Seventy-Two Hours

by Stringham, C. P.

  “What are you talking about?”

  He scoffed and looked off. “You know perfectly well what I’m talking about. Steve Graves,” he dropped on me.

  I swallowed the lump down that had formed in my throat. “For God’s sake, Chris. We work together.”

  He was so calm. Completely opposite of how I was feeling. “Don’t deny it. I can even tell you the first time it happened between the two of you.”

  “You’re crazy.”

  “Am I?” he replied and closed the distance between us. “I don’t think so. You were away with your fellow social studies teachers in April. Your curriculum trip to Gettysburg and Colonial Philadelphia. That was the first time you slept with him.”

  I found the closest seat and sank into it. The worst thing I could do was deny it. However, admitting to it didn’t seem to be the right thing either.

  “The second time was the week school let out,” he said from nearby.

  I recovered enough to say, “Was this the purpose of your little weekend getaway? So you could make your accusations to a captive audience?”

  He finished his beer and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand in a frustrated manner. “I want us to talk, Jen. We need time to sit and talk. Just the two of us and with no interruptions. We have the cottage until Monday.”

  I decided to be blunt. I sat forward, laced my fingers together, and said, “You do realize 72 hours isn’t going to change matters? You can’t wave a magic wand and fix what’s broken in our marriage. It’s too late.”

  “Don’t say that.”

  Hearing the anguish in his voice made my breath catch. I didn’t hate him. God, it wasn’t that. And I didn’t want to make the inevitable some drawn-out event for either of us. Talking about my recent infidelity wasn’t going to accomplish anything other than to dredge up painful images for him. He didn’t need to suffer through the reasons why it happened or how it came about. It just did.

  “I’m not happy anymore, Chris. I want a divorce.”

  Those last four words were out and it didn’t kill me. As a matter of fact, I felt some of the weight I’d been carrying lift off of me.

  Chris wasn’t holding up as well. As he tossed his empty bottle into the garbage with a resounding crash of breaking glass he said, “No. It’s not an option.”

  “This isn’t something I’m asking your permission for damn it.”

  My cell phone rang before he could respond. It was Carson. I could tell by the ringtone.

  But Chris could as well. He stormed over and took the phone from me as I went to answer it. He held it up to his ear and used his free arm to block and hold me at bay. It was better not to carry on screaming my outrage while my son was on the phone. I didn’t want to scare him.

  “Sorry about that. You’re mother called you by accident…” he lied without blinking an eye. “Do I sound strange...No. Everything is fine. Did you get my voice mail earlier about our plans for the weekend...Good…I hope you enjoy it…We’ll take that under advisement and see you sometime Monday.”

  He hit the end button and pocketed my phone in his jeans before I could grab it. “Our son told us to have a fun weekend while reminding us not to have too much fun. He doesn’t want to be made a big brother again,” Chris replied with a smile.

  “He doesn’t have anything to worry about there,” I muttered with an eye roll.

  “Anyway, he said he doesn’t have a signal at Jamie’s house and only saw your missed call when they drove to get pizza. He didn’t want us to worry if we couldn’t reach him later on.”

  Knowing I was stuck at the cottage with him, I said, “I’m going out to the lake.”

  “I’ll join you.”

  “That wasn’t an invitation,” I told him as I went off on my own.

  Chapter Two

  July 4, 1986 - East Smithfield, PA

  The parade would be short. It was always short. It took longer getting our high school’s marching band into formation than the actual running time of the parade from start to finish. But it was tradition. Small town living. Truth be told, it was all about the socializing that went on between our community locals while waiting for it to start. There were a handful of topics that could be overheard in any given cluster year after year. They ranged from farmers discussing their first cutting of hay for the summer, the dreaded dust being kicked up along the dirt roads, or the current gossip (which was provided by some of the finest church ladies with a good ear for the morbid, the bizarre, and the scandalous.) That year, a new topic had pushed all others aside to rank number one. Our high school had graduated its last official class and would be merging with our cross town rival school. To hear some folks talk, it was the end of the world. Many had attempted to stop it, but once the board voted, it was a done deal.

  My best friend and I had wandered away from our families. Lisa was animated while speculating what our senior year would be like with being the first “experimental” class of the merged school districts. She was nervous. We’d be going to their school. Their turf. I didn’t know how I felt about it. I had other things on my mind.

  We came to a stop behind White’s General Store. Away from prying eyes as we each lit up cigarettes that came from a crushed pack of Marlboros Lisa had kept stuffed in the front pocket of her cut-off jean shorts. Taking a long pull, I held my breath a moment before exhaling through rounded, practiced lips. As always, the first drag made my head swim and I found myself swaying in place momentarily.

  “I broke up with Chris last night,” I told my friend something I hadn’t shared with anyone else. Not even my family. Some days, I thought they liked him more than they liked me.

  “No way! Why?”

  I shrugged and looked at the school in the distance. “He’s leaving for college in a few weeks.”

  “So.”

  Lisa wouldn’t understand, but I’d attempt an explanation anyway. “I don’t want to be tied down my senior year. Besides Chris is way too serious about us.”

  “The two of you aren’t doing it, are you?”

  I felt my face flush at her direct question. “No. No. It isn’t that. He just talks about when we’re married and stuff. It’s too intense. I told him last night that he would thank me for it when he got to college. He’d have his freedom to see other people and have fun. That’s what it’s supposed to be like.”

  Lisa seemed to take in what I was saying for a bit before replying, “Dave is definitely less mature than Chris. The only thing he likes to talk about with me is dirt bikes and that’s when I’m not fighting him off. He whines like a baby when I stop him.”

  Lisa and Dave started going out after Christmas break. I didn’t like him. Not at all. There was something about him that gave me the willies. I’d warned Lisa before about him, but she didn’t see it. And now, of course, she was in love.

  “Lisa, don’t do anything with him that you don’t want to do.”

  “I know. I’m not,” she told me as she blew out a stream of smoke, dropped her cigarette to the ground, and crushed it under her flip flop.

  We could hear the parade starting up. I followed her action with my cigarette and put it out before we parted ways and returned to our families. I almost stopped dead when I saw that Chris had joined my parents. Instead, I simply slowed my approach. My mother was sitting beside my grandmother in matching woven lawn chairs. Chris was standing behind my mother and massaging her shoulders. He was always doing nice things. My mother laughed and patted his hand in response to something he said.

  My father saw me first when he glanced over his shoulder accessing the crowd. He asked where I had disappeared to which drew Chris’ attention. He stopped what he was doing and came over to me already looking like a college coed wearing his baggy workout shorts and a loose tank top. The skin of his lean, muscular arms and legs colored a deep bronze from working outdoors on his neighbor’s farm. His brown hair had also lightened from the sun and gave him a very healthy appearance.

  For those witnessing ou
r greeting, it looked as if nothing had changed between us. They wouldn’t have guessed that less than 12 hours prior, I’d broken up with him. He bent down and kissed me possessively before taking my hand and leading me away from the throng of bystanders watching the parade.

  “God, Jenny, you reek of cigarettes. You know how I feel about your smoking,” he stated with disapproval.

  I couldn’t meet his hazel eyes. “We broke up last night. What are you doing here with my parents?”

  “I thought maybe you would have changed your mind,” he said, rolling a stone under the toe of his Nikes.

  “No, I haven’t.”

  “Why haven’t you told your parents yet?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know. They’ll try to talk me out of it.”

  “You’re mom invited me over for a picnic.”

  “Are you coming?”

  “Maybe.”

  I finally pulled my hand from his. “You can’t. I don’t want you to. You have your own family.”

  “I told my mom that you broke up with me.”

  I felt a twinge of regret. Whatever my mixed up emotions were making me feel for Chris, I still loved his parents. His father, Conrad, was the county game warden and was always joking around and full of energy. He teased me incessantly, but it was all good-natured fun. Chris’ mother, Marti (short for Martha,) was a teller at the local bank. She was prone to having a more serious side, but was always kind to me. Always made me feel like a part of their family.

  “What did she say?”

  “She told me you were scared of losing me to some college girl.”

  I swallowed a lump. “You’re going to be in Rochester and we’re too young to be tied down.”

  He reached out and stroked my hair and said, “But I love you.”

  A tear rolled down my cheek. I brushed it away with the back of my hand. “Chris, you don’t give me a minute to breathe. You’re always with me. Smothering me.”

  “You’re my girlfriend and I want to be with you. You should want to be with me.”

  “I’m 17 and you’re 18. Our lives are just beginning.”

  “I thought we wanted the same things for our future. To be together.”

  “We’re not supposed to be connected at the hip. We’re still kids.”

  His jaw clenched. He swallowed and compressed his lips as he tried to maintain his composure.

  “You don’t do anything with your friends anymore. Not even Scott.”

  “Do you love me, Jenny?”

  What was wrong with me if I said no? He was the most beautiful boy at school. Thoughtful. Smart. Funny. Respectful. Attentive and romantic. He was the complete package. Voted most likely to succeed. Prom king. I knew I was the envy of a few girls from Chris’ class and a few from my own for going out with him. When word got out that we were broken up, he wouldn’t be at a loss for female attention.

  “Do we even know what love is?”

  “Just answer me. Damn it.”

  I took a deep breath and said what I didn’t want to say, “Yes.” I wasn’t lying. I did love him. Only then, by verbally admitting my feelings, he would assume we were going to pick up from where we’d left off.

  And that’s exactly what happened. He draped his arm around my waist and drew me against his tall form.

  “Things will get better. We’ll have a little space while I’m away at college. All couples go through rough patches, Jenny,” he told me against my ear. “You’ll see. I’ll try to give you breathing room. I promise.”

  Before the parade ended, I was wearing his class ring on my left ring finger again. The purple yarn I’d used to size it down to fit my finger still wrapped around the bottom half.

  Chapter Three

  Present Day

  I’d been sitting on the large dock listening to the water lap rhythmically against the shore for the better part of an hour. A relaxing sound for many. Sail boats and motor boats passed by with their crew members offering friendly waves to me. Warm summer breezes rustled through the leaves in the trees. It was all quite lovely. But even with my attempt at turning lemons into lemonade, I was still completely raw with a mixture of emotions I was too overwhelmed to make sense of.

  I hadn’t heard his approach so when he said, “I made dinner,” I jumped.

  “I’m not hungry.” I rubbed my bare arms as if a chill swept through me. One hadn’t. It was only an outlet for nervous energy.

  “You can’t stay out here all night.”

  “Sure I can. That isn’t my plan. Just until you’ve gone to bed,” I replied as I swung my dangling legs back and forth with my feet hovering over the water by 18 inches or so. It made me wonder how deep the water was below me.

  “Jen, I don’t know what I’ve done. Will you tell me? I really don’t,” he said from behind me.

  “It’s hard for you to believe, isn’t it?” I said dryly. “Maybe it’s all me.”

  “I can’t fix what I’ve done if you won’t tell me what it is.”

  I didn’t answer him. Where would I begin? He made it sound so simple. He was an engineer. When a problem arose, he was accustomed to troubleshooting, overcoming, and moving on. Life wasn’t always so easy.

  “Do you love him?”

  I gave his question some thought as it had crossed my mind before. “I don’t know,” I answered and then shrugged as certainty hit me. “No. No, I don’t.”

  “Then why?”

  “Why not?”

  “What the hell kind of answer is that?” he said with a flash of anger.

  “It wasn’t an answer. I handed you a question in return.”

  He didn’t respond. Instead, I heard crickets starting their evening chorus as day slowly bowed out to allow night its turn at center stage. I looked over my shoulder thinking he may have walked away, but he was there. Hands shoved in his pockets. Pinched expression.

  “Nothing? That’s what I expected,” I stated as I returned my attention to the lake.

  I was completely taken by surprise when he came from behind and shoved me forward into the cold water. Not prepared with a full breath of air beforehand, I kicked and hand paddled until I broke the surface. The water had to have been at least eight feet deep. I gasped and choked as the water that had made its way up my nose and down my throat interfered with plain old breathing. I swam in the direction of the dock and its ladder. Once my hands made contact with the aluminum railings, my anger rose as quickly as I did. Like a cork popping up. I was enraged. Seething as a long string of expletives shot out from my mouth. I said things no parent would even want to know their child’s teacher was capable of saying. And as I spewed those words and phrases, Chris smiled smugly, overly pleased with himself for his childish actions. The more I bitched, the more he smiled. I grabbed the shoes up from the decking that I’d removed before sitting down earlier. As I headed to terra ferma, he scrambled off the dock afraid of retaliation.

  “Looks like you’re going inside earlier than planned,” he declared as I strode by him.

  “Go to hell.”

  “Oh, Jen, don’t go away mad.”

  “Fuck you.”

  It was hard pulling off irate and indignant when my clothing was sticking to me like a second skin from my unplanned swim, but I did my best. Once inside the front door of the cottage, I stripped down to my bra and panties, tossing my dripping capris and pullover out onto the porch. They landed with a loud and wet whomp. I’d go out and hang them on the railing to dry after I dried off and changed. And maybe, just maybe, I’d commit murder.

  Rather than simply drying off, I’d decided to take a shower and wash the lake off of me. It also served to calm the urge I had to maim and or murder. Not by much mind you.

  Chris must have had a different outcome in mind for our weekend at the cottage. That was more than evident when I searched the bag he’d packed for suitable sleeping attire. I wanted coverage and comfort. Chris had packed for romantic and revealing. That wasn’t going to happen. So I did what any determined
woman in my position would do. I silently trekked across the hall, went into his room, and raided his bag. I found light weight pajama pants with a drawstring waist and a t-shirt. Perfect. Towel wrapped tightly in place, I sprinted back to my tiny bedroom and dressed. Chris was 6’3” to my 5’7” so I had to roll the bottoms of the pants up two-cuff turns and then the fit wasn’t so bad; baggy, flowing, and comfortable. Completely dowdy.

  Chris was seated in front of the gas fireplace, reading glasses on, and working at his laptop. A common sight to see when he was home.

  As I helped myself to one of his beers from the fridge, he said, “Those are mine.”

  Knowing he wasn’t referring to the Amstel Light in my hand I replied, “My bag was lacking acceptable sleeping attire so I improvised.”

  “What am I supposed to sleep in?”

  “I don’t care.”

  “You sly devil,” he retorted with a chuckle.

  I set the bottle down rather loudly. “Excuse me?”

  “If you want me naked for bedtime, all you have to do is ask.”

  The noise that escaped from my mouth couldn’t be described as alarmed or inhibited. No. Not after being married for such a long time to the man making the statement. There was too much familiarity involved for it to be that. The noise was ire. Plain and simple. With a splash of loathing in the mix. Not words remotely associated with a romantic weekend away.

  A self-satisfied smile played over my face. Apparently, he hadn’t been upstairs to see our sleeping arrangements. That would piss him off once he got that message.

  I took a long pull from the bottle. And then another. It seemed to invade my empty stomach with the force Sherman used to overtake Atlanta. I finished the beer and rather ceremoniously tossed it into the blue recycling tote.

  A quiet evening would be nice. I made my way over to the bookcase and perused the spines for titles. The library certainly gave me an idea about the personality of our landlord. Old paperback editions of Louis L’Amour, Isaac Asimov, Michael Crichton, and Tom Clancy. A very masculine collection. I pulled forward a promising title and looked at the cover of, “The Man From The Broken Hills.” I’d never read L’Amour, but the Wild West theme appealed to the history teacher in me. After helping myself to another beer from the fridge, I settled into a Mission-style arm chair with luxurious leather covered cushions. I sat sideways with my legs up and over the opposite arm and cracked open the aged paper cover. The title page had an inscription that read, “Curt, Happy 12th Birthday! Keep reading and books will bring the world to you. Love, Grandpa Al,” and it was dated August 10, 1977. I traced over the faded blue ink with my fingertip. It made me smile as I thought of the excited pre-teen boy accepting the novel from his grandfather. Did he read it in one sitting? So into the story unfolding that at bedtime he snuck a flashlight to bed? Or did he draw out the story by reading a chapter a day? Savoring it slowly while he used the rest of the day to daydream over his own Wild West adventures?