an answer. And I think…”
The woman looked up at the sky and went to a sad, faraway place.
“What?” asked the man, bringing the woman back to where they were.
The woman looked at the man. And looked as young as she did when she left Almost. And said, “I think he thought I’d say yes.”
The man scoffed. And wondered why someone who was clearly intelligent would say such a stupid thing.
“What?” asked the woman, wondering why the man had scoffed.
And the man said, “A guy’s probably not gonna ask a girl that question unless he thinks she’s gonna say yes.”
The woman looked back up at the sky and marveled at all the stars in it for a moment and conceded, “Yeah.” And then she looked at the man again and said, “And I’m just afraid that he waited up all night, hoping for me to come by.” And she realized how much harm she must have done to Daniel by not answering the question he had asked. “And,” she went on, “I just want to tell him that I know now that you just can’t do a thing like not answer a question like the one he asked me. You can’t do that to a person. Especially to someone you love.”
The man couldn’t quite believe that the woman had just shared something so personal with him. And asked, “You loved him?” just to make sure he had heard her correctly. Because how could a person who had not answered a marriage proposal have loved the person who had proposed?
The woman gasped a bit. Because she couldn’t believe that she had just admitted something so private to a complete stranger. And then she tried to backpedal. “Well … I don’t know if I loved him. I mean, we were kids,” she said, waving away the confession she had just made.
And then she stopped trying to wave away the confession.
And realized she was lying.
And realized she didn’t need to lie.
And she let the confession be what it was—the truth.
And she said, “No—wait—that’s not true. I did. Love him. I do. Love him.”
And the lightness she had felt when she decided to begin her epic journey to Almost filled up her insides again.
“And I feel like—by not answering him…” The woman paused, wondering why she wanted to share her story with this stranger, but also feeling strangely compelled to explain herself to him. “I just feel like I dashed his hopes and dreams.”
The man rolled his eyes. He couldn’t help it. And he couldn’t believe he had done it. He hated it when his daughters did it. It’s just about the most dismissive body language there is. It’s judgmental. And lazy. And cryptic. And it doesn’t help solve a problem or help people reach any kind of understanding. But it was the only response he had for the woman’s arrogance.
“Oh, come on,” chided the man. “You give yourself too much credit.”
The woman was stunned by the stranger’s response. “Huh?”
“I don’t think you ‘dashed’ his hopes and dreams.” The man started making his way down the cement steps. “At least—not all by yourself. His hopes and dreams were going to get dashed at some point. By you. By other people. Because that’s what happens. When you’re young. And that’s all you need to get your hopes dashed: be young. And everybody starts out young, so everybody gets their hopes dashed.”
The man was now standing in the driveway looking up at the woman. And the woman looked down at him—surprised by how small he was—and she supposed that what he had said was true.
“And, anyway,” continued the man. “I don’t think you really dashed his hopes and dreams. ’Cause if you dash somebody’s hopes and dreams—well, that’s kind of a nice way to let ’em down, ’cause it hurts … but it’s quick. If you’d said no, that woulda been ‘dashing’ his hopes and dreams.”
The woman dropped her head and folded her arms and held them tight against her body. And the man’s kindly way gave way to something subtly unkind.
“But you didn’t say no,” he continued. His voice was low. And almost sounded threatening. “You said nothin’.”
The man paused and made sure the woman was hearing him.
“You just didn’t answer him.”
The man paused again. And then continued his argument. “And that’s … killin’ someone’s hopes and dreams the long, slow, painful way. ’Cause they’re still there, just hangin’ on. They never really go away.”
The man kept his gaze fixed on the woman, making sure she was hearing him. And when he was sure that she was, he went on: “And that’s kinda like givin’ somebody a little less air to breathe. Every day.”
The man paused. And then concluded his rumination.
“Till they die.”
The man’s gaze remained fixed on the woman. She was looking at the ground, arms still folded tightly against her body.
And he felt like he had made his point. And he felt like she had heard him.
And the woman raised her head and looked down at the man. He was so small he almost looked like a little boy. A bald little boy.
And then she looked up at the stars.
And processed the extremely unhelpful information the man had just shared with her.
And then shrugged her shoulders and nodded her head and didn’t know what to say, because what the man had said was absolutely true, she supposed. She had never thought about what she had done to Daniel in such morbid terms. But, as morbid as they were, they were probably pretty accurate ones.
And then she wondered if she had killed Daniel in a long, slow, painful way.
And hoped she hadn’t.
And suddenly felt like she was in a horror movie—and she was the monster.
And suddenly she felt unwelcome.
And felt like she needed to get out of there—and go back to where she had come from. So she said, “Okay, well … thank you,” and took hold of the handle of her wheelie suitcase and started to go.
“For what?” called the man, asking the question as if it were a challenge.
The woman realized that she had only thanked the man out of habit. And that she didn’t really have anything to thank him for.
“I don’t know,” she admitted, shrugging. And she continued down the driveway back toward the Road to Somewhere/Nowhere. And stopped when she realized she had no idea where she was going to go.
Maybe she could get a room at Ma Dudley’s. It was nearly two miles away, though. Which’d be a long walk in those shoes.